On the cover, where it used to say The Barftastic Life of Louie Burger, it says this instead:
The Barftastic Life of Louie Burger
A Comedy Sketchbook
By Louie Burger (obviously)
and Ruby’s unacorn Book
By butterflyunacornjokergirl
I have a feeling that’s not the worst of it, so I peek inside.
best Unicrn Names
1. Sprakl
2. majik Star
3. Louie
That’s plain wrong. Sometimes I wish Ruby would move to an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and that after that boats and airplanes would be uninvented.
First, Louie is not a good unicorn name. Second, it’s my notebook. Last, it was in a secret hiding place inside an old Parcheesi box. Ruby doesn’t play Parcheesi. Last, part two, did I spell like that when I was in first grade?
“Five minutes are up! Nick and Henry are here!”
I race to the front door and see Nick and his little brother having a backpack war at the edge of our driveway. That’s a game Nick and I invented. Nick swings his backpack at Henry in his signature move, the reverse double-strap swingback.
“Bye, Dad,” I say, flinging the front door open. I can’t wait to see Nick. I haven’t seen him for five whole weeks. At the end of July, my family set out on a monthlong RV trip while Nick was being forced to attend sports camp and then, in August, Nick and his family went to visit his grandpa in Japan.
In kindergarten, first, second, third, and fourth grades Nick and I were mostly at-home friends. Sure we’d see each other at recess, but we never got to be alone. The problem is, everyone likes Nick, and there were always lots of kids in his class who’d follow him outside. But this year, since I’ll be in class with him, everyone will know he’s my best friend. It’s going to be the best fifth grade ever!
I’m halfway out the door to meet Nick when my dad puts a hand on my shoulder. “Hold on a minute.”
For a second I worry that he’s going to do something ridiculous like kiss me goodbye, but instead he asks, “Aren’t you supposed to walk with your sister?”
“No way,” I say. “Do you know what she did to my notebook?”
Dad rubs his chin. “I’ll talk to her about the notebook later. Mom told me to make sure you walk with her. Do you know where she is?”
He should search outer space or the loony bin, since those are the two places she belongs. I’m about to suggest it when she clomps down the hallway. For the first day of school, Ruby is wearing a jack-o’-lantern turtleneck, my Hawaiian-print swimming trunks, my Lou Lafferman’s Laff Nite hat, and cowboy boots.
“Da-ad!” I point at Ruby, but can’t speak further.
Ruby. In my Lou Lafferman hat. That is as disrespectful as using an American flag as a diaper.
Dad wags a finger at Ruby. “You can’t go into your brother’s things without asking,” he tells her.
“Sorry, Louie,” she says. “I was nervous of first grade. I needed Louie power. Want a unicorn to trade?”
I sigh. My Lou hat is worth about a billion dollars. A unicorn is worth negative four cents. “Fine,” I say. “You can give it back to me after school.”
She walks out the door, and my dad bumps shoulders with me.
“That was nice,” he says.
I shrug. I’m not letting her keep it forever, just for today.
“It’s our big day. Wish me luck.” Dad holds out his hand to me for a fist-bump.
I tap my knuckles against his. “Good luck,” I say, and tear out the front door before he mentions my act. Maybe he’ll forget about it by the end of the day.
I race down the driveway toward Nick. “Look out!” I scream as I run. “I’m going to hurl!”
When I’m inches away, I pretend to stick my index finger down my throat and so does Nick. Then we hook our fingers together and pull as hard as we can until they come apart and we fall on our butts. It’s the Barf Brothers’ secret handshake. We call ourselves the Barf Brothers because in second grade we finished an entire extra-large meat-lover’s pizza at a sleepover and both threw up in our sleeping bags.
Nick stands and swings his backpack at me in a sideways packheader. I act dizzy for a second, and then I stand, too. Nick and I start walking, and Ruby and Henry trail along behind us. Close enough that they won’t get lost, but far enough that hopefully no one will think we’re together.
It’s so great to see Nick again. Fifth grade is going to be barftastic.
School can get a little lonely when you don’t have a best friend in your class. A best friend always wants to be your partner and listens to your jokes. If you don’t have a best friend in your class, everyone will think you are weird instead of hysterically funny when you put pencils in your nostrils because your nose went number two. Get it? Number two pencil.
Then Ryan Rakefield will tell everyone that you were trying to erase your boogers, and your classmates will call you the Invisible-Booger Boy for about a month. Um, I take it back. That didn’t actually happen. Really.
Now that Nick is in my class, at least one person will get my jokes.
“School is going to be awesome this year,” I tell Nick as we head down the sidewalk.
“Yeah,” he says. “There are some cool kids in our class this year.”
“Right,” I say. “Us.”
Nick laughs, but he also adds, “And other kids, too.”
“Louie’s going to be in the talent show,” Ruby butts in from behind us. “He’s going to be the star.”
Nick stops walking and stares at me like he’s trying to figure out if Ruby’s telling the truth. “You’re going to do your act?”
“No.” I shake my head. “This is a misunderstanding.”
“Too bad,” he says.
I turn to Ruby. “Did you know that first graders who walk to school by themselves get five dollars from the principal?”
Ruby laughs. She doesn’t start walking by herself.
I’m wondering if I should tell Nick about my performance for my dad when Henry bumps my elbow and wedges himself between Nick and me. “We went to see the Chunichi Dragons,” he says.
We turn the corner onto the last block to school.
“Oooh. Dragons are cousins of unicorns,” Ruby says.
“The Chunichi Dragons are a baseball team,” Nick explains. “I got a ball signed by the players.” He seems pretty excited about it, which is weird, since Nick and I have always agreed that sports are for snort-brains.
“We got dragon hats,” Henry adds.
“Neat,” I say. “I hope your hair doesn’t get singed when it starts breathing fire.”
Henry stares at me like he has no idea what I’m talking about.
“Naked mole rats aren’t rats or moles,” Ruby announces.
You never know what you’re going to get with Ruby. Sometimes it’s kind of fun, but I’m not in the mood for bizarre-animal-fact hour right now. “First kid to the corner wins an invisible pony!” I say. Ruby and Henry look at each other, then take off running.
“Nice one,” Nick tells me when they’re gone. “Wish I’d thought of that when I was in Japan. Henry kept butting in whenever my grandpa and I tried to play catch. I learned how to throw a knuckleball, though. I’m going to do a pitching demonstration for the talent show.”
Now it’s my turn to stop walking. “A pitching demonstration? I thought we hated sports. You said sports camp would be a torture sundae with a tennis ball on top.”
“You said that.” Nick kicks a rock and it skitters to the end of the block, where Ruby, Henry, and the crossing guard wait for us. “It wasn’t that bad.”
We reach the corner and the crossing guard holds up the flashing stop sign that looks like an octagon-shaped Ping-Pong paddle. He escorts Nick, Ruby, Henry, and me to the other side of the street. Ruby and Henry race off to stand with the first graders, and Nick and I head to the other side of the blacktop. The closer we get to the fifth-grade area, the slowe
r my feet move.
The fifth graders gather by the tetherball poles. Some are playing catch, some are standing around talking, but everyone is with a friend or group of friends. I look at Nick. He’s walking with me, but he’s a half step ahead. Our bodies aren’t quite lined up.
And then I hear a voice.
“Hey, Nick. We’re in the same class!”
I know that voice. A voice of pure evil. Ryan Rakefield.
Essential Backpack-War Moves*
Reverse double-strap swingback: Holding on to both straps, spin around 360 degrees counterclockwise and whack your opponent with your backpack.
Double-strap swingback: Same thing, only clockwise.
Backhack: Lift your backpack over your head until it touches your back, then hack it forward.
Single-strap X-attack: Holding on to one strap, swing your backpack in an X motion.
Zipper-zap: Snap the backpack forward and back so the zipper flaps out.
Stomachpack blast: Strap the pack onto the front of your body and blast your stomach forward.
Buttpack bomb: Holding on to both straps, swing your backpack up toward your opponent’s butt.
Packheader: Backpack vs. head, enough said.
YOU CAN’T BE FRIENDS WITH A THERMOS
“Yamashita!” Ryan calls to Nick again. “Did you bring your football to school?”
I look at Nick, completely confused. Nick tightens the straps on his backpack, but he doesn’t say anything until Ryan runs over and fake-tackles him.
“Hi, Ryan.”
“You have to be on my team at recess this year,” says Ryan. “Remember the day when you tackled me in the mud? That was so awesome. I don’t understand why you never want to play with us. You’re good. We could use you.”
Nick nods, but I don’t know if he’s agreeing to play football or agreeing that knocking Ryan in the mud was awesome. It sounds awesome to me. I wish I remembered that day.
“Ryan was at sports camp with me,” Nick explains.
Oh. Sports camp.
“It’s the Invisible-Booger Boy!” Ryan pretend-punches me in the stomach, and I double over because I expect the punch to be real. “Gotcha!” he shouts.
Ryan bursts out laughing at his completely unfunny prank, and Nick rolls his eyes at me. I hope that means he still agrees with me about Ryan.
The bell rings and we follow Mrs. Adler into room thirteen, where she has the desks arranged in a big square with our names taped to our assigned places. Nick is next to me. Barftastic! Ryan is on my other side, but I’m going to pretend he’s a desk lamp.
When we are seated, Mrs. Adler hands each student a bag of Hershey’s Kisses. “To get the year off to a sweet start,” she says.
“Gross,” I whisper. “The teacher kissed us.”
“Ewww!” shouts Ryan. “Mrs. Adler kissed us.”
Everyone laughs. Including Mrs. Adler. At my joke.
“I know who’ll be providing the comic relief this year,” Mrs. Adler says, smiling at Ryan. He stands up and takes a bow. I should slide a whoopee cushion onto his seat, but unfortunately I forgot to bring one to school today.
If Ryan knew anything, he’d know that real comedians don’t steal other people’s jokes. I sink down in my seat.
Next, Mrs. Adler asks each of us to say one important thing about ourselves, but I’m too busy fantasizing about throwing a pie in Ryan Rakefield’s face to pay attention. I don’t even notice Nick taking his turn, so I’m startled when everyone stares at me, waiting for me to talk. I accidentally blurt out, “I’m Louie Pie, and I like banana-cream burgers.”
Everyone snickers.
Snickering is not the same as laughing.
“Is that part of your act?” Nick whispers to me.
I shake my head. Why didn’t I say something funny? Really funny, I mean.
Ryan goes next and he says, “I’m Ryan Rakefield, and I’m the undisputed champion of the world.”
More like the undisputed barf-head of fifth grade. I imagine giving Ryan an atomic-flagpole wedgie while the rest of the class take their turns.
When that’s finished, Mrs. Adler hands out our new books. The math book is huge and smells like the LMC. Then she passes something else out.
Something terrifying.
The flyer announcing the talent show.
My heart starts to break-dance, and my armpits get damp. But don’t tell my mom because then she’ll start making me wear that deodorant she bought me.
I fold the flyer and stick it in my pocket. Dad doesn’t need to see it. As much as I fantasize about doing the talent show, I don’t have what it takes to do it in real life, and that’s that.
Nick passes me a note. I bet it’s about my act. Or about playing Turbo Toilet Tamers at recess.
You have to meet Thermos! the note says.
Thermos?
Who is Thermos? I write back.
Over by the flag. In the baseball cap. We met at sports camp.
Great. Sports camp.
If I hadn’t been gone this summer in the Rolling Vomitorium (RV, get it?), Nick and I could have gone to Klown Kamp. Then he wouldn’t have been playing football with Ryan Rakefield and hanging out with kids named after items in a lunch box.
I look over by the flag. A kid with medium-brown skin, wearing glasses and a backward Cubs hat, tilts back in his chair. Thermos. Never seen him before. He must be new. He’s wearing a soccer jersey. Except for his glasses he looks sporty. I bet he’s Ryan Rakefield part II.
We decorate our writing journals and write entries about what we didn’t do over summer vacation. Then, the recess bell rings. The second we get outside Nick says, “Let’s find Thermos.”
I stop in my tracks and Ryan Rakefield bumps my left hip as he runs past me to the field. “Come on, Yamashita. Tell Invisible-Booger Boy you’ll see him later,” he shouts to Nick. “You can be my co-captain.”
“Do you want to go?” I ask Nick.
He shakes his head. “Are you kidding?”
We both watch as Ryan divides the kids on the main field into teams.
“Look, there’s Thermos!” Nick points.
I follow his finger to the edge of the football field. I bet Thermos wants to play football. Or kickball. Or baseball. Or soccer. There’s a theme here, get it?
“Come on.” Nick starts jogging, and in half a second he’s way ahead of me, like he can’t wait to get to the field. Like he doesn’t even remember that I’m his best friend or that we’re heading right toward Ryan Rakefield.
I run to catch up.
“What should we do?” Nick asks.
“Mutant Eggplants Take Over the World?”
Nick grins. “Thermos changed it to Mutant Soccer Balls Take Over the World at sports camp.”
Nick let Thermos change our game. My legs stop working and I stumble on a tuft of grass.
“Uh, I have to do something,” I say. “I’ll see you later.”
“What?” Nick looks at me like I’m insane. But if I try to play football or soccer with Nick and Thermos, I might trip and get my legs twisted into a pretzel and sprain my kneecap and break my toenail. I can’t risk it.
If Thermos had a basketball, things would be different. H-O-R-S-E is the only sporty game I play.
“What do you have to do?” Nick asks.
“Rearrange the pebbles by the bench?”
Nick folds his arms and taps his right foot.
“Okay, fine. Not pebbles. I am allergic to insulated food containers. What kind of name is Thermos anyway? Does he have a brother named Coffee Mug?”
Nick shakes his head. “Weren’t you paying attention in class? If you were, you’d want to meet Thermos.”
“I’ll pass. Let’s have a wood-chip war.”
Nick takes a step backward. “Let’s have one with Thermos.” He takes another step back. “By the way, ‘Thermos’ is a nickname. Because of bringing soup for lunch every day. And Thermos isn’t a he. She’s a girl.”
What?
“Are you coming?” Nick asks.
I shake my head. Nick runs off.
When Nick gets to the field, he and Thermos start talking, then look in my direction. I cross my eyes and stick my tongue out sideways. I don’t know why. Nick waves me over, but I shake my head and go sit on the bench by the doors and watch as Thermos and Nick play some game that looks like a cross between catch and the hokeypokey.
I don’t know what Nick is thinking. If Thermos is the kind of kid who wants to play football with Ryan Rakefield, she’ll never want to hang out with me.
Sports
I can think of a million reasons sports are barfgusting!
First, they make you hot, smelly, and sweaty. Which means your mom will make you take a shower. If you don’t play sports, then your parents might forget to make you bathe for three whole days. That actually happened one time!
Second, half the time your team loses. Or if you’re me, your team always loses. Yeah, that’s fun.
Third, you could break a leg or pop your eyeball out. The eyeball thing is real. But it doesn’t only happen in sports. Some people can sneeze their eyeballs out.
ANOTHER REASON WHY SISTERS ARE WORSE THAN WEDGIES
At the end of school, the bell rings and we race to our lockers to get our backpacks. At Barker, only fifth graders get lockers. When I get there Thermos is standing at the locker next to mine. The lockers are in alphabetical order and her last name is Albertson. I must have missed that fact this morning.
The Barftastic Life of Louie Burger Page 2