Big Mouth

by Deborah Halverson

  I hated this. I never used to worry about eating. It used to be fun. I ate what I wanted when I wanted, and I enjoyed every single freakin’ bite of it. The sweet strength of clear gummy bears, the smoky, meaty depth of a pizza with the works, the tender give of a juicy hamburger…It was all good. Then I discovered competitive eating.

  Now food was one big pain in my butt.

  What an idiot I was. Thinking I’d be a natural, that I’d walk into my first competition just swallows away from champion status, that I’d make a fortune and become more famous than Hulk Hogan. Life couldn’t get more fun, right? Wrong! Competition wasn’t about having fun. It was about doing whatever it took to beat someone else.

  And no one played to lose.

  The cold wasn’t biting into my back anymore, so I must have gone numb there. Stiffly, I rolled over to my stomach, my smock pinching snugly as I did so. Swell. In one night of feasting I’ve erased all my belt loss. I groaned and laid my cheek right on the freezing cement. The cold stabbed my face sharply.

  With my head turned that way, I was staring directly at a dull brown box of gummy bears. Six more boxes lined the floor next to it. Grampy’s shipment had come in that afternoon. Most likely, the bears weren’t frozen solid yet; they were probably still a bit chewy from their journey on the unrefrigerated delivery truck. If I were to open a box, just to suck on one or two like hard candies, I would’ve ended up chewing them instead. Then there’d be no stopping me, I’d work through those boxes in minutes, easy.

  I rolled my head the other way, away from the gummy bears, fixing my eyes instead on a tub of hard-packed Coconut Cream ice cream. No temptation there. I’d rather lick the bottom of my shoe than eat coconut.

  Lying on a freezer floor was pathetic, I knew. It certainly wasn’t how I’d envisioned things when I’d told Lucy I was going pro. We’d made graphs, we’d set goals, we’d worked out techniques. I’d wanted to take the eating world by storm; I’d wanted to build an image, get a rep. I’d wanted to become the greatest, richest, most famous eater ever. The Plums at school would bow when I walked by, they’d all want to be my friend, they’d all know who Thuff Enuff was. Then Lucy brought up that awful Belt of Fat Theory and everything went out the window. Gardo had me starving myself, Lucy thought I was a loser for doing things Gardo’s way, and now, even though I was terrified of making myself puke again, all I wanted to do was tear into those gummy bear boxes.

  My mind flashed back to Gardo choking on that candy bar. I forced the image away.

  I’d thought I had it all figured out. But I hadn’t. Maybe all those reversals weren’t reversals. Maybe I did them all on purpose. Maybe Lucy was right…maybe I did have a problem.

  The cold wasn’t biting into my belly and chest anymore. Maybe I was going numb there, too. This is so messed up, me lying here like death. But what was I supposed to do? In the freezer, things were frozen and safe to be around. The ice cream and toppings out in the display case were thawed and ready to eat. And they were screaming my name—Thuff! Thuff! Thuff! There was no way I’d be able to walk past the case and out the front door.

  Thuff Enuff, you are one colossal loser.

  I slapped the floor suddenly, angrily, like it was my own stupid face, then I scrambled up to my knees and grabbed a box of gummy bears. Leaning hard on the box with one knee, I jammed my fingers into the thin slot between the top flaps and ripped upward. The flaps burst apart. Inside lay the clear package of gummy bears. I grabbed it, throwing the box aside. The bears were cold—very cold—but I could feel a little give in them when I squeezed, a little rubberiness that told me yes, just as I’d suspected, they weren’t completely frozen yet. If I gave them a few more hours, they’d be rock solid.

  Well, they won’t get a few more hours!

  Tearing off my stupid pink smock, I lifted my T-shirt and jammed the cold bag up under it, between my belly and the fabric. Then I lay down heavily on my stomach. The nearly frozen bears dug into me like sharp ice cubes. I laid my cheek back down on the freezing cement and felt its prickling bite into my skin. Good. It’s what I deserve.

  Once again I was staring at the brown, frost-covered tub of Coconut Cream. The thought of coconut touching my tongue made me sick. I squeezed my eyes closed and held my breath.

  I hate food. I wish I never had to eat again. Ever. Whoever invented food sucks.

  CHAPTER 20

  Listening to whales mate wasn’t my idea of an ideal way to spend a Sunday. But then, these last few weeks had taught me that ideal was in the eye of the beholder. I mean, how else could one guy’s pickle be another guy’s treat? Then again, right then I’d happily call Gardo’s pickles dessert. Brined cucumbers were way more appetizing than what I had planned for my lunch.

  I swung two grocery bags onto the counter next to the sink. In front of me sat Grampy’s battered old boombox, on the ledge outside the kitchen window. I raised the window, and the lovesick whales blared. A cool breeze blew in with the fish songs, ruffling my hair even more than my bike ride had. It had been a great ride, feeling the wind in my hair for a change. Wearing that hoodie and ski cap all the time had been a total drag. I was glad I’d trashed them.

  “I’m home, Grampy.”

  “Shermie?” A hand reached up and dialed the volume lower. Grampy was hanging out on the front porch in his favorite lawn chair, probably with the same New York Times crossword puzzle he’d been working on since Halloween. “How long you been in there?”

  “I just rolled up.” There was a red crease in my palm where the heavy grocery bag had dug into it. No pain, no gain. “I came in through the garage. Sorry it took so long.”

  “Mission accomplished?”

  “Mission accomplished. I got two, even.”

  “Score!” The hand balled into a fist and pumped in victory. “Always send a Thuff when you want the job done right. Throw ’em in the fridge, m’boy. Therman V. Thuff loves, loves, luuuuuvs cold honeydew! I’ll be in right after I get fifteen across.”

  In other words, never.

  I set the smooth white melons in the fridge. When Grampy found out we were out of honeydews this morning, he totally freaked out. Honeydew with maple syrup and powdered sugar had been his Sunday morning tradition since he was a kid. It helped him feel oriented for a new week or something. And when he got obsessed with something, stand back. He had me searching all the cupboards and Mom’s three fruit baskets—he even helped!—but we didn’t find a single honeydew. In the year that he’d been living here, that had never happened before, us being honey-dewless. The man was so bent out of shape, he made me call Mom on her cell phone to ask where one might be, but she was busy with the Sunday Sunshine Breakfast at the conference and couldn’t help us. So I’d offered to bike to the grocery store to get him some. I’d needed to do some shopping of my own, anyway.

  I reached for the second plastic grocery bag on the counter and pulled out Grampy’s new box of Ex-Lax. He’d given me a note asking for that as I walked out the door. Jeez, getting old must suck. I put it in the cupboard.

  Now for my haul. One by one, I removed a can of cut coconut in milk, a package of coconut pecan sandies, a coconut cream pie, a bag of mini Mounds bars, a liter-sized bottle of water, and a pack of spearmint gum. I lined them up on the tile counter in eating order, stifling a shudder of revulsion as I did so. It was one nightmare of a lunch.

  Yet even as I shuddered, I had to laugh a little, too. Gardo would’ve keeled over if he knew I was eating all that for lunch. But I didn’t care anymore. I wasn’t made for his weight-cutting stuff. I was going to do this my way. I was taking control of my own destiny.

  Studying the line-up a moment, I switched the pie and the cookies. Then I studied the change a moment more. Yep, the can of cut coconut first, no question. It was the worst part of the feast, so I had to get it over with ASAP.

  Mom’s electronic can opener was busted, so I dug my pocketknife out and used its tiny opener to work up the lid, just like I’d done yesterday at the bike rack
in front of the store. It was hard work, but eventually I gained access. Ugh. The repulsive scent of cheap suntan lotion hit me just as hard this time. “Jeez, that’s one heck of awful.”

  “What’s that? I didn’t quite hear you.”

  “Nothing, Grampy. Nice whales.”

  He snorted. “Sound like dying camels to me. But, the doc says it’s good for the blood pressure, so I listen. Hmmm…C-A-M-E-L. Bah! Too short.”

  “I’m sure you’ll get fifteen across soon, Grampy.”

  “Or die trying.”

  And Mom says I’m melodramatic.

  Steeling my nerves, I planted my feet firmly and speared a white coconut wedge with my knife. Yesterday I ate two cans of this horror; it had to be easier today.

  It’s lunchtime, baby. Come to Daddy. I squeezed my nose closed firmly with one hand and bit into the wedge, careful to keep my tongue as far away from the disgusting clump as possible. It helped to chew with my mouth open. Coconut milk dribbled down my chin into the sink. Holding my nose wasn’t enough to totally cut the taste, so I chewed and swallowed quickly.

  Nope, not any easier the second day.

  Wiping my chin with a paper towel, I tipped the can and peered inside. There was still an entire coconut wedge in there. Who’s brilliant idea was this?

  Actually, it was my brilliant idea. Coconut was part of my new strategy. Everything I ate from that day forward would have coconut on or in it. That way, I could actually eat enough food to keep me from starving to death, but I wouldn’t be able to stand the taste long enough to pig out and resort to an intentional reversal. I was not going to reverse again, ever. Even if I had to eat coconut for the rest of my life. See, Lucy, I don’t have a problem. I’m Thuff Enuff, and I’m in control.

  And, really, it was a brilliant plan. It had come to me while I’d lain on the freezer floor Friday night, staring at the tub of Coconut Cream. I hadn’t needed Lucy to tell me what to do, and I wouldn’t need Gardo with his lettuce and lemons. I’d thought of this plan all by myself. I was like Captain Quixote that way: a man of action and ideas all rolled into one. Watch out, Fat Belt, Captain Thuff Enuff is on a mission! Coming up with my own strategy had given me the strength I needed to finally peel myself up from the frozen floor and walk steadily past the display case to lock up and leave. I didn’t so much as stick a finger in the ice cream as I passed the open tubs. A man wasn’t a man till he was in charge of his own destiny.

  With a mighty torque of my wrist, I twisted the plastic top off the bottled water and swigged, good and long. Pedaling to the store and back had put a big thirst in me, even without a thousand layers of clothing. The water was on the warm side, but it was refreshing anyway. I swigged again, then again, just because I could. My Gardo Glass was somewhere in the bushes below my window. I didn’t give the stupid thing a second look after I chucked it out Friday night. I’m going to drink like a normal person. After all, I’m just trying to loosen my belt, not squeeze into some eighty-pound weight class.

  At the grocery store I’d considered buying a liter of Pepsi but went with the bottled water instead. I kind of liked water now. As long as I didn’t have to force down a whole gallon at a time, the clean, crisp, pureness of it really hit the spot. Sometimes Pepsi left a syrupy film on my tongue. There was nothing pure and crisp about that.

  I plugged my nose and went at the coconut still on my knife. It took a couple of agonizing minutes, but I finally finished it and chased it down with more water. The second wedge in the can wasn’t any better.

  Cussing ripped through the whale calls. “Bah! I hate the New York Times.”

  “Fifteen across is a hard one, huh?”

  “Hard one, my ear. Try impossible. A six-letter word for red hot in the land without shadows. Give an old man a break. These yahoos are making up words, I just know it.” He grumbled some four-letter words.

  “Why don’t you just start a new crossword?”

  “Bite your tongue, Sherman Tiberius Thuff! You should know better. Thuffs do not give up. It’s not in our genes. Remember that.”

  “I do remember that.” I washed the stinky coconut milk down the drain then removed the plastic lid from the coconut cream pie. The aroma had an undercurrent of sugar sweetness. I could handle that. “I just don’t see the point, that’s all. Crosswords are supposed to be fun. Where’s the fun if you’re stuck?”

  “What are you talking about? The fun is in the pursuit, boy. If it’s not, you’re pursuing the wrong thing. Struggle keeps the juices flowing.” His hand hit the skip button on the boombox. Jungle bongos erupted on the patio. “Hey, speaking of flowing juices, I saw the news the other night. Someone’s painting your school yellow.”

  I’d forgotten about the helicopter Friday. Jeez, I hope they didn’t get me in their footage. I guessed Grampy would’ve said something if they had. “They call themselves the Mustard Taggers. They’re against ketchup.”

  “Against ketchup? What’s there to be against?”

  “Well, they’re not really against ketchup, I guess. They’re against the ketchup company. It turned us into Plums and Big Burpees.”

  “It saved the school, is what it did. Don’t you kids know what’s good for you? Del Heiny is giving to the community. They should be applauded.”

  “I guess.” He was too old to get it. I grabbed a spoon and turned the coconut cream pie slowly, looking for the least disgusting angle of attack. “All I know is, kids hate being tomatoes, so the Mustard Taggers are heroes. They’re fighting for our right to eat mustard.”

  “Ah, to have a cause. Even a stupid one.”

  I rotated the pie right, then left.

  “I hope they think jail is worth it.”

  I nearly dropped the pie. “Jail? They just squeeze mustard on things. It washes off.”

  “It ain’t just squeezed mustard now.” He had a point there. “Someone must know something.”

  “If they do, they’re not talking.”

  “Cowards. Yellow is the right color for them.” Grampy’s lawn chair creaked as he shifted. “It’s wasted energy, tagging. Whatever you’re working for, the struggle needs to be productive, not destructive. The hippies weren’t good for much, but they knew that, at least. The way to tear down The Man is to build up The People. Or some other hippie crap. I don’t quite remember. Anyway, it won’t go on much longer. Kids can’t keep their mouths shut about things like this.”

  He didn’t know Plums. “I guess.”

  I decided to go at the pie from the shallow left side. It must have been tilted in the bag when I pedaled home.

  The bongo music sped up. I poised my spoon above the coconut cream pie. Let the countdown begin….

  THREE… I breathed a deep, anti-coconut-tasting breath.

  TWO… I suppressed my gag reflex with happy thoughts.

  ONE! I dug into the heinous, godawful pie.

  And that was no exaggeration, the pie was awful. It had the texture of tapioca pudding and the sliminess of jelly.

  But I could get through it, I knew I could. I’d lived through a pie yesterday, too. Having food in my stomach instead of starving was worth it. Anyway, the pie’s shortbread crust was kind of nice. It undercut the coconut. So the pie would stay on the Sherman T. Thuff Menu of Gnarly But Necessary Coconut Foods. It was something I could eat without fearing the Binge.

  See that, Lucy, this Thuff isn’t giving up. I’d tried the Lucy System. I’d tried the Gardo System. Now I had the Thuff Enuff System, and I could smell victory.

  I crinkled my nose at the food lined up on the counter. Too bad victory smelled like coconut.

  I shoved away the pie.

  The next course was supposed to be the coconut pecan sandies. The picture on the green bag showed thick shortbread cookies speckled with dark brown spots—the crushed pecans, I was guessing—topped with piles of crumbly, white blades of grass. My entire lower face puckered in disgust. At the store they’d sounded like a good idea, but now…dang.

  My eyes slid over
to the next item in the line-up: the bag of mini Mounds. Chocolate! Now we’re talking. I ripped it open. Dozens of small, packaged squares flew in every direction. Some even bounced off the top half of the window.

  “Careful in there, boy. What are you breaking?”

  “Nothing, Grampy.” I dug a minibar out of the coconut pie filling and threw it in the trash.

  I’d end lunch with the Mounds and then call it a meal. It wasn’t Spazzy Monkey, but dessert was dessert when there was something sweet and chocolate-covered involved. And what were mini Mounds but tiny squares of sweet coconut dipped in rich, dark chocolate. At least that’s what the bag said. I could stand that. Another key to my coconut food strategy was an open mind. Mounds couldn’t be as nasty as Mom and I thought.

  I tore the wrapper off one and bit down. Within two chews, I was hanging over the sink, spitting like a madman to get out the residue. Mounds weren’t as awful as we thought—they were worse! It was like eating dead grass squirted with chocolate. There was no harmony in this thing, no yin-yang, no balance whatsoever. It was one big mound of—

  Arrg… I stifled the gag before it turned into a reversal. Grabbing my plastic water bottle, I chugged every last drop. Then I dropped the empty bottle into the sink and I leaned against the counter. My head drooped as I panted like a dog.

  Okay, that settles it, Mounds are off the Sherman T. Thuff Menu of Gnarly But Necessary Coconut Foods.

  “Shermie?”

  I jerked up to Grampy’s face peering through the window. He must’ve climbed up out of his chair while I was gagging.

  “You okay? What was that? Are you sick?”