Free Dancing Dudes by Mike Knudson

you a snack,” Mom said.
    As I lay there wondering what was going to happen to me, Mom came back with a little plate of cookies.
    “Mom, if I die from this, please don’t tell anyone that it was from some toilet disease. That would be way too embarrassing. Just tell everyone I died trying to rescue you or something.”
    “Raymond, don’t be silly. You’re going to be fine,” she said. “Have a cookie and a little rest.”
    I was still in my room when Dad came home. Mom must have told him what happened. He opened my door and poked his head in. “Hey, bud, I hear you were chewing on the toilet plunger.”
    “Something like that,” I said. “Do you think I’m going to die?”
    “Nah, look at old Maggie. She drinks out of the toilet every day and she’s fine,” Dad said.
    I thought about that for a while, and he was right. Maybe I would survive after all.
    That night, my dumb plain blue toothbrush had never looked better.

11
    Dr. Fat Fingers Strikes Again
    THE WEEKEND WENT by way too fast, and it was Monday all over again and we were walking to school. I ended up telling Graham all about my toothbrush experience. I thought he would bring up the fact that real men don’t have cartoon character toothbrushes. But he didn’t.
    “Well, speaking of teeth,” he said, looking down at the ground. “I’m getting out of school early today.”
    “No way,” I said. “Where are you going?”
    “I have to go to Dr. Fat Fingers for a checkup,” he said sadly.
    “Are you serious?” I replied. “All I can say is I’m sorry, hermano . I wouldn’t wish a trip to Dr. Fat Fingers on my worst enemy. Not even on Lizzy.”
    Dr. Fat Fingers is the nickname we gave to Diane’s dad, Dr. Dunstin. Almost all of my friends go to him for their dentist. He’s a nice man, but he should definitely not be a dentist. Mom says he’s a fine dentist and that we need to support our friends. But she never goes to him, just us kids.
    Dr. Dunstin is a huge man. Diane told us he played basketball in college. He’s at least a foot taller than my dad. Being tall isn’t the problem . . . it’s his fingers. They’re humongous ! They are at least twice as fat as a normal adult’s fingers. They’re probably great for playing basketball, but they are the absolute worst for working on kids’ teeth. I mean, even though he can barely fit one of those fingers in your mouth, he insists on sticking at least two or three in at a time, whether they fit or not. It should be a rule that people with fingers that big should only be allowed to work on people with huge mouths. I felt sorry for Graham, but I was glad it was him and not me going to the dentist that day.
    Dance practice went well, even without Graham. I have to admit that I was a little jealous that Zach was dancing with Heidi. During a break, I tried to follow manly rule number four and talk to Heidi as much as possible.
    “Hi, Heidi. Are you having fun?” I asked.
    “Yeah, sure. Are you?” she asked. “And where’s Graham? Is he faking sick to get out of dancing today?”
    “No, believe me, he’d much rather be here. He has a dentist appointment with Dr. Fat F—”
    “Don’t even say it!” interrupted Diane, who was listening.
    “No, what I meant to say was . . . um . . .” I stood there, trying to think of something, when Mrs. Gibson started the music and we all ran back to our places.
    After school, I called Graham to see how his visit to Dr. Fat Fingers went. His whole mouth was numb, so I couldn’t understand him very well over the phone. He sounded funny, so I thought I would go down to his house to see if he looked funny, too.
    Whenever I ride my bike to Graham’s house, I always do the same thing. As soon as I get to his driveway, I jump off the back and let my bike ride by itself until it crashes on his lawn. Today was no different. But this time I was going a little too fast, and when I jumped off and let my bike go, it kept going longer than usual and crashed