Big Mouth

by Deborah Halverson

  Two kids in yellow shirts passed by the janitors. “Go, Mustard!” one shouted. His buddy high-fived him. Some kids following him laughed despite the janitors’ glares.

  The next voice that boomed out wasn’t so welcome. It belonged to Shane Hunt, the biggest jerk on the planet. “I feel the need to dunk me a big…fat…scrub doughnut.”

  Oh, great. My mouth went dry. Last week Shane had declared it Scrub Dunk Week in the cafeteria and then promptly ordered a different eighth grader chucked into a trash can every day. Starting with me. I still had a bruise on my lower back where the edge of the can had dug in. And now here he was, looking for another victim. Apparently the idiot didn’t know how long a week was.

  Except for a few snickers from the huddled janitors and a “Make it a slam dunk, Shane!” from Shane’s table in the ninth grade section, the cafeteria was silent. Like Moses parting water, Shane swaggered down the center aisle with the Finns, both looking like they had a medical condition as they tried to make their bulky bodies swagger like his too-short one. All of them had their yellow baseball caps on backward. Plums unlucky enough to be in the aisle scuttled out of their way. One poor slob spilled his tray, sending Tater Tots every which way. Shane grinned and stomped the Tots.

  “You missed one!” a janitor called out.

  Shane darted his eyes around the floor, then pointed near Wayne’s—or was it Blayne’s?—left Nike. Whichever, the sneaker raised, then came down hard. A piece of Tot squilched sideways and splatted against Shane’s jeans.

  “Sorry, Captain, sir.”

  Slowly, dramatically, Shane wiped off the splooge, then cleaned his hand on the Finn’s red wrestling shirt.

  “Let’s see,” Shane said, gazing around him. “There’s an empty trash can. Now which of these jiggly doughboys will it be today?”

  At every table except Shane’s, Plums cast their eyes downward and held as still as possible, hoping not to call attention to themselves. Me included. It was useless to do anything else. The janitors loved Shane’s shows, so they weren’t going to stop him. And no one was going to run and tattle like some kindergartner. Jasper Finch stupidly tried to rat them out to Principal Culwicki last Wednesday, but Culwicki was a college wrestling buddy of Shane’s dad, so nothing came of it except Jasper getting a lecture on the character-building merits of good-natured pranks. And now Plums call him Jasper Fink.

  With my eyes locked downward on my white shirt, I couldn’t see Shane’s roving eyes, but they must have landed on someone because suddenly he sounded almost chipper.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” he said. “Grab that for me, Blayne.”

  The Finn tried to whisper, but I’m sure most of us heard it: “Captain, sir, I’m Wayne.”

  “That’s what I said. Now grab the stupid extinguisher.” Louder, Shane announced, “Dunking doughnuts is so last week. It’s time to move on to sundaes!”

  Next to me, the janitors rose to their feet and rubbed their sandpapery palms together.

  “Duck…duck…duck…”

  I peeked up to see Shane thunking random scrub heads. Head by head, he was moving toward my table.

  “Duck…duck…”

  He was now two tables away.

  “Duck…duck…”

  One table.

  “GOOSE!”

  Lunging forward, Shane grabbed Willie Dean’s collar and yanked him backward out of his seat. He pushed him into the waiting arms of Wayne. Or was it Blayne? Whichever, the other Finn snatched the nearest garbage can and whisked off the lid like a waiter revealing fine cuisine.

  Willie dropped to his knees and pleaded for his life.

  I cringed. My mind flashed back to the embarrassing piggy squeals I’d cut loose with last week when I was Shane’s doughnut dunkee…and to the tears I’d cried as he ordered his Finns to drop me into the can. The memory made my stomach lurch.

  “I said no dunking.” Shane sounded annoyed. “Hold still.”

  Shane lifted the extinguisher and aimed. Szhhhhhh! Fire retardant exploded out of an extinguisher, decorating the metal trash can lid with a pile of fluffy white that looked like whipped cream on a sundae.

  “Perfect!” Shane shouted. “Test complete. C’mere, scrub.”

  The Finn held Willie on his knees while Shane lined up the extinguisher over his head. Willie started to cry. It was awful. Totally completely awful.

  I’m so glad it’s not me being whipped.

  That thought made me cringe even harder. I was a terrible person, absolutely horrible. Last week it was me, only I was getting my big butt jammed into a can of half-chewed food, empty milk containers, and goopy ketchup packets. I’d tried so hard not to cry, but my throat went all tight and the stupid tears spilled down my cheeks anyway. I’d been totally powerless to stop it. And as I was dropped into the can, I saw the backs of dozens of kids’ heads as they looked away, trying not to witness my shame—just like I wanted to do now. But I knew they saw it. And the whole time, they were probably thinking, I’m so glad it’s not me.

  My face got hotter as I relived the humiliation, which made my eyes tear up again, which made me more upset, which made me even happier it wasn’t me being whipped, which made me feel like a total jerk, which made me royally pissed off, which made me want to—

  “STOP!” My outburst surprised me, as did the fact that I’d bolted to my feet.

  Shane’s head whipped my way. “What did you say?”

  My throat went tight. “I said…stop.” The last word came out broken, as if puberty had just kicked in.

  “That’s what I thought you said, Fat Boy.” He straightened then shoved Willie aside, dismissing him. The kid scurried away like a crab at the beach. “I think you need a lesson in how to talk to your superiors, scrub.”

  No one else said anything, not even the janitors. And that was the way it would stay, I knew. Shane and his thugs were outnumbered big time, yet they were in charge. My goose was cooked.

  Tears pooled in my eyes. Please no, not again. I’d die if I got canned again.

  My only hope was to run. I quickly stretched my neck up to see over Shane’s shoulder and—yes!—I had a clean shot to the emergency exit if I could somehow get by him. I snorted involuntarily at that thought. Dump trucks couldn’t outmaneuver hot rods.

  As if sensing my impulse to flee, Shane hunched his head down, leaned his shoulders forward, and spread his arms wide with his feet staggered in some psycho-ballistic wrestling stance. He swayed forward like he was about to lunge in my direction, but before he could take a step, a commanding voice echoed down the hallway into the tense cafeteria.

  All heads turned right. In strode Principal Culwicki, his wide green tie flapping up over his shoulder. Rushing after him was Mad Max, followed by a short, waddling man in an olive-green uniform and red armband.

  Max was clutching a yellow file folder.

  “…already told you Del Heiny won’t go for that, Maureen,” Culwicki was saying. “Even if they would, I am not putting a rotting pig on the football field. What does that have to do with science? Oh, there’s another one!” He stabbed his finger at a mustard slogan that the janitors hadn’t cleaned off the wall yet. “Good grief, Eckstein, are these delinquents getting in through the pipes? Rekey all the locks again. And have the janitors order more red paint. Oh, there’s another!”

  Suddenly Culwicki halted. Max and the campus security officer dominoed into his back. Culwicki stayed solid on his feet, though, his eyes locked on Shane.

  Shane slowly uncoiled and smiled at the wiry principal. “How’s it going, sir?”

  Culwicki narrowed his eyes. “What in tarnation are you doing?” He stepped closer. So did Max, a puzzled look on her face. The officer furiously scribbled on his board.

  Yes! Shane was finally going down. Maybe Dunk Week had been worth it.

  Shane must have come to the same conclusion, because his smile disappeared. “I—”

  “Stop. I don’t want to hear it.” Culwicki took a deep breath, then s
hook his head in utter disgust. “You’re the wrestling coach’s son, boy. You should know better.” He pointed to Shane’s left foot. “Move that foot an inch to the left. Your balance will be better. Honestly, if you’re going to show off your Sugarfoot stance, at least have the decency to do it right. I never want to see a horror like that again. You hear me?”

  No!

  Shane grinned. “Yes, sir. Wider stance. Got it.”

  “Good. Now wipe that smile off your face. Wrestling is serious business. I said wipe it off! Drop and give me twenty. All three of you. Now! Have some pride.”

  Shane’s smile disappeared instantly. He dutifully dropped to the ground, only pausing a moment. But in that nanosecond of hesitation, his eyes practically glowed with hatred. Okay, so maybe he didn’t get busted, but at least he was suffering some humiliation. How does it feel, tough guy?

  Culwicki bent down and yanked off Shane’s cap. “And take off that disrespectful hat. Where’s your loyalty?” He threw it on Shane’s back as he cranked out his push-ups. “You know what? This is the third time I’ve caught you in a bad stance and had to assign push-ups. That’s three times too many. Come with me. I’ve got my old training photos in my office, I’ll show you the proper stance. I think your dad’s in some of the pictures, too.” Then he took off again, his green tie flapping wildly, the Olive Shirt scurrying after him. “Oh, there’s another one! This is an outrage, Eckstein, you need to do something about this. Oh! Another!”

  Shane hopped to his feet and smacked a Finn in the back of the head. “Do the rest later. C’mon.” Together they all rushed off after our great Plum principal, stuffing their yellow hats into their back pockets on the way.

  Max trailed them all. “Cyrus. Will you at least listen to me?” She waved her yellow folder. “The process of decay is science in action. It’s a key part of forensics, and forensics is hot. Just sign the approval and let me worry about the details. I don’t have to put it on the football field….”

  They disappeared down the far hallway.

  In their wake of silence, I started breathing again. With everyone’s attention on Culwicki, I’d been able to swipe away my tears without anyone noticing.

  Anyone but Lucy, that is. After Culwicki and his entourage disappeared, I saw her standing in the cafeteria doorway, her brown polo shirt and hair making her a smudge of chocolate against the ketchup-red wall. Without saying a word, she walked across to me and lightly nudged me to my seat. I almost shoved her hand away. Then I almost hugged her. Then I felt the biggest urge to just blow right past her, dashing down the hall, away from her, away from everybody in the cafeteria, away from this whole lame school. But I couldn’t, because these stupid scrub doughnut legs didn’t have any dash in them. And guys didn’t dash, anyway. So instead I slumped onto my bench and stared at my corn dogs.

  Gardo sat down on my other side. He smiled and laid a pile of ketchup packets next to my training corn dogs, trying to act like nothing had happened. That only made me feel even more pathetic. Are YOU Thuff Enuff, Sherman Thuff? Not in this lifetime.

  Quietly at first, then more loudly, the Plums resumed their interrupted conversations. They looked over at me now and then, whispering to their neighbors. The janitors went back to their bickering and their mustard cleanup, and Gardo launched into some story about being elbowed in the eye when his teammate fainted at practice because he hadn’t eaten in a week and how Gardo wasn’t that stupid, no, he’d stashed a bunch of ketchup packets in his backpack to snack on in emergencies while he cut weight, blah, blah, blah…

  Me, I just sat there like a loser, staring at my Tots. Lucy silently handed me the ketchup packets, but I just dropped them next to my paper plate. Eventually the bell rang and we all headed off to class, ending one more agonizing, demoralizing lunchtime for the underclassmen of Del Heiny Junior High #13, the school where boys would be boys, losers would be losers, and ninth graders had all the power, forever and ever, amen.

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  * * *

  CHAPTER 5

  “Everyone was talking about you after lunch today.”

  Gardo and I were at Scoops-a-Million for my evening shift. Actually, I had taken over Grampy’s shift, because he claimed his psoriasis was acting up. No one wanted a guy with scaly, flaky elbows scooping their ice cream, so what could I do but fill in for him. And I’d have to do inventory for him afterward, too. Funny how the guy always managed to develop some gnarly disease on inventory nights. Arthur was working with me, but he was on break and there weren’t any customers. Gardo was gnawing a tiny pink taster spoon.

  “Great,” I responded. “Now I’m the laughingstock of Del Heiny Junior 13 twice in two weeks.” At least I hadn’t bawled like a baby again, stud that I was. Pathetic. “Are you gonna keep sucking on that empty spoon, or do you want some ice cream on it?”

  “Will you relax? I have to make weight. Coach will kill me if I don’t. Anyways”—Gardo jabbed his bitten-up spoon at me—“I said they were talking about you, not laughing about you. You’re the BMOC now.”

  “The what?”

  “The big man on campus.”

  “Give me a break, Gardo.”

  “I’m serious. Anyone who didn’t know you before sure knows you now. When Shane dropped into that Sugarfoot stance today, you just stood up straight and stared him dead in the eye.” He scowled. “No one’s ever stood up to Shane before.”

  They thought I was standing up to him? I thought I was looking for an escape. “I don’t know about stood up to him.”

  He eyed me for a second, then said, very slowly, very deliberately, “You stood up to him, Shermie. I saw it, everyone saw it.” Then he waved his hand dismissively. “The rest is just details, and nobody cares about details. You’ve got a rep now, and rep is everything, remember that.”

  In a pig’s eye, I have a rep. I was leaning against the display case, trying not to think about how I just almost got my butt kicked. In front of me, a rainbow of bright-colored ice cream circles lined the display case in side-by-side rows. I thought of the paint set my dad gave me when I was in kindergarten and painting was fun. Now it was just one more thing I sucked at. Maybe I was stupid trying to get famous. Maybe my destiny was to serve up ice cream, simple as that.

  “Here,” I said, “give me the spoon. I’ll put some ice cream on it.”

  “I said I don’t want any.”

  “You did not.”

  “I did, too.”

&n
bsp; “Nuh-uh.”

  “Fine: I—don’t—want—any—ice—cream. How’s that?”

  Boy, this not-eating thing was turning Gardo into a real crank. With my luck, he’d start hucking maraschino cherries my way.

  “Who doesn’t want ice cream?” I said. “Ice cream is the best. I’d scarf down every one of these tubs if I could.”

  “So do it.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You shut up.” Suddenly Gardo pulled up straight and slapped his palm on the counter, the unmistakable sign that he’d just had a Brilliant Gardo Moment. “Hey! You should do it, Shermie. Seriously. You don’t have to stick to hot dogs, right? You need to cross-train with lots of different food, right? C’mon, let’s see how much ice cream you can eat. Is there already a record for that?”

  “Of course there’s a record for it. Cookie Jarvis, one gallon, nine ounces, twelve minutes flat.”

  “What is he, a girl? You can beat that.”

  “That’s a lot of ice cream! And twelve minutes goes by faster than you think.”

  “Which is exactly why you should practice.” He leaned in and lowered his voice confidentially. “I don’t mean to disrespect Lucy, but by making you specialize in one food, she’s limiting your career. I’m telling you, the more foods you eat, the more competitions you can enter and the more marketable you are as a personality. Look at Bo Jackson. He played pro baseball and pro football. His coaches gave him a hard time, but he didn’t care. And you know what, now everybody knows Bo. How many people can name his coaches?”

  Who’s Bo?

  Not that it mattered. I mean, I got Gardo’s point. There were a lot of eating competitions out there—burritos, waffles, pumpkin pies, baked beans, shrimp, SPAM, even weird stuff like turducken and hutspot. Lucy told me herself. And in a lot of those competitions, the same names were popping up as winners. Even the invincible Japanese guy, Tsunami, with his fifty-three-and-three-quarters HDBs, held records in foods that weren’t hot dogs: 69 hamburgers in eight minutes, 20 pounds of rice balls in thirty minutes, 17.7 pounds of—ugh!—cow brains in fifteen minutes. So really, Gardo was right. The more contests I entered, the more I’d win and the more exposure I’d get. Specializing would only hurt my career.