by Laura Preble
“How can they do that?” I close my locker too, a bit more gently.
“Because of those stupid civil rights laws that say you can’t discriminate based on gender or race.”
“Yeah, those have really gotten in the way.” Sometimes Becca can be a little self-absorbed. I guess we all can be. “But I still don’t see how he can shut down the club.”
We walk toward the field where our teacher, Mr. Cruces, is patiently counting heads as if we are a bunch of cows going to the old slaughterhouse. That’s about what I feel like, as a matter of fact. Becca says, “He’ll say we’re discriminating! It’s a public school. They won’t let us exclude anyone who really wants to join.”
“Can’t we tell them that he’s only doing it out of spite?”
“Sure, we can tell them that.” Mr. Cruces checks to be sure we’re dressed properly and then we jog at a snail’s pace along the edge of the huge baseball field. “But Fletcher will say he’s just doing it because he wants to be part of our activities. He’ll find a way around it, believe me. No, what we really need to do is persuade him that he doesn’t want to join.”
“How can we do that?”
“You can start going out with him again, and then he’ll forget about it.”
“Not an option at this point.” I jog even more slowly than I had been at the thought of dating Fletcher at all. And then I think about his eyes, and him kissing me, and then the damned thumping-bass karaoke—
“Well, then, we just have to make his life a living hell, I guess.” She grins demonically and runs ahead a few paces, leaving me at the end of the line with Mr. Cruces blowing his whistle in my ear.
13
THE CULT OF THE EXPIRED SOUP
(or You Say Tomato, I Say Too Tired)
After school, we meet like spies at the theater. Elisa is still wearing her wig and glasses. Becca and I start laughing.
“What?” she says. “I thought we were going undercover.”
“Yes,” Becca says. “No one would ever know that you’re in disguise.”
“Where’s Amber?” I ask, checking around for signs of Fletcher. “We need to get going.”
As if on cue, Amber scampers up, out of breath. “I just talked to Mr. Willfield. He said we can schedule a performance for our show right before Thanksgiving. Isn’t that great?”
“Is Mr. Willfield an imaginary friend?” Elisa asks as we walk. She strips off the wig and glasses and stuffs them into her backpack.
“No, he’s the drama teacher.” Amber shrugs out of her long black coat and folds it over her arm. “He says the drama department will be finished with the fall show at the end of October, and after that, it’s all ours!”
“You’re not wearing your goth coat?” Elisa says, wheezing slightly in her attempt to make her short legs keep up with Becca’s long strides.
“Too hot.” Amber wipes her foreheard with her no-fingered glove. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to maintain my gothness. It’s too uncomfortable, and I’m not suffering enough to carry it off.”
“You’d suffer more if you keep the coat on,” Elisa suggests.
We get to the corner, the place where we’d be most likely to see our newly sworn enemies; instead, we just see the regular parade of traffic. Minivans, pickup trucks, and beater cars with mismatched doors are ready to bolt forward as soon as the light changes. I scan the traffic for Fletcher’s car and immediately hate myself for doing it.
Once we get to my house, we camp out in the living room. Euphoria is delighted to have houseguests. “What can I bring you? Coffee? Water? Tea? Soda? Assorted fruit juices?” She lights up with glee. “I just made a fresh batch of lemonade.”
We all opt for lemonade; since Euphoria can make anything with the chemically perfect mix of ingredients, anything homemade always beats the store-bought stuff. When she rolls in with the pitcher, she also has a tray full of weird-looking brown things in the shape of, I swear, Fred the former lawnmower.
“Euphoria,” Becca asks, holding one of the food items up to the light, “is this edible? What is it?”
“I’m so glad you asked.” Euphoria whirs and hums, and a piece of paper scrolls from her printer compartment. She picks it up gently and hands it to Becca. “This is a picture of Fred. I used it to construct the baked goods. They are the image of Fred. If we eat him, he lives within us.”
“Creepy,” Elisa mutters as she grabs one, examines it, then bites what would be Fred’s head off. “Hmm. It’s not really sweet. What’s in it?”
“It’s all of Fred’s favorites. Tofu, baker’s yeast, kibble, and maraschino cherries.”
“’Scuse me,” Elisa says as she turns green and runs for the bathroom.
The rest of us politely decline the Fred cookies, but pour glass after glass of lemonade. Just thinking about the ingredients makes me kind of queasy and thirsty and kind of like I want to bark. Or bake something.
“What do we do?” Becca asks after things settle down and Euphoria rolls back to the kitchen. “What’s our strategy for getting rid of this obnoxious pest?”
“You make it sound like he’s a cockroach.”
“If the feelers fit…”
“Fine,” I say, feeling truly less than fine. “Can we just drop it? I’d really like to talk about something else.”
“Okay,” Becca says, nodding. “Let’s talk about GeekFest. Amber, you said Mr. Wills-his-name—”
“Willfield.”
“—Willfield said we could use the theater after October. Elisa, get out your calendar.”
Elisa pulls her Palm Pilot from its holster. “Please don’t refer to Wembley as my ‘calendar’. It’s demeaning.”
“We so need to get you a date,” Amber mutters, shaking her head.
“How many weeks between Halloween and Thanksgiving?” Becca peers over her shoulder.
“Looks like four.” She does some quick calculations. “We’d need to audition acts, have rehearsals and do the show in that time.”
Amber swings her legs over the edge of the couch. “What about if we had auditions before that, but used that time to actually run the show, with the tech stuff? That would give us more time to really get it right.”
“So…” Becca squints at the ceiling, calculating in her head. “Let’s say we put in announcements next week. What’s the date today, anyway?”
“September fifteen,” I pipe in. “Too soon for any auditions.
Becca pours more lemonade. “Of course it’s too soon for auditions. But we can get people to start thinking about it. And then auditions…When? Where?”
“I think in two weeks.” Elisa scribbles on Wembley with her stylus. “That’s the end of September, and that gives us time in October to get things together and to advertise it and get whatever we need. And rehearse the acts on a split schedule, correlating dates with sports, band, and choir practices as well as significant grading dates.”
“With that calculating mind, it’s too bad you’re not a guy,” Becca snips. “You could date Euphoria.”
“Enough about my love life!” Elisa slams the cover on Wembley. “Sorry, sweetie,” she mutters, stroking its case. As Amber said, we really do need to get her a date.
I drain the last of the lemonade from my glass. “I absolutely can’t work without some baked goods that are kibble-free. Let’s raid the kitchen.”
No one ever disagrees with the idea of a kitchen raid. We find a box of organic oatmeal-chocolate-chip granola snacks, some ice cream bars with freezer burn, and Halloween candy left over from last year. Euphoria is all in a snit about us messing up her kitchen, so we tromp back to the pantry room, where archaeological foods wait to be excavated.
A naked light bulb shines on the stacks of boxes and bags of food. The pantry is large enough for the four of us to walk into, but there’s not much room to move around; therefore, we keep elbowing each other and stepping on each others’ shoelaces. Squatting on the floor, Becca peers into a dingy cupboard. “Is anything in her
e actually edible?”
“Wow.” Amber reaches up onto a top shelf and pulls out a four pack of those heat-and-eat soup cans. “Check it out. I used to eat these all the time for lunch.”
“Tomato soup. That sounds kind of good.” Elisa grabs the cans and turns them over. “Does soup expire?”
“Everything goes bad eventually.” I grab the cans from her and locate the expiration date. “Uh, yeah. These expired a year ago. My dad never cleans this stuff up, and he never tells Euphoria to do it either, so it just sits here expiring.”
Becca has picked up the cans and is squinting at the side panel. “Check it out. You can call a hotline number if you want to know anything about soup.” She looks up, a sparkle in her eye. “Shall we?”
“What are we going to ask them?” I’m almost afraid of the answer.
“Well, we ask them what we do with expired soup, I guess. Is it safe to eat? Can it be used for evil purposes? That sort of thing.”
“Ah. Evil purposes. I figured that’s where you were going with it.”
“So? Shelby’s a spoilsport, but what about you two?” She grins maniacally at Elisa and Amber.
“I couldn’t do it,” Amber says. “I’d just crack up.”
“I don’t have any minutes left on my cell phone,” Elisa says firmly.
Becca sighs in exaggerated frustration and grabs the soup cans. “Fine, I’ll do it. Come on.”
We all follow her into the living room, where she takes out her cell phone and keys in the 1–888 number for the company’s soup hotline. I watch her in amazement. She just isn’t concerned about anything she does! She’ll talk to anyone, do anything that sounds interesting. I wish I had that kind of…whatever it is that she has.
“Okay, it’s ringing!” she whispers excitedly. Even though this is a totally immature and stupid thing to do, I sort of feel into it, and I want to hear what she says, and I can tell the other girls do too, because we’re all staring intently at Becca and the phone. “Electronic menu of options…No, I don’t want any holiday recipes…. No, I don’t need help reading the directions…. No, I’m not interested in your soup-of-the-month club…. Oh, hi!” She puts it on speakerphone so we can all be part of the magic.
“Hello, this is Pat, I’ll be your soup specialist this evening. How can I help you?”
“Soup Specialist?” Becca says seriously while making a goofy face. “Is that really your job?”
“Yes, it is. How can I help you?” Pat doesn’t sound like the type who likes her soup to be mocked.
“Well, Pat,” Becca says as if it’s a matter of great importance, “I have these cans of tomato soup here, and it says they’re expired, but I wanted to know: Is it safe to eat them anyway?”
“We don’t recommend that you consume any product that is expired,” Pat explains patiently, as if we are all too stupid to really understand that. “We cannot guarantee the safety of any expired product.”
“Hmmm.” Becca turns the can over in her hand. “So, is there anything I can do with this soup? I mean, could I stack this soup up and make it into a little altar, and start my own cult? The Cult of the Expired Soup?”
Pat kind of chuckles. She’s not all business, after all. “Well, yes, I guess you could do that.”
“And could I charge admission to see the almighty expired cans that started it all? I mean, can I put up a shrine in my yard or something, and then create a whole line of Expired Soup–related products that could be purchased by my worshippers?”
“I’d advise against anything that violates copyright,” Pat cautions. “But if you think you can persuade people to listen to you, I say go for it.”
By this point, we’re all strangling with restrained laughter, and even Becca is fighting very hard to keep a straight face. “Well, Pat, thanks for your help. I have a new mission in life now, thanks to you.”
“You’re welcome,” Pat answers. “Have a great day.”
“Have a soup-er day!” Becca yells and hangs up the phone. We all just explode in gut-busting laughter to the point where I can’t even catch my breath. It feels really good to just roll on the floor laughing so hard my belly hurts. I haven’t laughed much lately.
“Oh my God, Becca, you are insane!” Amber says, her voice shaky. “I cannot believe you did that.”
“And you didn’t laugh!’ Elisa adds, wiping her eyes. “I don’t know how you did that.”
Becca is staring intently at the cans. I can tell by the gleam in her eyes that we’re way past the joke. “Uh…you don’t really want to start a religious cult, do you?” I ask. With Becca, you never rule anything out.
“No, no,” she says, waving a hand at me impatiently. “But I think Pat may have inspired me to think of a suitable torture for our cockroach.”
“You’re going to make him eat the soup?” Elisa grimaces. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Becca. I mean, what if he pukes all over your shoes or goes to the hospital or—”
“No, no, I’m not going to make him eat the soup!” Becca jumps up and down excitedly. “What we do is this: We collect empty cans of soup, as many as we can get. We go to his house and we stack them up in front of his door, so when he comes out in the morning, he knocks them all over and it’s a huge mess. And then we can put them in his locker, in his car, everywhere! He might get the concept that trying to be part of our group isn’t such a great idea. I mean, we don’t want to hurt him, but we do want to get the point across: He’s not welcome.”
“I don’t know,” Amber says, squinting at the guilty-looking soup cans. “Isn’t that sort of like harassment?”
“What harassment?” Becca snorts. “Leaving a few cans here and there?”
“What if he trips, cuts himself, gets tetanus, and dies?” Elisa asks, folding her arms in front of her with determination. “We could be liable, you know.”
“I’ve changed my mind.” Becca twirls a can by its flip top. “Elisa should be a lawyer, not an accountant.”
“Wow, I’ve been promoted,” Elisa says sarcastically.
Euphoria calls from the kitchen, “Are you all going to want supper?”
I look from girl to girl. Elisa finally says, “Well, as long as there’s no kibble involved, I’m up for it.”
“Let’s order a pizza,” Becca suggests.
“Ah, let me cook!” Euphoria bleeps from the kitchen. “I never get to cook for more than two people. And Mr. Chapelle hardly counts; he never eats anything but Pringles potato chips and soup!”
At the mere mention of soup, we all bust out laughing again. And then I realize how much Fletcher would love this joke, and suddenly soup makes me sad.
After the Friday night feast from Euphoria, everyone goes home stuffed, even Becca. I’m forced to face my archenemy, homework. This, of course, makes the weekend about as much fun as kibble cookies.
My phone has been buzzing less and less. I put it on my desk so I can see it if it goes off, and see who’s calling. Although I should be glad Fletcher has taken the hint and is leaving me alone, I can’t help but feel disappointed. I mean, if he really did like me, or even love me, how can he just give up like that? Honestly, it really shows what someone is made of, down deep.
Monday it’s raining, so Dad drives me to school, which means an interrogation. “So, what’s going on between you and Fletcher?”
I fake a huge yawn that keeps me from answering, then slowly sip coffee from my travel mug.
“Hello?” He reaches over and taps me on the head. “Did you hear me?”
“Yes, I heard you.” I slap at his hand as if it’s an annoying mosquito, nearly dumping my coffee onto my jeans. “I’ve just been really busy.”
“Hmmm.” He maneuvers through the rainy side streets before getting onto the freeway. Even though school’s only one exit away, Dad gets frustrated with surface streets and all those “poky old ladies” clogging up the road. “Euphoria mentioned that you’ve got a school project involving soup cans.”
I nearly choke.
“Uh…wow. I think she was just hearing weird stuff. We were watching a movie.” I realize as I babble that none of what I’m saying really answers his question, but I’m sort of hoping he won’t notice that. Of course, that’s stupid, because my dad is literally a rocket scientist, so not a whole lot gets past him. However, I do have a secret weapon that, if used sparingly, will deflect all questions. “I’ve got terrible cramps.” I open the glove box. “Do you have any tampons in here?”
Dad frowns and grips the steering wheel even more tightly. He’s just kind of bewildered by female function, and I know he dreads talking about anything involving the word “menstrual.” I’ve used this strategy before, but you have to be careful; if you overuse it, then they get suspicious and start keeping track, and suddenly they calculate that you have a period every two weeks instead of every four, or every first and third week, and then it’s either confess or go to the doctor for a thorough checkup. As I said, you have to play it just right. I’m kind of desperate, because I really don’t want to talk about Fletcher.
But he won’t let it go. “So? Are you two still seeing each other or not?”
We’ve arrived at school, and traffic is totally clogged because of the rain. It’s like nobody has ever seen water on asphalt before. Because of this, we sit in front of the parking lot, stuck. “I think I’ll just get out here,” I say, reaching for the door handle.
Dad locks the door with the flick of a button and gives me a lopsided smile, so I say “Oh, very clever. You can make me sit here, but you can’t make me talk.”
“What did he do, exactly?” We inch forward, raindrops splattering the glass, first in intense sheets, then in trickles. “I really want to know.”
“As I said, I’d think you’d be glad. Most dads don’t want their daughters to date, period. I’m voluntarily swearing off guys, and you don’t even have to get involved! How lucky are you?”
He chuckles, which, to me, is the exactly wrong response.
“Why are you laughing at me?” I hear myself, and I sound pretty shrill and girlish. I’m guessing if I saw the expression on my face, I wouldn’t like that either.