Maybe after Gardo helped me lose my belt things would be better. Yeah, that had to be it, or why else would the professional eaters keep at this? Lucy said some eaters even went out to dinner together after competitions. That couldn’t all be an act; there’s no way you could fake feeling good enough to eat when you felt this bad. They must have trained their stomachs, that’s all there was to it. Someday my stomach would be able to expand fully so I’d be able to fit in all the water and HDBs I wanted—and go out to dinner afterward! Then I’d be on the road to hot dog–eating victory.
I wiped my sleeve across my eyes, my nose, my mouth, my whole wet face.
I just had to get through this tough phase, that was all. I could do that. I was a Thuff, and everyone knew that when the going got tough, Thuffs got Thuffer. Just ask Grampy, it was in my genes. I was Sherman “Thuff Enuff” Thuff, athlete and future champion. Are YOU Thuff Enuff? I am!
I rubbed my hand through my pukey hair. Ugh. I gotta get to a shower. I wouldn’t even try to peel off my disgusting sweats, I’d just step into the shower, clothes and all. Might as well be wet on purpose, and in clean water.
Man, the lengths an athlete would go for his sport.
CHAPTER 14
“You stood me up, you bum.”
Gardo wasn’t happy with me. But I wasn’t happy with him, either. Even if I hadn’t slept through my alarm this morning, I couldn’t have gotten up to meet him for a jog around the track. My body felt like I’d gone ten rounds with Rocky himself.
Last night was rough. I woke up at least eight times to pee, and that was after whizzing my way through the afternoon. It didn’t make sense. Hadn’t I reversed all the water in my bed? And each time I woke up, I was stiffer and sorer than the last. Whoever said exercise makes you feel good was a dirty liar. I’d had to twist and toss myself out of my bed just to get to the john. I was up pretty much the whole stupid night. At one point I almost woke up Grampy to have him call me in sick to school, but I didn’t because then I’d miss Max’s test this morning, and she didn’t do make-ups. How stupid was it to have a test on a Monday?
“I didn’t stand you up,” I said. “I slept through my alarm. There’s a difference.”
“Not on the track, there isn’t. You’re either there or you’re not. You’re not taking this seriously.”
“I am, too. I slept through my alarm. Gimme a break. It won’t happen again.”
He studied me a moment.
Please don’t make me do punishment laps. Please don’t.
Finally he spoke. “Well, I guess I did sleep through my own alarm on Saturday. Cutting weight makes you sleep hard.” He pointed a finger in my face. “I want you to buy a second clock tonight as a backup, got it?”
“Got it.” Phew. No punishment laps. “Can we get to class now? We’ll be late for the test.”
“Yeah, we can go.” He fell in behind me and delivered hurry-up nudges as I waddled toward the stairwell.
I stopped when I caught sight of Shane through the crowd. His bright red GO, PLUM WRESTLING! shirt stood out like a beacon in the sea of yellow hats and shirts. He was being pushed in a wheelchair by an annoyed-looking Finn, the other Finn twin nowhere in sight.
“Shane’s in a wheelchair? I thought you said he pulled a groin muscle.”
Gardo followed my gaze. “I know. Isn’t it sick?”
“Just a little.” Get over it or get out, Shane. Jeez.
“Just think if he broke a toenail. His whole body would be in traction.”
Then Lucy crossed in front of Shane and I nearly choked. Talk about traction. If she saw me this morning, she’d probably go all Rocky on me. She probably hated my guts. She totally skipped the bus this morning just to avoid me.
I tried to hurry up the stairwell before she could reach it. I was already starting to sweat in the undershirt and hoodie that Gardo ordered me to wear with my Scoops shirt. At least I didn’t have to wear the long johns unless we were working out.
Gardo started nudging me again. “Hustle it up there, penguin boy. At your pace, we won’t get to science until tomorrow.”
“Hey, you’re the one who sent me up that hill.”
“Just wait till you see what I’ve got planned for you later.” He laughed evilly and slapped me on the shoulder. “That belt is going to fall right off you, buddy. I swear, you are one lucky hombre to know me.”
Great. He’ll probably have me climbing a mountain with a boulder on my back. And long johns on.
We merged into the crowded stairwell and made our way up to the third floor. Thanks to the bottleneck of Plums, even with my waddling pace we easily left Lucy far behind.
By “later,” Gardo meant lunchtime. I figured that out when he plopped my lunch down in front of me at our table. When he’d agreed to be my coach, he’d demanded menu control, and of course I gave it to him. His first special delivery meal came in a white plastic container with a Gardo Glass of water and a spork.
When I lifted the container’s lid and revealed a pile of chopped lettuce and four lemon slices, Tater laughed so hard that a Tot from his lunch trick shot out of his nose.
“What is this, a joke?” I shoved the container away like it was a plate of chocolate-covered cowpies.
“It’s no joke, my friend.” Gardo set a second lettuce-filled container next to mine and sat down. “I have a meet on Friday, and Coach wants me wrestling at one twelve. I need to drop five pounds by Friday afternoon. That’s a pound a day. You and me will be eating the same things all week.”
“This isn’t eating, it’s grazing.”
“This is what your coach prepared for you. You will eat it.”
It was Leonard’s turn to laugh. “You sound like my mom, Gardo.”
“He looks like her, too,” Tater said.
Leonard slapped him in the back of the head, sending the other Tot flying. “Shut up, man!”
Gardo hadn’t taken his eyes off me. “Eat. That’s an order.”
I stared down at my pale lettuce, which looked like it’d been run through a paper shredder with a dull blade. It was as mouthwatering as a garden of weeds. But what was I going to do, refuse to eat it? Gardo was my coach, and I was serious about my training. And now that I’d been up for a few hours without breakfast, I was freakin’ hungry.
I picked up a lemon wedge and squeezed it over the lettuce. “Someone gimme a stupid napkin.”
“That’s my boy.” Gardo tackled his own lemons and lettuce. “The trick is to chew for a long time so it lasts. Your stomach will think you’re eating an eight-course meal.”
My stomach isn’t that dumb.
While I was chewing my lemony cud and trying to push away memories of Lemon Pledging the Scoops floor, I scanned the cafeteria. As always, it was packed and noisy. Girls were screeching and giggling, guys were hollering and whooping, and the janitors were sniping at each other about who had to clean up which section. That is, two of the janitors were sniping about clean up. The third janitor, who was scrubbing a swirly HAIL, MUSTARD! off the wall, wasn’t sniping; he was cussing like a sailor.
How did the Mustard Taggers do it? They were striking almost every night now, yet no one ever saw a thing. Maybe they did crawl in through the pipes, like Culwicki said. Or maybe they were like Spider-Man and scaled the side of the school to the roof. There was a door up there. We’d used it for the Newton experiment, when Max had us compare the falling speed of balloons filled with mustard versus whipped cream or just air. Or maybe the Mustard Taggers had keys and just walked in, easy as that. One campus security officer couldn’t cover the whole school at the same time, after all. The video cameras they’d installed over the weekend wouldn’t be much help; the lenses were found globbed up with mustard this morning, and would probably be that way every day. The Mustard Taggers were pros at keeping their identities secret. The rumor mill had been in high gear since they’d squirted that first yellow mustache on Culwicki’s portrait, but no one had a solid lead yet. Not even Tater, and he knew every rum
or before it started. He was the one who broke the news about the mustache. Apparently Culwicki had found the doctored portrait before anyone else and tried to hide it in his office. But Tater had eyes like a hawk, and he used them for the Powers of Good during his office aide period. He’d told everybody, and then the Mustard Revolution was on. Funny how Culwicki didn’t think a prank was so funny when it was aimed at him. Go, Mustard.
A girl walked through my line of sight, blocking my view of the janitor for a moment. She was carrying a tray with a heaping plate of French fries doused in ketchup. Man, that looks good. The fries, I meant, not the girl. Aw, jeez. Stupid belt theory. It has me checking out food over females. Pathetic.
My table was just as bustling as the cafeteria. Today there were even more guys I didn’t know squeezed onto the benches. They kept trying to talk to me, but as sore and hungry and thirsty and cranky as I was, I didn’t bother to answer or find out who they were. If anyone else wanted to sit here, we’d have to drag over another table.
I stab, stab, stabbed at my lettuce, trying for another sporkful. Whoever invented the spork was an idiot. I looked longingly at my Gardo Glass. There was practically nothing in it, but practically nothing was better than totally nothing. I’d save it until after I was done with my lettuce so I could wash down the lemon residue. There! Finally a leaf stuck to the tines of my spork. It was an especially juicy piece. Good. Just like with wet hot dog buns, the more lubrication on a piece of lettuce, the better. I stuck it in my mouth and chewed it as long as I could, like Gardo said. I felt like a rabbit.
“Is that lettuce hitting the spot, Thuff Enuff?” Tommy asked. “Can I get you some rice cakes for dessert? Or maybe some wheatgrass?”
“Are you kidding? This is the best lettuce I ever ate. Doesn’t it look appetizing?” I opened my mouth wide and showed him.
“Gross!” He bounced a balled-up napkin off my face.
That’s what you get, Mr. I’m So Funny. Picking up the napkin, I wiped my chin then stab, stab, stabbed another sporkful. Stuck with being Bugs Bunny, I tried to distract myself by making a game of seeing how many mustard-packet handoffs I could spot around the cafeteria. It was like watching drug deals go down. I’d heard of the black market before, but never a yellow one.
When Lucy walked into the cafeteria, I stopped chewing. She was wearing a yellow polo shirt instead of her normal Chocolat du Monde brown. Yet another Plum goes yellow. She stood there for a long minute, at the edge of the circle of tables, looking around like she was lost.
My heart skipped a beat. Without my table, Lucy had nowhere to sit.
She caught me watching her. I instinctively blocked her view of my lettuce. After the grief I gave her about non-ketchup-dunkable soup and salad, I couldn’t let her see my pathetic lunch. But my worry was wasted. Straightening up and holding her head up high, she turned and walked out of the cafeteria.
The humiliation.
Tater hit me in the leg. “Hey, was that Lucy I just saw leaving? What’s wrong, Thuff Enuff, trouble with the ladies?”
“Shut up.”
“Where’s she gonna eat? The library?”
Lunch alone in the library. I’d kill myself. “Who cares.”
Gardo reached around me and jabbed Tater in the shoulder. “Eat your Tots, man.” Then he leaned close to me and said, real quietly, “You okay?”
“Fine.” I leaned over for a better angle at the hall Lucy just disappeared into. There was no sign of her.
Gardo nudged my shoulder with his. “Buck up, bud. You’re doing fine. You don’t need any more graphs. You got me!” When I didn’t say anything, he tapped his plastic spork on my lettuce bowl. “Finish up. I’ve got a surprise. Well, two surprises.”
I mechanically stabbed the lettuce with my spork and lifted it to my mouth, stabbed and lifted. There was a slight crunch with each twangy plastic stab, so I knew that the iceberg lettuce was fresh. That wilty stuff Lucy had for lunch last week was downright sad. She was right about the lemon, though. It gave the salad a citrusy, tarty bite that I wouldn’t call appetizing, but it helped the bland leaves slide down my throat. Man, I was about as far from the joy of food as I was from eating fifty-four HDBs in twelve minuets.
All the time I chewed, I watched the door where Lucy left. Maybe she’d come back.
A red-aproned cafeteria lady pushed the French Fry Express cart across the doorway. Steam rose from the paper trays of freshly fried potatoes. I wouldn’t have minded a piece of that action.
“Done?”
“What?” I focused back on my table.
Gardo had an impish grin on his face. “I said, are you done?”
I swallowed my last scrap of lettuce. “Done.”
“Good. Here.” He removed a clear sandwich bag from his pocket and opened it to reveal four long, skinny green wedges. “Surprise!”
Are you kidding me? “They’re pickles.”
“You didn’t think I’d only let you eat lettuce and lemons, did you?”
I rubbed my face with my hand and sighed. “I stopped thinking anything after that first spork of lettuce.” The room tilted a bit, and the pickles looked blurry around the edges.
Gardo pointed at his treat proudly with his spork. “These are not just pickles, Thuff Enuff, these are dill.”
“Oooh, dillll,” Kenny sang. The guys busted up.
“Shut your yap, Kenny,” Gardo snapped. Kenny didn’t know what a crank Gardo could be when he was hungry. But if Gardo hadn’t said it, I would’ve. I was starting to feel like a bigger, crankier crank.
“Have any of you ever tried to make weight?” Gardo asked. He focused on Kenny again. “Yeah, I’m talking to you, muscle man. That’s right, cram that burger in your mouth and be quiet.”
I took two of the pathetic pickles and started eating. Food was food when you were starving.
“Thanks for my surprises,” I mumbled. The guy was trying to keep this making-weight thing fun. I appreciated the effort, at least.
“Actually, the pickles only count as one surprise,” he said. “The other is outside. Come with me.”
“But I haven’t finished my pickles.”
“Take ’em on the road. We’re running out of time.”
“Okay, but I gotta hit the john first.” It’d been almost twenty-four hours since my water training yesterday, and I was still peeing like a racehorse. I would never understand why reversing the water hadn’t gotten it all out.
Getting up and over the crowded bench was pretty tough thanks to my stiff, sore muscles. Tater was cool enough to let me shove and heave against his shoulder, though, so eventually I was free. I must’ve looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, all bent over and limping to the head. Stupid training. I was tired of being stiff, tired of being in pain, tired of being stuffed and thirsty and starving and cranky and dizzy and everything else. Training sucked.
A few feet away from the loo, I got cut off by a bunch of ninth grade girls. They didn’t even acknowledge me stumbling backward. Apparently that was the girls’ bathroom crossing, and I had wandered into their path. Silly me.
I waited impatiently as they strolled along. Finally there was a break in the line, and I dodged through it toward the guys’ bathroom—and nearly tripped over Shane in his wheelchair.
He glared up at me. “Watch where you’re going, Tub Enuff!”
Are you kidding me? You’re in a wheelchair. What’re you gonna do, bite me in the stomach? I stepped around him.
He grabbed my arm. “Don’t ignore me, scrub.”
That’s it! “Let go!” I yanked my arm up and it slipped out between his thumb and fingers, just like Captain Quixote did with the T’larian emperor in the “Quixote Strikes Back” episode. My muscles screamed in pain, but I was free.
I stormed stiffly into the bathroom, nearly knocking over a surprised Finn.
“Hey!” he protested.
“Don’t start with me,” I snapped. “What’s a guy gotta do around here to take a pee in peace?”
I stomped to the urinals on the other side of the room. They were empty, and there weren’t any feet visible under the stalls. Finally, a moment to myself.
Only that moment stretched into forever. Stupid water training.
The urinal’s white porcelain was covered with marking pens of every color. There were phone numbers, shout-outs, cuss-outs, even poems. Jeez, does anyone take a piss around here without a pen? The stall doors behind me, which I could see in the face-level mirror, were totally scrawled-over with GO, MUSTARD! in yellow highlighter. I guess even the Mustard Taggers had to answer the call of nature.
When I finally got back out in the cafeteria, the ninth grade ladies were filing back out of the girls’ room. Gee, what timing. Maybe later I’ll get lucky and step off the curb in front of a truck. No, wait, I already feel like I’ve been run over. I waited for the girls to pass, nearly screaming with impatience at all their strolling and giggling and girl-hugging.
Aw, screw it. I turned on my heel—ow—and headed out the other exit. I’d just take the long way around to the stadium. Given Gardo’s pickle surprise, I wasn’t in much of a hurry to see surprise number two.
“I am not jogging at lunchtime.”
Gardo and I were standing on the straightaway part of the dirt track that surrounded the football field. He had his sweatshirt on, with his hood up over a wool ski cap that was so low on his forehead, he had to tilt his head back to see me. The sun was high and warm, though the breeze was cool, thank goodness. There was no one else in the entire stadium to witness us here, but that didn’t make it any better. No witnesses were necessary because I’d be showing up to algebra class dripping with sweat, wheezing, coughing, and limping from yet another calf cramp. Exercise feels good, my butt.
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