My Life as a Potato

by Arianne Costner

  Since neither Hunter nor Lucy went to the basketball game, the mascot subject doesn’t come up at all. Instead they get into a pretty heated debate over whether Monopoly is better than Settlers of Catan. I mean, I like board games as much as the next guy (assuming the next guy likes board games a medium amount), but it’s not the most exciting subject, nor one I have much to say about, so I kind of feel like a third wheel.

  I get to English early, go straight to my back corner, and stare at the scratches on the surface of my desk. Some bored kid from another period has etched a bunch of little checkerboards into the hard plastic. I run my fingers over the grooves, thinking about this thing I read on the internet once. It said that if you fake a smile, your brain makes chemicals to trick yourself into feeling happy—kind of like how exercise releases endorphins that improve your mood. I tighten the corners of my mouth and force them upward for a couple of seconds, but they drop back down like they have tiny weights attached to them. Life tip: Never believe what you read on the internet.

  “Benny boy!” Duke grins down at me.

  I strain another fake smile, the corners of my mouth still struggling.

  He slaps my desk. “I hear you and Jayla are a thing.”

  I lift my chin. “Yeah, man.”

  “That’s sweet, dude. Congrats.” He holds out his hand, and I slap it.

  From the corner of my eye, I notice Mitch stiffen. His head turns slightly in our direction as if he’s trying to eavesdrop.

  Duke grabs my shoulder. “You gotta eat lunch with us, man. Jayla and Paris started sitting at our table.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, maybe.” The funny thing is, if he knew I was Doug the Spud, he wouldn’t be asking me to sit with them. Not a chance.

  “Duke, to your seat.” Ms. Wu points at Duke, then shakes her head at a kid in the front row. “Joshua, salami away.” She mutters under her breath, “Why is that even a thing?”

  During class, a billion thoughts race through my head—the wanted posters, Jayla touching my arm, Ellie standing up for the Spud, becoming Hunter’s third wheel, chicken wings, Mr. Potato Head, and Friday’s game. What kind of humiliation do Duke and company have planned for me? I have to constantly be on guard. What if they try to pin me down and pull off my head, like the rabid fans at last night’s game? If so, I can put up a fight. I’ve had practice. And as long as Coach is in the gym, he’d rescue me again. Wouldn’t he?

  After class, I turn in a blank worksheet to the classwork bin and wait for the crowds in the doorway to subside. Mitch pops up beside me, looking extra small in his puffy orange jacket. “Hey, sorry about the posters, man. I swear I haven’t told anyone about…you know, how you’re…you know.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I hum. I don’t feel like talking about it.

  “Are you okay? You look super depressed.”

  Way to rub it in, Mitch. Is he trying to make me feel worse?

  He trails me into the hall. “You know, I wasn’t gonna tell you this, but…but…”

  I stop walking. “What?”

  “Uh. Forget it.”

  “Come on. You can’t start a sentence like that and just stop.” I lean my shoulder against a locker. “What?”

  “I sat by Ellie at the game last night.”

  My brain stops my mouth just as I’m about to say I know and replaces the words with “Oh yeah?” Turns out, deception is a learned skill, just like anything else.

  “Yeah,” continues Mitch. “We were talking about you.”

  I remember seeing them talking in the bleachers. He better not have said anything embarrassing. “What’d you say?”

  “I asked her if she liked you.”

  “What?” For a second, my heart stops. “Why’d you ask that? That’s, like, so second-grade.”

  “Then I guess you don’t care what she said,” he says with a smug grin.

  “You’re right. I don’t,” I bluff. He’ll spill eventually.

  We walk in silence, but the suspense is killing me. I do care, and Mitch knows it. He’s dangling the information in front of me like a doughnut on a string.

  I give in. “Fine, you win. What did she say?”

  Mitch lifts his eyebrows, wrinkles forming on his forehead. “She said maybe.”

  “Maybe?” My stomach does this weird fluttery thing. Kind of like there are butterflies in there, or maybe angry moths.

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  I look straight ahead so he can’t read my expression. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Well, she could have said no.”

  “Mitch, why are you telling me this?”

  “I don’t know. You looked sad, so I thought it might cheer you up.”

  I nudge him with my elbow and shake my head. “Dude, you’re weird.”

  We part ways at the corner, and as I walk to my next class, something strange happens. Something I didn’t expect.

  I smile for the first time all day.

  19

  Dads Can Be Cool Sometimes

  After school, I wait by the bike racks, but there’s no sign of Ellie. She’s usually here by now. I reach for my phone and half complete a “where are you?” text before I remember her phone is still nonfunctional from its milk bath. And besides, she’s tutoring. One more week and I can tutor too. Then I won’t have to walk alone anymore.

  When I get home, I go to my room and dig out my math notes. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I really need to study. Not only do I have a test coming up on Friday, but if I’m going to start tutoring, I need to get better at geometry in case someone brings math homework in.

  I’ve just cleared some T-shirts off my desk when Dad knocks on my door. “Hey, buddy, can I talk to you for a minute?” His voice sounds a little strained, like he’s got something caught in his throat.

  My heart speeds up to a wary jog. Usually it’s Mom who checks on me after school. I try to think if I did anything that might have gotten me in trouble. Did I break something? Forget to feed Buster? “Yeah, come in.”

  Dad enters and flashes me a fake-looking smile, like the ones you see on dentist office ads. “You studying?”

  I nod at my notes. “Yeah.”

  “That’s good.” He sits on my beanbag and runs a hand through his hair. “What are you learning about?”

  We talk about my math class for a bit. Dad’s especially interested in math since he’s an electrical engineer. Too bad I don’t seem to have inherited his mathematical brains. Then we talk about my other classes—how we’re reading Ghost in English, and how Ms. Funk showed us her dead-beetle collection in science. This shouldn’t feel weird, but for some reason it does. Like, it’d be totally normal for Dad to ask me about school over dinner or something, but he doesn’t usually come into my room just to chat.

  I cut to the chase. “So, what did you want to talk about?”

  Dad tugs at his collar. “Just…this. I wanted to check in. See how things are.”

  Riiight.

  He draws in his eyebrows. “Look, Ben.”

  Here it comes.

  “I just got an email from your English teacher. She said you turned in a blank worksheet today, which is unusual behavior for you. She’s worried about you.” He squints a little. “I’m wondering if I should be too.”

  “Oh.” I look away and start messing around with my fidget spinner. “I was just really tired today. I didn’t feel like doing a worksheet.” He doesn’t need to know all the details. He only came up here because my teacher emailed him. He was guilted into it.

  Dad stays quiet for a while, and all I can hear is the hum of the heater. Finally he takes a deep breath.

  “Ben, I want to apologize. I know I haven’t been as present lately. I’ve been stressed about the move, stressed about fixing up the house. And this new job is kicking my butt.” He lowers his voice an
d winks. “Don’t tell Mom I said ‘butt.’ ”

  I can’t help but smile. Even though I’m twelve, Mom still treats the words “butt” and “fart” like swear words. I haven’t heard Dad crack a joke in a while. I realize how much I’ve missed that.

  Dad leans forward and rests his chin on his fists. “Has the move been hard on you, too?”

  “It has,” I admit. I put down the fidget spinner and meet his eyes. “Honestly, it wasn’t too bad at first. I mean, it’s insanely cold, but other than that, it was all right. But lately, it’s gotten harder.” At my last school, I didn’t like being the kid who flew under the radar, but that was a whole lot better than having a literal reward out for my capture.

  Dad rubs his stubbly chin. “Why has it gotten harder?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “I guess everything’s just sinking in. This is where we live now. I’ll never get my old room back. Or get to visit the beach on weekends.” That’s not the whole truth, but I don’t know if I’m ready to spill about the mascot drama. It’s so embarrassing.

  I twist my fidget spinner again. It was pretty cool of Dad to come talk to me, though. Maybe I should tell him….

  There’s raspy breathing on the other side of the door. “Abby!” I yell. I leap out of my chair and swing open the door. Abby smiles sheepishly up at me.

  “You were eavesdropping!” I was about to tell Dad about being the Spud. She could have heard everything!

  “Calm down, Ben.” Dad stands and narrows his eyes at Abby. “Is that true?”

  She shakes her head vigorously. “I was just coming up here to tell you to take me to my violin lesson.”

  I scoff. “Yeah, sure.”

  “It’s true!” She flings her arms around. “Mom’s still working on the website. She needs Dad to take me!”

  Mom’s a website designer, and she’s been working on a project all day. Abby’s got a good excuse, but I don’t buy it. She might have come up here to get Dad, but she decided to lurk at the door when she heard us talking.

  “You’re always trying to snoop around my business!” I say.

  Dad rests a firm hand on my shoulder. “Ben, get back to studying. Abby, let’s go.”

  Dad leaves to take Abby to her violin lesson, and I stay in my room. After fuming for a minute about Abby and her nosiness, I start to study. For the first time since I moved here, I actually study. It’s nothing short of a miracle. There’s one tricky bit, though, that I’m not quite getting.

  Ellie would know the answer. Maybe I can get to school early tomorrow and ask her for help. At least that’s one thing I can look forward to.

  * * *

  My phone alarm buzzes at six-forty-five the next morning, fifteen minutes earlier than usual. I pop out of bed like a piece of toast. I can’t be late to school.

  After a quick shower, I put gel in my hair, which I never do. I don’t know why, but it’s a feel-good kind of day. The type of day where you want to look nice, just because.

  I dig around the medicine cabinet for the aftershave my cousin Angelo got me at the family gift exchange last Christmas. The tiny glass container is hidden behind my sister’s glitter nail polish. I dab a little onto my cheeks, and my skin tingles as it soaks up the earthy musk. I smell like a rugged mountain man. Why don’t I wear this stuff more often? I pour more onto my fingers and massage it over my jawline.

  On my way to school, the scent starts to make me feel dizzy. I scoop up some snow to wash the smell off my hands. Then I dry my hands on my jeans, which only makes the odor seep into my clothes. I might as well have a hundred car fresheners around my neck. It’s official: I’ll never wear aftershave again.

  On campus, I gauge the expression of the people I pass to see if they react to my smell. A guy with bulky headphones walks by. No expression change whatsoever.

  A girl in a purple coat walks my way next. As we cross paths, I swerve close to her and observe her face. She shoots me an awkward half smile. Oh no—she probably thought I was flirting! This plan is not working.

  When I walk into the building, I see Ellie, Hunter, and Lucy grouping together in front of the media center bench. Ellie bounces on the balls of her feet, hands in the pockets of her blue coat.

  I walk up to the group and stop a few feet away so I don’t overpower them with my smell. “Hey, guys. What’s up?”

  Three silent heads swivel toward me.

  Ellie and Lucy exchange that same telepathic-girl glance that Paris and Jayla sometimes share. What mental messages are they communicating? That I smell like a walking cologne sample? I take a step back.

  “Why are you standing so far away?” asks Hunter.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” I shuffle forward a couple of feet.

  Lucy rests her hand on Hunter’s arm. “So, Hunt. I’m gonna get a bagel. I forgot to eat breakfast.”

  “Hunt, huh?” I say. “Can I start calling you that too?” I chuckle but stop short when no one laughs along. Lucy’s is the only expression that resembles a smile, but her half smirk seems more to say, Dude, I’m really glad I’m not you right now.

  Hunter snatches up his backpack. “I’ll buy it for you,” he says to Lucy, and the two walk off, leaving me and Ellie alone.

  Ellie suddenly becomes very interested in her fingernails.

  “I like your nails,” I say, noticing they’re red.

  “Yeah. The color is chipped.” There’s something flat in her tone, something devoid of its usual warmth.

  I tug at my collar. My nonconfrontational side is setting off warning signals in my head: Awkward alert! Evacuate the premises! But my curiosity keeps my feet grounded in place. “Is something wrong?”

  Ellie folds her arms. “Ben, we know you’re not grounded.”

  The temperature around me plummets a thousand degrees. This can’t be happening. How much does she know? I focus on the library poster, the lump in my throat making it nearly impossible to speak. “Who told you? Mitch?”

  “Mitch? What? No, I saw your mom at lunch yesterday.”

  “My mom?”

  “Yeah, when I was getting wings.”

  “My mom was getting wings?”

  “I don’t know what she got. We were at the same restaurant.”

  “My mom was at a restaurant?”

  She rolls her eyes so hard her head leans back. “Is this what you do when you’re caught in a lie? Just turn everything I say into a question?”

  “Was I asking questions?”

  Ellie puts one hand on her hip. “Your mom asked me why I hadn’t been around lately. She said I should stop by.”

  I swallow. I can see where this is going.

  “So,” she continues, “I asked, ‘Isn’t Ben grounded?’ And she was all, ‘No. Should he be?’ I made up some excuse about how I must’ve been thinking of someone else. I still don’t know why I covered for you.”

  I check that no one’s watching us. “Ellie, it’s not what you think.”

  “Are you grounded or not?”

  “Well, no—”

  “Then it’s exactly what I think.” She sighs. “I mean, if you don’t wanna hang out with us, you don’t have to lie.”

  “But that’s not—” I try to explain, but she keeps talking.

  “What have you been doing these past two weeks? I mean, I overheard you took Jayla out for ice cream last weekend, but I figured you just snuck out like you did for my recital. Turns out you were never even grounded at all. I guess that’s just what you’d rather be doing—hanging out with ‘cool’ people like her.”

  “It’s not like that.” The bell rings, but I wouldn’t have been able to say more anyway.

  “I have to go,” Ellie says, her voice catching slightly. She sweeps her book bag up from the bench and slings it over her shoulder. She hustles away, her long hair swinging behin
d her.

  I stay frozen and watch her leave, feeling like stale old gum that’s stuck to the bottom of a shoe. Things couldn’t have gone more perfectly wrong.

  My double life as a potato has ruined a lot of things for me. It’s ruined my love of juggling. It’s ruined my love of skateboarding. It’s ruined my love of chicken wings. But I never expected it to ruin my friendships. All I wanted was for these games to go by quickly and quietly—not for them to destroy my life.

  Things have gone too far. I’m not sure how I’m going to fix this, but one thing’s for sure. It’s time to come clean.

  20

  The Realization

  At lunch, I walk into the cafeteria without a solid plan. I’m ready to reveal my secret identity to my friends, but I haven’t decided if the cafeteria is the right place to do it. In such a crowded area, anyone could overhear.

  I crane my neck for a glimpse of my lunch table but can’t see through the crowds. I weave my way across the room, hoping Hunter and Ellie haven’t found a new place to eat in order to avoid me.

  I catch sight of our table. Hunter and Ellie are there, but so is Lucy, who giggles and reaches across the table to ruffle Hunter’s hair. Ugh. Is she really going to be sitting with us from now on?

  I imagine our trio becoming a foursome, and it just feels wrong. Three is like the standard number for tight-knit best friends. It’s practically a universal rule—look at the Three Musketeers, the Three Stooges, the Three Blind Mice (but I’m not sure I want to end up like them).