Big Mouth

by Deborah Halverson

  Gardo laughed and shoved me sideways. “You’re such a dork.”

  “It takes one to know one.” I shoved him back, but he tripped on the lip of the sidewalk and crashed facefirst into the grass.

  Oh, jeez.

  When Gardo rolled over again, his lips were caked with wet grass and grit. But instead of being mad, he was laughing.

  “Nice move, Dancing Queen.” I leaned over him and held out my hand. “Have a nice trip?”

  “See you next fall!” He grabbed my hand and yanked me down.

  When I rolled over, my face was caked with grass and grit, too. And I was laughing as hard as he was.

  The gardener with the weed-whacker shook his head and moved away as we lay there in the grass, two dorks in twenty layers of clothing in broad daylight, wiping grass off our faces and laughing like a couple of second graders. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed so hard. It felt good.

  Eventually we stopped laughing and just lay there, resting for a spell. Finally. My friend was a tough taskmaster. But I knew he was only being tough because he cared. I asked for this. And he deserved only my best efforts in return. And my honesty.

  “Gardo, I have something to tell you.” The sky above was the powdery blue of freshly spun cotton candy.

  “Spill.”

  He wasn’t going to like this. “I’m supposed to do water training today. Lucy’s graph says so.”

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I saw the water graph, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I did remember now. He saw it on Halloween night. Right after he almost died.

  I sat up—ooh, head rush!—and rested my arms on my knees.

  Gardo sat up next to me. “Water training is part of your core training. And core training comes first. Same as with your hot dogs yesterday. You said eighteen dogs, right?”

  “And buns.”

  “Dang. I bet you still feel full. Man, I could never eat eighteen hot dogs and buns. I’d be praying to the Porcelain God by number twelve. Maybe number thirteen if I was lucky. You’re a natural champion, my friend.”

  “Oh, well, you know….”

  “Just be sure you stick with the Gardo Glasses when you’re not water training, okay?”

  “Okay.” It was so cool having someone understand me as well as Gardo did.

  We stood up and resumed our slow walk back to my house. My muscles were cooling down and stiffening up. Not just the ones in my legs, but all over my body, too.

  “How much water does the graph say for today?” Gardo asked.

  “One gallon. It’s always one gallon. But she has me scheduled to water train only on certain days. That way, I can rotate it with my hot dog training.” It was all very organized and calculated. Lucy was nothing if not organized and calculated.

  Gardo whistled. “Man, you’ll be peeing for hours.” He put both hands over his belly and then moved them away about a foot in front of him. “With a gallon of water in there, your stomach will stretch like a water balloon. That’s gotta hurt. But hey, it can’t hurt more than eighteen hot dogs, right? No pain, no gain.” He laughed evilly and slugged me in the shoulder.

  Ow. “I guess not….” I wasn’t so sure about that “no pain, no gain” business. I hated pain. Pain hurt.

  I resisted the urge to rub my shoulder. Instead I flashed my biggest Thuff family grin and said what a natural champion should say, “Pain lets you know you’re alive. Now let’s get a move on, bub, my granny could do laps around you. And my granny is dead.”

  The flat part of Palm was ending, and now we were moving up the slight incline that just a half hour ago I’d powered down with the help of my friend Gravity. That was the problem with going downhill—you always had to go back uphill to get home. But that was life for you, too: Sometimes you went up, sometimes you went down, and sometimes you got a face full of grass and grit. And when grit happened, there wasn’t much to do about it except spit it out and move on.

  Get over it, or get out.

  Thank the Galactic Sun King for water beds and moms who were paranoid about chiropractors. When Mom forced me and Dad to switch from metal springs to water beds, neither one of us sleep lovers was hot on the idea of giving up our cushy, just-right beds. But this afternoon I was ready to nominate Mom for a Nobel Prize for Brilliance. Every inch of me had screamed in pain when I’d dragged myself and my gallon of water upstairs after Gardo left to finish his jog. Now I was floating on my own personal ocean.

  Too bad there was no ocean breeze in my room. Instead, it was a sauna. I had my window shut, just like I’d promised Gardo, and I still had on my hoodie and ski cap. Sweat was running down my face and even my fingertips. The garden thermometer outside the front door logged eighty-two degrees when I got home. I could only guess what the temperature was in my tropical room: ninety degrees? one hundred degrees? one million degrees? But Gardo was the coach.

  At least he hadn’t forced me to do my sit-ups. When he’d dropped to the ground to do his three hundred, I got to sit next to him and massage my calf some more. It was my first workout, after all, no need to kill me on the first day.

  I gave myself one more minute on the soothing water bed, then forced myself to sit up. Thirst was a more powerful motivator than pain. And my tongue was the Sahara.

  Groaning, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and reached for my thirty-two-ounce Big Gulp Slurpee mug and the gallon of distilled water. That was what Lucy’d brought me, distilled water. I guess she didn’t want me ingesting all the chemicals that they put in regular water. Whatever. To me, water was water. It was weird enough that they sold it in stores. I mean, wasn’t it free if you turned on the tap? And what was up with there being brands of water? It wasn’t like companies had secret formulas for it; they just dropped big hoses into rocky mountain springs and pumped the water into their trucks. How could buying the brand with the red label be any different than buying the one with the blue label?

  I filled up my mug to the brim and chugged it down, all thirty-two ounces, without stopping to breathe. Ahhhh. Now, that hit the spot. I was tempted to wipe my drippy lips with the sleeve of my sweatshirt, but I didn’t want to waste a drop. Instead I licked them dry.

  I got eye level with the gallon of water, trying to gauge my rate of consumption. It looked about three-fourths full now, which didn’t seem bad for my first mugful. At this rate, I just needed to drink three more mugfuls and I’d have the gallon conquered. That seemed doable. While I wasn’t thirsty anymore, I wasn’t full, either. And with the water being cool (not cold, I couldn’t chug cold) my body felt mercifully refreshed on the inside. Water training wasn’t so bad.

  I lifted up my sweatshirt, T-shirt, and undershirt and tapped my belly. Thump, thump, thump. Nice and solid, like a watermelon. Way to go, Shermster. I poured another mugful and grabbed a man-hater magazine off the stack Gardo had sent home with me. I’d research while I drank.

  It turned out that I’d grabbed the summer swimsuit issue. Nice. This miserable morning was looking up. Maybe researching wasn’t so bad, either. No wonder Lucy liked it.

  I propped my pillow against my headboard and shifted and twisted—ow, ow, ow—until I was leaning almost comfortably against the pillow, the magazine on my lap and the full mug in my hands. My stomach sloshed loudly, which I took as proof that there was still plenty of room left for more. Lucy had allotted me thirty minutes to get the full gallon down. By my estimate, I’d probably start feeling the urge to visit the loo in thirty-five minutes. Water went through a guy fast.

  Sipping from my mug, I flipped to the table of contents. I’d do official research in a minute; right now I wanted to find the swimsuit section. Health and Beauty…Fashion Fair…Hollywood Eye…Dear Editor…Features. It was probably a feature. “How to Know If Your Boyfriend’s a Tramp”…“Beach Bangles and Bags”…“Beach-Friendly Workouts”…come on, summer swimsuits…“How to Hide Any Blemish”…“Beauty and the Beach”…“Beach Blank
et Bikinis”—That’s it! Page sixty. Bikinis were the best kind of summer swimsuits.

  I spent the next three or four minutes trying to find page sixty. The stupid page numbers kept disappearing and skipping and doing all kinds of weird things thanks to a million lame ads and lotion samples and subscription postcards and stapled inserts. No, I’m not going to subscribe for four easy payments of just $4.44, not even if you do jam forty different postcards into the magazine “inviting” me to. I shoved a pile of postcards and makeup samples onto the floor. Boy, there was a lot of crap in girls’ magazines.

  Realizing I’d just lost valuable water training time, I tipped my mug to my lips and downed as much as I could. Halfway through, I came up for air, panting like a dog. The second round was harder, that was for sure. I took another deep breath then downed the rest, which made sixty-four ounces of water in my belly, half the gallon gone. And boy, did sixty-four ounces fill up a guy. I lifted my shirt and tapped my stomach again. Ow. No more tapping.

  I studied the half gallon still sitting on my nightstand. How was that supposed to go down? The half gallon already in me was starting to hurt even without tapping.

  I put my mug on the nightstand and wiped off the fresh batch of sweat that had broken out on my forehead. I’d lay off the water for a few minutes. I needed to give my aching stomach a chance to do some stretching.

  Man, sitting in this room is like sitting on the sun. I pushed my hood off. That didn’t give much relief.

  I took another stab at finding page sixty. Page fifty-six…page fifty-seven…ad for hair dye…ad for eyelash goo…ad for ugly pointy sandals…insert for mail-order beauty school degree…leaky lotion sample… Were there any articles in this stupid magazine? Any at all? I didn’t even care what it was about anymore; I just wanted a stinking article to read so I wouldn’t have to think about the pain in my belly. Ad for fat-free baked tortilla chips…ad for fingernail polish…“Beauty and the Beach”—There! An article. It wasn’t the one I was looking for, but it would do for something to read while I worked on my third mugful.

  With my belly feeling like a bushel of watermelons was packed in it and my body locking up like a corpse by the second, I filled my mug a third time, sipped—ugh, I am sooo not thirsty—and started reading. The article was mostly just a bunch of tips from experts about how girls could get in shape for their bikinis by summer. I probably should’ve written down useful tips for losing my belt, but to do that I would’ve had to stretch to the other side of my nightstand to reach a pen and some paper…and there was no stretching anywhere with half a gallon of water in your stomach. I’d just have to remember the tips that might work for me.

  “For beautiful beach feet, schedule pedicures at one-month intervals.—Monica Staral, NPA, INPA.” Yeah, right, that’s something I’d use. Too bad I didn’t get my pencil to write that one down. Next!

  “To give your hair ‘natural’ summer highlights at the beginning of beach season, skip the high-priced salons and lather in freshly squeezed lemon juice after each shampoo.—T’wanda Parkay, FE.” Please, while I did like the bite of tart lemonade, I wasn’t going to rub it into my hair. What was this woman thinking? And what the heck was a summer highlight?

  “Eat a balanced diet, don’t starve yourself. Being too light-headed to remember your day at the beach defeats the point of a well-cut bikini.—Shelley Stippen, RDN, RMN.” You had that right, Shelley Stippen, RDN, RMN, LMNOP. I didn’t know about the well-cut bikini business, but I knew firsthand that being light-headed sucks. No swimsuit is worth that, girls. Trust me.

  “To look your best on the beach, replace high-cal, high-fat breakfasts with lo-cal, healthy energy boosters like this one: ½ cup Cheerios, ½ cup low-fat milk, ½ banana. Lunches can be quick, easy, and tasty, too: 3 oz grilled chicken, 1 whole wheat tortilla, 1 tbsp low-fat sour cream, ½ cup salsa, ½ cup favorite veggie with 1 tsp olive oil.—Bea Cantwell, CDN, RDN, LLN.” What was all the one-half stuff? Hadn’t old Bea heard of rounding up fractions? No wonder my mom has so many measuring spoons and measuring cups and food scales in the kitchen. For her, fixing lunch was like doing a Mad Max experiment. Dad and Grampy and I were the smart ones in the family, we bought our food at McDonald’s or ordered takeout, so someone else had to do the math. And with me in training, Gardo was handling all my menus and portions, so this tip wouldn’t do me much good. Thank goodness. Math was never my strong point.

  I took another sip. My stomach felt droopy over my sides, like maybe it had done some good stretching. Lucy would’ve been proud of me. Slightly less than two mugs to go and I’d be able to mark off the water graph’s square for this session. I took a deep breath and tilted the mug again. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…

  I stopped to breathe after drinking only a third of the water in the mug. I didn’t feel so good. There was a nasty, warm, clenching sensation in the back of my throat. Breathe, Shermie, breathe. I leaned back a minute while the clenching subsided. Who would’ve thought water would be so tough to handle?

  When I’d staved off the gag reflex, I turned to the magazine for distraction.

  “Staying trim for the summer is not about deprivation, it’s about moderation. Eat well all week, then eat whatever you want on Saturday—in reasonable portions. The goal is not to make yourself sick, but to enjoy the food.—Samantha Ordin, RDN, LCN, NNN.” Now that was an interesting idea. I liked to enjoy food, and I hated feeling sick, and I certainly liked to eat whatever I wanted. That tip could work for me. When I lost my belt, I’d try this Whatever-On-Saturday rule. After all, I’d need to stay trim and beltless for my showdown with Tsunami. Look out, little man, Thuff Enuff is gunning for you! I flexed my biceps—ow! Now why did that hurt? I didn’t jog with my arm.

  Maybe I’d start the Whatever-On-Saturday thing now. It would be nice to enjoy food again, even if it was only one day a week. The bad thing about training was that eating had become all about increasing speed, or building capacity, or improving jaw strength. Where was the savoring? Where was the lip smacking and the finger licking? Where was the joy of eating? I missed the joy of eating.

  Well, maybe I didn’t miss the joy of eating right then. Right then, I’d have happily missed the joy of drinking water. The pressure on my stomach was hideous. I couldn’t stand it, I’d have to do something about it.

  Carefully clenching my tender abs and twisting ever…so…slightly, I worked out a huge burp. Then I breathed for a moment and assessed the pressure. It had gone down some, though not as much as I’d hoped.

  “To make your skin luminescent in the summer sun, give yourself this home facial. Mix together one tablespoon honey, one egg yolk, one-half teaspoon almond oil, and one tablespoon yogurt. Apply to skin and rub gently. Let set overnight. Rinse and pat dry in the morning. Honey stimulates and smoothes, egg and almond oil penetrate and moisturize, and yogurt refines and tightens pores.—Sylvia Bukowski, RB, CF.” Yeah, that’s what I wanted to do, slather honey and egg yolk on my face…and on my pillow, and on my sheets, and in my hair. Girls were crazy.

  Finally I came to the end of the list. “As you get in shape for this summer’s teeny-weeny, yellow polka-dot bikini, remember this: The key to successful dieting is balance. A slim, healthy figure is not about extremes. Bingeing and purging is extreme. Refusing to eat is extreme. Don’t try to do it all at once. One to two pounds a week is healthy weight loss.—Edna Flougherty, MD.” One to two pounds a week? At that rate, I’d be ready for a bikini in 2050! I was so glad I wasn’t a girl. It was ridiculous, the things they had to do to impress people. They should become athletes, like me and Gardo. That was the way to cut weight.

  I checked the clock. Twenty minutes had passed, which meant I only had five minutes left to drink the rest of my water. But I still had one and maybe two-thirds mugs left. One and two-thirds! How was I supposed to drink that? Just finishing the third mug was going to kill me, a whole mug after that would never happen. Never.

  What was I going to do? Lucy would think I was a
loser if she found out I hadn’t checked off all the squares on the water graph. Good thing I fired her.

  I closed the magazine and laid it on the bed next to me. Focusing every ounce of willpower I had, I put the mug to my lips and downed the remaining water—two-thirds of the mug. Then I shoved the pillow out from behind me and lay flat on the bed, bobbing on the sloshing mattress. There was no sloshing inside my stomach, though, because there wasn’t a sliver of space for the water to slosh around in. But there was pain. Oh, was there pain!

  “No pain, no gain,” Gardo had said. Clearly he’d never water trained. This was a nightmare. I hadn’t even finished the gallon and I was in agony. Either my stomach was going to stretch a few feet bigger right that second, or it was going to explode.

  As if on cue, the back of my throat clenched involuntarily, and the sick taste of acidy saliva rolled up onto the back of my tongue. No! I desperately tried to roll to my side and off the bed to dash down the hall, but I barely had time to turn my head before the water sprayed out of my mouth, all over my bed. Then another burst. Then another! The stench of butyric acid overpowered me as the watery reversal ran down the mattress and soaked into my clothes.

  No, no, no… All I wanted was to get up out of the disgusting soup, but all I could do with my stiff and sore body was lie in the muck like a pathetic loser. I could’ve been stuck in Shane’s trash can all over again.

  Tears stung my eyes. I swear, if the training didn’t kill me, I would die from humiliation. Nobody, and I mean nobody, would ever ever ever hear about this. Ever.

  I stared at the ceiling and tried to will the tears to dry up, but they just keep pooling until my whole room was a wet blur. I couldn’t believe competitive eaters went through this. Is this how Tsunami lived, in constant pain, with constant reversals, with no enjoyment of food at all? No way, it wasn’t possible. No one would live like this all the time.