“Now, people, let’s break into groups and brainstorm topics,” Mr. Wallwetter said. “You’ll have a few days to prepare your speech, and then we’ll begin the competition. Remember, second place is not an option in Wallwetter’s World.”
Billy got assigned to a group of five students. They all seemed to be brimming with ideas.
“I can run a mile in seven minutes and fifty seconds,” Ruby Baker said. “I could demonstrate how I warm up.”
“I can pull a quarter out of a person’s ear,” chimed in Zoe St. Clair.
“I can throw a knuckleball,” Ricardo Perez offered, “or cook up a storm.” Even though he was the star of the baseball team, Ricardo was the only person who had welcomed Billy on his first day at Moorepark Middle School. And there he was, being nice again.
“What’s your thing, Billy?” he asked. “You look like a dude of many talents.”
Billy’s mind was racing but getting nowhere. Just the thought of standing up in front of everyone made his mind go blank with fear. He had always been that way about public speaking or performing in front of groups. In kindergarten, he had played a tube of toothpaste in the Halloween show, and when it was his turn, he couldn’t remember how to pretend to squeeze himself onto the toothbrush, played by Vivian Pomerantz. So instead he just stood in front of the class and watched in horror as a lake formed around the zipper area of his pants. It took forever to live that down.
Even just the year before, at his old school, his throat closed up during Poetry Week when he had to recite “Casey at the Bat.” It took three trips to the water fountain for him to finish the poem. He felt no confidence about being able to do well in the SOC competition. The old panicky feelings prickled every nerve ending from his hair roots to his toenails.
He sat in his brainstorming group with no sign of any storm whatsoever in his brain. Not even a raindrop of a thought. Suddenly, he smelled orange juice and felt a cold presence next to him. He looked up and saw Hoover Porterhouse standing on Mr. Wallwetter’s desk, snapping his suspenders and doing the craziest dance he had ever seen.
“Tell them you can turkey trot with a ghost,” he said. “Now that’s a winning demonstration if I ever heard one.”
Billy’s stomach sank to the soles of his feet. This was not good. He was trying to fit in, to overcome his fears. And now here was the Hoove interfering again. The last thing he needed was a turkey-trotting ghost whispering in his ear. But making the Hoove understand that would be about as easy as balancing a tow truck on his little finger while singing opera in Italian.
In other words, impossible.
It was South of the Border night in the Broccoli-Fielding household. Billy’s new stepfather, Bennett Fielding, loved to cook and always had a theme for each meal. In the three weeks since Billy and his mom had moved in with Bennett and Breeze, they had already visited Italy via Bennett’s lasagna, Japan through his chicken teriyaki, and Greece in the form of stuffed grape leaves and flaming fried cheese. The Greek night got a little out of control when the flaming cheese attacked the paper napkins and Mrs. Broccoli-Fielding had to douse the whole table with a pitcher of water. The family promptly traveled back from Greece to Jack in the Box for double cheeseburgers, which weren’t as festive but were at least dry.
Billy had come home from school that day very tired after attending baseball practice. He was scorekeeper and never got to play, but sitting in the dugout and concentrating on each player’s statistics had worn him out. He was in his room taking a pre-dinner nap when the door flew open and Bennett came dancing in. He was wearing a sombrero and shaking his hips in a very alarming way.
“Hola, Bill,” he said. “Come into the kitchen where there is hot salsa to dip a chip in and hotter music to shake your body to.”
Billy shook his head. He really liked Bennett most of the time, but right now he wasn’t in the mood to travel to Mexico.
“I’ll be there in a while, Bennett.”
“No, no, señor. We need you now. There are ripe avocados calling your name, just waiting to be smushed up into guacamole.”
Bennett danced over to Billy’s bed and extended a hand.
“Come on, muchacho,” he said. “Everybody helps.”
With a sigh, Billy got up and followed Bennett into the kitchen. The table had been set using a colorful Mexican blanket as a tablecloth. Billy’s mom was frying taco shells, and Breeze was browning the taco meat in a skillet. Bennett did a peculiar cha-cha over to the pan and took a sniff.
“No onions?” he asked. “You can’t have taco meat without onions.”
“I gave up on chopping them,” Breeze said. “They made me cry, which made my mascara run, which is totally unacceptable.”
“Where are the onion goggles?” Bennett asked, opening the drawer where he kept kitchen tools like lemon zesters and cherry pitters and hard-boiled-egg slicers.
“I don’t know how to break this to you, Dad, but I did us both a favor and tossed those puppies out before we moved.”
“You tossed out the onion goggles? Breeze, they’re crucial. Why would you do that?”
“Three reasons, Dad. One, they smell like feet. Two, they made me look like an alien. And three, they were completely fogged up with onion fumes.”
Bennett looked like he had lost his best friend. Billy knew the feeling. Before they moved, his mom had tossed out his collection of used chopsticks from his favorite Chinese restaurants, and he still missed them.
“Sorry about your goggles, Bennett,” he said.
“I’ll get you a new pair, honey,” Billy’s mom offered, leaving her taco shells to give Bennett a little hug.
“Those goggles and I have made a lot of salsa together,” he said.
“Trust me, Dad. If I hadn’t thrown them out, the Health Department would have. Even Brittany thought they were gross.”
“Brittany Osborne?” Billy piped up, suddenly getting interested in the conversation. “The girl with the pink streaks in her hair. She thinks everything is gross.”
“For your information, youngster, they are lavender highlights, not pink streaks. And she is the drummer in my band and one of my best friends, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t criticize her. Besides, the only things she ever said were gross were the onion goggles and you.”
“I’m not gross.”
“Really? Then what do you call that shriveled-up rotting tomato you’re keeping on our bathroom counter?”
“I call it science. I’m watching that tomato decompose.”
“Eeuuww.”
“When fungi attack a fruit, it causes mold, which is why the tomato has turned black and fuzzy.”
“Double eeuuww. Triple eeuuww. Everything eeuuww. That is the most disgusting thing I have ever heard in my whole life. You are officially the king of grossdom.”
Bennett came to Billy’s rescue.
“I applaud you, Billy,” he said, taking the spoon from Breeze and stirring the meat so it didn’t stick to the bottom of the pan. “Science is not always pretty, but a good scientist observes what’s around him with an unwavering eye.”
“And a strong stomach,” Breeze chimed in.
Dr. Fielding certainly knew what he was talking about in the category of disgusting. He was a dentist, and he spent his whole day inside people’s mouths. He knew all there was to know about tooth decay, gum disease, sour saliva, and bad breath.
As the four of them sat down at the dinner table, the family became very jolly. There was nothing like tacos and refried beans and fresh salsa to put a family in a great frame of mind. Mrs. Broccoli-Fielding talked about how well the resurfacing of the new teacher parking lot was going. Dr. Fielding spoke enthusiastically about the new watermelon-flavored mouthwash he was experimenting with. Breeze reported that her girl band, the Dark Cloud, had been booked for the chess club dance party and although they weren’t getting actual money, they got all the chocolate chess pieces they could eat.
Billy was quiet and didn’t contribute much to the
conversation. His mind had returned to the SOC contest. With less than twelve hours to go before first-period English, he still hadn’t come up with a topic. He had already rejected at least five. His latest thought was to speak on how to stop yourself from hiccuping, but then he realized that standing in front of the room holding his breath would not make for a very upbeat presentation. Besides, if he passed out, he’d never live it down.
“Why so quiet, young William?” Bennett asked, helping himself to a third taco.
“I’m just thinking, and it’s not working.”
“Try using your brain,” Breeze suggested.
“Most people find that useful.”
“Well, since your brain is working,” Billy answered, “what did you do for the SOC competition last year? I can’t think of a topic, and I’m starting to freak out about it.”
“Our theme was What It Means to Grow Up. I set my speech to music and performed a song called ‘My Nail Polish Doesn’t Define Me.’”
“Yeah, I almost picked that” — Billy nodded — “but I rejected it. Hate to appear shallow, but my nail polish does define me.”
Breeze didn’t usually laugh at Billy’s jokes, but this one seemed to tickle her fancy.
“Not bad,” she giggled. “There may just be a funny human in there.”
“So, Billy sweetie,” his mom said as she stood up to clear her plate. “What topics are you considering?”
“It has to be a demonstration of something special I can do. The problem is, I can’t do much. And even if I could, I’m not good at demonstrating.”
“You can demonstrate taking a nap,” Breeze said. “You seem pretty good at that.”
“Nah, that would be a snooze,” Billy joked again.
“That’s two for you,” Breeze giggled. “This dinner is more fun than I expected.”
“I have the perfect solution,” Bennett said, hopping to his feet and running toward the hall bathroom. He shouted over his shoulder, “Trust me, this will stun people. It will have them talking for weeks.”
Billy and Breeze exchanged looks. What topic could Bennett find in the bathroom? The possibilities were endless … and disgusting. They didn’t even dare to venture a guess.
Bennett returned grinning from ear to ear, and practically crashed into his wife, who was bringing chocolate pudding to the kitchen table. He held out two tightly fisted hands.
“Pick a hand, any hand,” he said to the kids.
“How about neither?” Breeze answered.
“I say the left one,” Billy said.
With a flourish, Bennett opened his left hand, and sitting in the middle of his palm was a plastic container of … minted, tinted dental floss!
“Your topic, Billy, is called … are you ready for this … wait for it … Floss-O-Rama.”
“May I be excused?” Breeze said. “I’ve already seen this. He did it for my fourth-grade class on Career Day, and for the rest of the year, everyone called me Flossie the Tooth Fairy.”
“Sit down, Breeze, and keep an open mind please,” Mrs. Broccoli-Fielding said. “Bennett has so many wonderful ideas. I’m sure this one won’t disappoint.”
Bennett cleared his throat and stood at the head of the table. He flipped open the plastic container and pulled out a long strand of floss, wrapping the end of it tightly around his index finger.
“You’ll start by explaining to your fellow students that one needs just the right amount of floss for perfect food removal,” he began. “It can’t be too short, or you won’t be able to reach your back molars. If it’s too long, it will sag. Tooth flossing is all about maintaining the proper tension.”
Billy’s jaw dropped open and Breeze’s head hit the table. Only Billy’s mom seemed to be thoroughly enjoying Floss-O-Rama.
Bennett snapped off a length of dental floss and wrapped the freshly cut end around his other index finger.
“Now,” he said with a big smile, “I am ready to begin the most important tooth ritual of the day. Billy, can I demonstrate on you?”
“Thanks for the offer, Bennett, but I have some chocolate-pudding action going on in my mouth right now and I don’t think anyone at the table wants to see that. Especially in the lower left quadrant, where it’s mixed with guacamole.”
“And there we have the exact definition of Too Much Information,” Breeze commented.
Bennett ignored both kids. He was not going to be stopped.
“Fine,” he went on. “Then I’ll demonstrate on myself.”
He opened his mouth wide, plunged the thread of minty-green floss between his two front teeth, and wiggled it vigorously. Out of his mouth flew a tidbit of taco shell. It shot with surprising speed across the table, where it landed on the red stripe of the Mexican tablecloth. Rather than being grossed out by the sight of his already-been-chewed food, Bennett was ecstatic.
“Success!” he cried, with a little cha-cha step thrown in. “That little sucker was on its way to festering decay.”
“Now it’s just festering nausea,” Breeze said. “As in mine.”
“Don’t listen to her, Billy,” Bennett said. “I guarantee that you will be the only one in your class to give this demonstration, and trust me on this, it’s a winner.”
“No, trust me,” said a voice coming from the ceiling. Billy looked up, and hanging off one of the blades of the ceiling fan was the Hoove, who had obviously been watching long enough to see the launch of the taco missile. “Flying food coming out of your mouth will end your hopes of anyone wanting to been seen with you in public until the year 2026.”
“So what do you say, Bill?” Bennett said. “Is my idea great or is it great?”
“Can I add a third choice?” Billy asked.
“It better be, ‘Are you out of your mind?’” the Hoove chimed in.
“Can I answer for myself, please?” Billy asked the Hoove.
“Of course you can, honey,” his mother answered.
“Hey, Mamacita, he was talking to me,” the Hoove said irritably. Billy was thankful that only he could hear the Hoove, because he knew his mother would have been offended. She insisted on everyone using a civil tone, no matter what the issue.
“Well, Bennett,” Billy stammered. “I love your idea, I really do. But I’m afraid that it’s so good, I couldn’t possibly do it justice.”
“Oooooh … look at Billy Boy go,” the Hoove said approvingly. “Letting the good doctor down easy. Smooth as silk.”
Billy stood up. “What I’d like to do, Bennett, is go to my room and determine if my public demonstration skills can rise to the challenge that Floss-O-Rama presents.”
“Good thinking,” Bennett answered. “And you won’t want to forget this.”
He tossed the plastic container of dental floss to Billy, and just as Billy reached out to catch it, the Hoove picked up a wooden spoon from the counter and, using it as a bat, swung and hit the dental floss across the room.
“Line drive!” he yelled.
Bennett ducked as the floss whizzed by his ear.
“Wow, Bill,” he said. “I don’t know how you got the spoon on that so fast, but if you put that same kind of focus on floss, you’re going to win this competition hands down.”
Billy just smiled and waved as he backed quickly out of the kitchen and headed to his room. Hoover followed close behind, making crowd cheering noises in Billy’s ear and kissing himself all over.
“Did you see the way I smacked that thing? I told you I was a great ball player. If I hadn’t crashed that car, I would have made the major leagues.”
As for Billy, there was no cheering, no bragging, and no kissing of self.
He still didn’t have a SOC topic.
Billy paced back and forth in his room. He sat on his bed. He sat at his desk. He sat on his desk. Then he paced again. Nothing was helping. His mind was a total blank, except for the panic that was slowly creeping in.
“Stop pacing, will ya?” the Hoove said. “You’re going to give yourself blisters on th
e bottom of your feet.”
“Wait a minute. That’s an idea,” Billy said. “How about if I demonstrate that? I can just pace back and forth from one end of the class to the other until I get a blister.”
“Knowing you, you’d cover it with a fluorescent yellow Band-Aid with teddy bears,” the Hoove said, a noticeably sarcastic tone in his voice. “Besides, what if you didn’t get a blister? Maybe you’d get a callus instead. Then where would you be?”
“Knock it off, Hoove. I’m working hard here to come up with something, and your negative comments aren’t helping.”
“Fine, do the dental floss thing. Go ahead and flick your breakfast morsels at everyone. See if I care.”
The Hoove floated into Billy’s closet and slammed the door behind him. He shoved Billy’s hangers to one side to make more room for him to flop down and sulk.
“I had a lot more room in here before you hung up all your so-called fashion statements,” he hollered through the door. Trying to find a comfortable spot, he dislodged a plastic laundry basket, and a load of unwashed socks tumbled out.
“Are you aware that the sweat in your socks has been multiplying in here?” he called to Billy. He would have held his nose, but there was no nose to hold. The smell was too much for him and he floated through the door back into Billy’s room.
“Your socks smell like the cow pies we used to set on fire to keep the frost off the orange trees.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Hoove. What is a cow pie?”
“You modern city boys don’t know the first thing about ranchero living. When my family lived here, back in the early nineteen hundreds, the orange groves stretched as far as you could see. Beyond that were the cows, who would leave behind steaming piles of … how should I say this … poop. Once it hardened, you got your pie. Now to set a cow pie on fire, all you gotta do —”
“Enough!” Billy interrupted. “Tomorrow morning is getting closer and closer, and unless I want to demonstrate setting cow doodle on fire … which, by the way, I’m totally not doing … I still have no topic.”
Mind If I Read Your Mind? Page 2