by Michael Rex
“I may have eaten too many hamburgers,” said Ricky.
Dr. Henderson crossed his arms and gave Ricky a serious look.
“Let me explain, okay?” said Ricky.…
It all started at five o’clock, when I came back to school for International Food Night. I walked through the cafeteria, where everyone was setting up their food. Everything smelled really good. I looked around and found my space. There was a sign there that said “International Food Night Presents: Hot Dogs.”
A few kids came up and read the sign. One kid was like, “Hot dogs aren’t international.”
“Yeah,” said another kid, “they’re American.”
“That’s why I made them,” I said.
“But you’re supposed to make a food from the country that your family comes from,” said another kid.
“My parents consider our family American,” I told them, “because my great-great-grandparents were born here.”
One of the kids looked at my space again. “But where are the hot dogs?”
“I’m going to get them now,” I said, and I ran from the cafeteria.
Earlier that day when I came to school, I had brought fifty hot dogs and my mom’s slow cooker. I had put water in the slow cooker and turned it on and let it sit in Ms. Jay’s class all day. That’s the best way to make hot dogs.
On the way up to my classroom, I found Gus. He had a hot dog costume on to help me promote my food. Stew was going to help by bringing the hot dog buns.
Gus is really happy anytime he can wear a costume, but he didn’t look right.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “You look sick.”
“My mom baked two trays of cookies for the dessert table,” said Gus. “I ate a whole tray on the way over here.” Gus’s mom makes the best cookies ever.
“Are you gonna barf?” I asked.
“I hope not,” said Gus. “Because if a food makes you barf, you can never, ever eat that food again without thinking of barfing.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Then you would never be able to eat your mom’s cookies again.” We went up to the classroom to get my hot dogs. The slow cooker wasn’t hot.
“It’s not on!” I said. I looked around and saw that I had never plugged it in! “They’re not cooked!”
“Uh-oh,” said Gus. “What are you going to do?”
I had to think fast.
“We’ll bring them down to the cafeteria and plug the slow cooker in,” I said.
“But won’t it take time to heat up?”
“Yeah,” I said. Then I had my best idea of the day. “I know! We can put it on the dessert table—that way it will be like an hour before anyone eats one! They won’t be as good as when they slow-cook, but at least we can serve them.”
“Sounds great,” said Gus. Then he burped, and it really smelled.
“Wow! That was nasty,” I said. “I think you’re gonna barf.”
“Stop talking about it,” said Gus.
I picked up the slow cooker, and we ran out of the room and down the hall. Just as we were getting to the stairs, I tripped on the slow cooker cord. The pot flipped over, and all fifty hot dogs and the water went flying down the stairs. Gus bumped into me, and we both fell. We flipped and slid down the wet staircase, squishing hot dogs all the way.
I think Gus’s puffy hot dog costume saved us. We didn’t get hurt, and the slow cooker wasn’t broken. Not even the lid. However, something in my backpack made a loud crack and a pop.
I had brought ketchup, mustard, relish, and sauerkraut to put on the hot dogs. I opened my backpack. The jar of relish had broken and popped the sauerkraut bag. It all came spilling out of my backpack and onto the floor.
“Oh, man, we’re cursed!” said Gus.
“The Hot Dog Gods are not on our side today!” I said.
I got on my knees and started to pick up the hot dogs. I held up some crushed hot dogs above my head.
Gus started laughing. “ ‘Wienerness’ isn’t a word.”
“It is now,” I said.
He laughed again and bent over and held his stomach. He stepped across the mess to lean on the wall, but his foot came down on the mustard bottle and it shot all over me.
“Sorry,” said Gus.
“It’s okay,” I said. “It is obvious that the All-Knowing Lord of Franks has it in for me.”
I knelt again, and I saw that some hot dogs had gone under a big radiator that was built into the wall. The radiator was pretty warm. Then I had my best idea of the day. On the top of the radiator, there was a little ledge. We keep our gloves there on snowy days to warm them up. I put as many hot dogs on the ledge as I could.
“I’ll heat them up this way!” I said.
I got down on my belly and pulled out the hot dogs that rolled under the radiator. They were all covered with fuzz and gum and little rocks and junk, plus some of the sauerkraut and relish that had seeped across the floor.
“Wow!” I said. “It’s like a secret colony of mutant hot dogs.” I shook one in Gus’s face.
Normally he’d crack up, but this time he just turned around, ran down the hall, bent over a garbage can, and barfed into it.
I’d never seen a barfing hot dog before.
I really wanted to share my awesome hot dogs with everyone at the school. But I couldn’t share these. I mean, I’ve eaten some gross stuff, but no one else wants to eat a hot dog cooked on a radiator.
Then Stew burst through the door. “Guys,” he said, “I’ve been waiting for you in the cafeteria forever.”
I told him what had happened.
“You really must be cursed,” said Stew. “Because I couldn’t find any hot dog buns. There were no more at the store, so I just bought some loaves of white bread.”
Gus walked back to us, and he looked a little better. Barfing usually does that. He sat down against the wall and closed his eyes.
“I’m going to sleep,” he said. He always sleeps right after he barfs. In two seconds, he was snoozing away.
“What are we going to do about all this?” asked Stew, and he pointed at the giant mess.
“I guess we should clean it up.”
We picked up all the hot dogs and chucked them in the garbage can that Gus had barfed in. Then we dumped out everything else in my backpack into the garbage. Luckily the garbage can was on wheels, so we pushed it waaaaay down the hall because it was getting stinky.
There was still some mustard and sauerkraut on the floor, but it didn’t seem as wet anymore. Then we noticed that Gus’s hot dog suit was soaking up all the water.
The only things we had left that were any good were the bottle of ketchup and the loaves of bread. I also had a bag of little flags that I was going to stick in the hot dogs, to make them totally American. Then I had my best idea of the day.
“Ketchup sandwiches!” I said to Stew. “We can make a pile of ketchup sandwiches. They’re kind of American.”
“Yeah!” said Stew.
We started making sandwiches. They looked okay, but nothing special.
“You know what would make these better?” said Stew. “If we made them triple-decker sandwiches.”
“Yeah!” I said, and we went to work putting more ketchup and another slice of bread on each sandwich.
“You know what would make these even better?” I said. “If we made them six-layer sandwiches!”
Stew laughed.
We placed all the triple-deckers on all the other triple-deckers. They were looking awesome.
“Y’know,” said Stew, “if we want to make them really American, we should make the biggest ketchup sandwich ever!”
“Everything in America is bigger!” I said.
We started piling up the six-decker sandwiches. There were eighteen slices in each loaf, so when we had them all piled up, the sandwich was thirty-six slices high. We even kept the crust-covered end pieces in there.
The sandwich wobbled a bit, but we caught it. I opened the little bag of flags, and we stuck them all over to
hold it together.
“This looks great!” I said. “Let’s get it out there on the table!” I tried to pick the sandwich up, but it almost fell over.
“We’re not going to be able to carry it without breaking it,” said Stew.
“We need a dolly to carry it on,” I said.
We looked over at Gus, who was still sleeping against the wall. We both knew what to do. We scooted the sandwich over to him and leaned it against the front of his hot dog costume. I grabbed his feet and pulled him slowly from the wall. As he leaned back, Stew pushed the sandwich against him and it stayed together. It was perfect.
Stew got next to me, and we each grabbed one of Gus’s arms, spun him from the wall, and pulled him into the cafeteria! And that’s when you found us.
“I see,” said Dr. Henderson. “It looks like you boys did all you could.”
“We tried,” said Ricky.
“Why don’t you pull Gus into my office so he can get some sleep,” said the principal. He walked off and picked up a cafeteria tray. Ricky and Stew pulled Gus into the hall and around a corner to the principal’s office.
Dr. Henderson walked in after them and pointed to a couch. “Put him there,” he said.
Ricky and Stew started to lift Gus.
“Wait,” said Dr. Henderson. He held the cafeteria tray close to the ketchup sandwich tower and rolled the tower from Gus’s belly onto the tray.
The boys lifted Gus and put him on the couch. He was still sleeping deeply.
“Now you boys run along and get something good to eat,” said Dr. Henderson. “Go get yourself a taco or a dumpling or a samosa.”
“What about you?” asked Ricky.
“I’ll stay here,” said Dr. Henderson, and he sat down at his desk. He placed the tray holding the ketchup sandwich tower in front of him. He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a fork and knife.
“Why would I leave,” asked Dr. Henderson, “when I can eat this entire thing all by myself?”
#4: Closet of Terror
Have everyone take turns going into a dark closet.
Have each person scream as loud as possible.
The person who screams the longest wins.
#5: Cake Finger Ninja
When no one is looking, try to scoop some icing off the birthday cake. Don’t get caught! The person with the most scoops wins.
#6: Musical Gus Extreme
Play loud, fast music. When the music stops, sit on Gus really hard. Everyone wins!
“Attack!” shouted Mean Dean as he started chucking snowballs at the strange beast running across the park. His friend Trent followed his orders and whipped his snowballs.
“Truce! Truce!” called a voice from inside the beast. “It’s just me, Ricky!”
Icky Ricky poked his head out so the boys could see him. They stopped throwing snowballs.
“What the heck are you dressed as?” asked Mean Dean.
“I’m a woolly attack mammoth!” said Ricky.
“Why the heck are you a woolly attack mammoth?” asked Trent.
“Yeah,” said Mean Dean. “That’s kind of a stupid thing to be.”
“Because I found all the re hydrants,” said Ricky.
“Is this gonna be another one of your stupid stories?” asked Mean Dean.
“It might be!” said Ricky.…
It all started this morning with the snow day. Since we didn’t have to go to school, I knew it would be a good day to make some money shoveling sidewalks and driveways. I got all dressed up in my snow gear, but I had so many layers on that my coat didn’t t, so I wore one of my dad’s. It was kind of long, but it covered everything.
I grabbed a shovel and went to get Stew and Gus. But Gus couldn’t get a shovel because his garage was locked, and Stew could only get a little shovel that’s good for the beach.
So we rang people’s doorbells and asked them if they wanted us to shovel their driveways or anything.
One man thought about it, but then he said, “There are three of you and only one shovel.”
Stew showed him his little shovel, but the man just laughed.
“No thanks,” said the man. “I’ll do it myself.”
This happened over and over, and no one hired us.
We were getting hungry and we didn’t have any food with us, so we started to eat big handfuls of snow. The snow was good for packing, so we’d shape it into things we liked.
“Mine’s a slice of pizza,” I said.
“Mine’s a hamburger,” said Stew.
“Mine’s a falafel!” said Gus, and we started cracking up.
“What the heck’s a falafel?” I asked.
“A bread pocket filled with stuff like lettuce and these fried balls of chickpeas!”
“Ewwww!” I said,
“Sounds nasty,” said Stew.
“It’s my new favorite food,” said Gus.
And then something really weird happened. Just as we were talking about food, I reached into the pocket of my dad’s coat and I felt something. I pulled out a pile of packets from a Chinese restaurant. There was some soy sauce, duck sauce, and one hot sauce.
I showed Stew and Gus. We opened the packets and put them on our snow food. I put soy sauce on my snow pizza, Stew put duck sauce on his snow burger, and Gus put hot sauce on his snow falafel.
The sauces made the snow all different colors. The soy was brown, the duck sauce was orange, and the hot sauce was red. And all three were delicious.
“It’s much better than eating yellow snow!” I said, and we all cracked up again.
While we were eating, I looked across the street and saw more orange snow. We walked over to see what it was.
“I hope it’s duck-sauce snow,” said Stew.
But it wasn’t. It was fluorescent-orange spray paint. It had been used to make a big “X” on the snowbank.
“What’s that for?” asked Gus.
“Duh!” I said. “X marks the spot!”
I pushed my shovel into the snow and started digging. Stew joined in with his beach shovel, and Gus pulled away piles of snow with his hands. In just a few minutes, we uncovered a re hydrant. It wasn’t as cool as treasure or anything, but it was cool enough.
Then we saw another “X” down the street and did the same thing and found another hydrant. We kept doing this until we ended up down by Wood Park.
Some man in a truck came by and saw what we were doing. “Did you boys shovel out all the hydrants?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Is that okay?”
He said it was fine, thanked us, and drove on. I guess it was his job and he didn’t have to do it now. After he left, we walked to the pond. It had frozen, and we wanted to check it out.
We put our feet on the edge of the ice to see how strong it was. It didn’t crack or make any noises, so we walked on it.
Then we saw something amazing. Trapped under the ice was this brown lumpy shape. We got down on our hands and knees to see what it was but couldn’t figure it out.
Then Gus was like, “Eureka! We’ve found an ice man!”
Stew and I were like, “What?”
“It’s a prehistoric man!” said Gus. “Sometimes they get trapped in the ice, and their bodies get all brown and dried up!”
“Oh yeah!” I said. “I saw that in a museum. Sometimes they find weapons with them.”
“And sometimes,” said Gus, “they still have food in their stomachs and the scientist can figure out the last meal they ate.”
“Maybe he ate a woolly mammoth,” I said.
“Maybe this guy ate a falafel,” said Stew.
We were pressing our faces up against the ice trying to see better.
“I think his legs are down here,” said Stew.
“And those are his arms,” said Gus.
“What are we waiting for?” I said. “Let’s dig him out and bring him to a museum.”
“Yeah!” said Gus and Stew.
I started to hit the ice with my shovel. It didn’
t do anything. Stew tried his kiddie shovel, and it busted in half!
“We gotta get the ice softer before we dig. We need to melt it,” I said. I got on my knees again and started rubbing the ice with my gloves. Stew got down and started to breathe on it.
“You guys don’t know what you’re doing,” said Gus. He sat down on the ice and started rubbing his butt on it.
“The friction and heat from my butt will melt this in no time,” he said.
We all got in the same position and started butt-rubbing the ice.
But our butt-rubbing wasn’t melting the ice. We had to come up with a different plan. We searched around for some rocks and began scraping away at the ice.
“Make sure you don’t break the ice man,” said Stew.
The rocks were working well, and big chunks of ice started to crack away. Sometimes we’d get a big piece of ice and use that to crack the rest of the ice. Suddenly, this big layer of ice cracked off, and there was the ice man.
“Hmmm…,” I said. “It doesn’t really look like a man.”