My Life as a Potato

by Arianne Costner

  22

  Faking It

  When I wake up on the day of the big game, I know I’m not getting out of bed. It’s just not gonna happen.

  I slap my phone off my nightstand and tap off the alarm. I nestle back into bed, but I can’t get comfortable knowing Mom could pop in any second and shake me awake. I roll out of bed, clunk to the floor, and crawl to the door like a wounded zombie. I turn the lock and scurry back to bed, burying myself deep under the covers to hide from the light seeping through my windows.

  At seven-forty-five a.m., Mom raps on the door. “Ben, you’re gonna be late for school if you don’t leave right now!” I burrow deeper into bed.

  Mom starts to sing the awful wake-up song she invented when we were little. “It’s a brand-new day, hey! It’s a brand-new day, hey!”

  I groan. “Ugh! Make it stop!”

  She wiggles the locked door handle. “Benjamin, let me in.”

  “I’m sick,” I yell from under the covers.

  “Don’t make me get the key.”

  I groan louder, wishing curses upon whoever invented the stupid master key. “Fine. Gimme a second.”

  I rub my palm against my forehead to heat it up. My fake sickness will be more convincing if I have a fever. Too bad I don’t have a hot-water bottle or something I could hold up to my head. It’d be much more efficient.

  There is my nightstand lamp. I left it on all night.

  I flick off the lamp switch and tap the bulb with my finger. Too hot. Is this situation worth risking a third-degree burn over?

  Mom pounds once. “I have to get to an appointment.” She pounds twice. “That’s it. I’m getting the key.”

  I unscrew the lamp’s bulb from its socket and blow at it repeatedly like it’s a trick birthday candle. I tap the bulb a few times against my forehead and wince. If this doesn’t work, I’ll be the world’s biggest idiot.

  Mom turns the handle, and I toss the light bulb under my bed. I hop onto my mattress and curl into the fetal position, trying to look as miserable as possible, which isn’t too hard, given the circumstances. Mom opens the door and tromps over. She peers down at me with her hands on her hips. I squint and moan, letting my tongue hang out slightly.

  She relaxes her arms. “Oh, honey, you look awful.” She feels my forehead, just as expected. “You do feel a little warm. Are you nauseous?”

  “A little. Mostly weak.”

  “Oh, you poor thing.” She runs her fingers through my hair. “Have you felt like this since last night? Okay, I’m going to reschedule Buster’s appointment right now. He had his follow-up with the vet today, but—”

  “No, really. I’m fine. Just go.” I can’t stop Buster from going to the vet because of me. What if his worm medicine isn’t working?

  Mom purses her lips. “I can’t leave you alone.”

  “Mom, it’s fine. Honestly. Go to the vet.” I plead with her with my eyes. “I’ll just keep resting till you get back.”

  She clicks her tongue, and worry lines appear between her brows. “Are you sure you’ll be okay for a couple of hours?”

  “Mom, I’m twelve. I can handle a little fever. I just need to rest.”

  She tilts her head right and left as she weighs the options and then gives in. “All right. I’ll bring you a glass of orange juice.”

  She returns with a gigantic cup of orange juice—literally the largest cup we own—and watches to make sure I gulp down every last drop. Then I actually do start to feel nauseous. I don’t love orange juice to begin with, but even worse, it’s the kind with the pulp. Textured liquid should not exist, period. Even the sound of the word is gross. Pulp.

  Once Mom leaves, I fidget with my Rubik’s Cube and scrape the orange residue off my tongue with my teeth since I’m too lazy to grab my toothbrush. My stomach feels full and jiggly, but overall, chugging orange juice is better than facing school and whatever Duke has planned for me. Coach can’t blame me for missing the last game if I’m home sick. Why didn’t I think of this excuse before?

  After solving the Rubik’s Cube three times, I start to get bored. I scroll through my Instagram feed, and before I know it, I’m stalking Ellie’s photos like a class-A creeper. She doesn’t post a lot; she has maybe twelve pictures total. The latest was taken three weeks ago. She wears a white hat she crocheted herself and carries Bella, her fluffy Maltese poodle. We used to joke that we should get our dogs to breed because they’d make the cutest little corgipoos.

  After that is a photo of me and Hunter wearing weird sunglasses we found at the dollar store. We look so happy.

  A weird pressure starts building in my chest, like a scream is trying to escape, but I shove it back down. I go back to my feed and keep scrolling. Mindlessly scrolling. It numbs the pressure, if only just a little.

  Then I come to an image that makes me stop.

  It’s Mitch in a field. The one right behind Sammy’s Diner. It’s bright and sunny and covered with snow. And hovering above his head is a neon-green quadcopter.

  Mitch finally got it.

  My throat starts to tingle and my nose starts to run. I can’t believe I’m being so sappy about this, but something about that quadcopter makes me want to cry. Maybe it’s because I’m happy for Mitch. He wanted that quadcopter, and he worked hard to get it. He’s not a quitter. Not like me.

  Wait. What is he wearing?

  I zoom in with my thumbs and squint. A cartoon potato flexes on his chest. The game-day shirt.

  I feel like a basketball has hit me in the gut. Even Mitch, who up until last week never went to the basketball games, ended up getting the shirt—and I still haven’t. I promised Ellie I’d buy it, and I never did. I’m not just a quitter. I’m a bad friend.

  What do I want most in the world right now? I want my friends to trust me again. And what am I doing to gain their trust? Faking sick.

  The bravest thing I’ve done today is chug a glass of pulpy orange juice.

  I put the phone down. If I’m honest with myself, I know playing hooky isn’t the answer to my problems. It won’t make me happy, and it won’t win me back my friends. It might get Duke and Paris off my back. But is that worth it? I’d rather be known as the dorkiest mascot alive than go through middle school without my best friends.

  And I really should keep my promise to Coach. The team needs me to build their momentum. I’ve done it before, and I can do it again. I can help us win.

  No more sitting here like a lump and pretending to be sick. No more hiding from my problems and hoping they disappear. The only person who can fix this mess is me. And it starts with getting my friends back on my side.

  Turns out, some things are more important than being cool.

  I text Mom: Feeling better. Heading to school.

  Let’s do this thing.

  * * *

  I pace the hall outside Ellie’s fifth-period class, tapping my fingers on my thighs as I wait for the bell. I have a simple three-step plan:

  1. Walk up to her.

  2. Look her square in the eye.

  3. Say, “I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. Can I please explain everything?”

  There’s no way I can mess this up.

  The bell rings, and students spill out the door. When Ellie walks out, I:

  1. Walk up to her.

  2. Look her square in the eye—

  And she says, “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry?” I sputter.

  Her words come out fast. “I feel bad about chewing you out yesterday. I should have at least let you explain. I thought about this a lot, and, you know, if you don’t want to eat with us, that’s fine—”

  “Ellie—”

  “I mean, you don’t have to have just one group of friends. You can take turns, like—”

  I speak louder. “Ellie.”r />
  She looks at me.

  “I’m the one who’s sorry. And I do want to eat lunch with you. This whole thing, I can explain it all. But first…” I pull off my hoodie to reveal what’s underneath—the game-day shirt. I passed by the office to buy it ten minutes ago. Better late than never.

  “Sorry it took so long for me to get this,” I say. “I’ve been a terrible friend.”

  Ellie tugs on her braid and smiles a little. “At least you admit it. The shirt looks good on you, though. Where’s your next class?”

  I point down the hall. “That way. Why?”

  “I have to go to math—that way.” She points in the opposite direction. “But let’s talk more at the basketball game tonight. Wanna go?” She starts walking backward. “It’s at six. Hunter was gonna come, but now he’s ditching me to hang out with Lucy.”

  I scratch the back of my neck. “Um…” The corners of her smile droop a little. She’s probably thinking, Oh great. All that making up and he still doesn’t want to hang out with me.

  There’s no time to explain. I can’t just say, Oh well, no, I can’t go, but beforeyougolistenit’sbecauseI’mthemascot.

  So instead I say, “Yeah, sure.”

  “Sweet!” Ellie says. “I’m tutoring after school, so I’ll just meet you in the bleachers.” She whirls around and whisks down the hall.

  How am I supposed to watch the game with Ellie and be on the court as a mascot?

  I’m doomed.

  23

  The Impostor

  I stroll into the gym ten minutes early, wearing my game-day shirt and brown leggings under my jeans. My plan is basic: I’ll tell Ellie why I can’t sit with her and then rush to change into the Spud suit. I couldn’t find her after school, so I only have a few minutes to catch her before the game starts.

  I’ve never seen the gym so packed before. Up in the bleachers, fans cram shoulder to shoulder like crayons in a box. On the court, the teams are warming up. Our opponents wear blue jerseys that say TEAM TORNADO. What’s their mascot, anyway? Some kid wound up in black string?

  I scan the stands for Ellie, and it feels like I’m playing Where’s Waldo because almost everyone’s wearing red. Finally I spot her sitting in the center section behind the band. She’s taken her braid out, so her hair falls down in loose waves.

  I pull up my hood to hide my face from Coach and head her way. Someone else catches me, though.

  “Ben!” Mitch leaves his spot on the first row of bleachers and jogs up to me. “What are you doing?” he whispers. “Why aren’t you in the suit?”

  “Sorry, Mitch, no time to talk. I have to get to Ellie.”

  He looks confused. “You’re ditching being the Spud, then?”

  “No. It’s complicated. She doesn’t know I’m the mascot. Look, I’ll have to explain later.” I shrug at Mitch and jog up the rattly bleachers. I side-shuffle past a few eighth graders to get to Ellie.

  “Hey!” I stretch out my arm to give her a side hug—the only type of hug that’s possible in such a crowded situation.

  She yells into my ear. “Finally, we get to watch a game together.”

  “Yeah.” Except not. Not once I tell you the truth.

  The band stops playing, so I take advantage of the relative quietness. “Ellie,” I begin.

  “Yeah?” She looks at me, and I notice the cool golden rings around her pupils.

  I inhale. “I have to go.”

  She cranes her neck. “What? Why?”

  Coach Tudy’s head glistens with sweat as he stares at the double doors, waiting for me. It’s getting late.

  I lean in close so my mouth is just an inch from Ellie’s ear. “I’m the—”

  Waaaah, waaaah, waaaaah, waaah, wamp-wamp! yells the tuba, and the band busts out a brassy rendition of “We Will Rock You.” I jolt with surprise, my lips brushing the tip of Ellie’s ear. She hunches her shoulders and laughs. “Um. What are you doing?”

  “Sorry!” I shout over the instruments. My ears feel like they just came out of the toaster. “I was just trying to tell you something!”

  “Huh?” she yells.

  It’s too loud for her to hear. Holy guacamole, fate is not making it easy for me to come clean. Maybe it’s a sign I should just keep my mouth shut.

  Coach’s voice echoes in my head: If you set your mind on something, nothing will get in your way. I can do this. I just have to get creative. I pull out my phone and draft a note: I’m the mascot. I hold the phone in front of Ellie’s face and brace myself for the reaction.

  Ellie stares at the screen, her eyes doubling in size as the realization sinks in. Then she snaps her head toward me. Scrunched-up eyebrows. Wide-open mouth. She’s definitely angry.

  It’s a good thing I’m out of time, because all I want to do is run away. I can’t bear to see her look at me like that anymore. “I’m sorry!” I yell as I shuffle toward the steps. “I have to go.”

  I clank down the steps and out the gym door. I dash for the closet, glancing behind me to make sure no one’s around. As much as it stank to tell Ellie the truth, at least now it’s over. It feels like I took off a backpack full of rocks.

  Now that she knows who I am, I have to show her the best performance of my life. It’s my very last game, so I might as well go all out. Plus, if I get the fans pumped enough, I might avoid the revenge plot. No one wants to mess with a potato if he’s got the crowd on his side.

  In the closet, I jump into the suit, plunk on the headpiece, click the latches, and slam the door shut on my way out. I’ve never changed so fast in my life—and that’s saying something coming from a guy who’s running late ninety percent of the time.

  As I walk over to the bench, a few kids heckle me from behind.

  “Hey, Mr. Potato Head, get off our team!”

  “Hey, loser! You’re a loser!”

  So clever. I let their words bounce right off my foam costume like hot dogs bouncing off a wall. I’m a tough potato. One with thick skin.

  I twirl like a ballerina, prance over to where the loudest heckler is sitting, and blow a kiss right in his face. The people around him laugh. That shuts him up him pretty good.

  Down on the court, the game is about to start. Duke and a Tornadoes player stride to the center line and glare at each other like archnemeses. A lot hinges on this game. Whichever team wins will be sent to the playoffs. Whichever loses is done until next year.

  The official tosses the ball into the air, and Duke tips it to Seth. Seth catches the ball and chest-passes it back to Duke, who dribbles it all the way downcourt and makes a layup. The crowd erupts with cheers. Ten seconds in, and we’re off to a good start.

  I hop down the sidelines, pumping my arms with all the energy of a toddler hyped up on sugar. Then I pace the bleachers to find fans who are sitting and help them to their feet. I’m Steve the Spud: King of Momentum. No one sits on my watch!

  After several minutes, Coach flashes a hand signal at the ref, who blows the whistle for a time-out. I step onto the court and begin an energetic cha-cha slide.

  “Hey, Spudboy! Get off the stage!” yells one of the hecklers from before.

  “Yeah,” says his friend. “Your dancing stinks!”

  You can’t win ’em all. But I really don’t care. I cup my hand to my ear to show I won’t let them get to me. Then, just to annoy them, I pull out a series of the cheesiest dance moves in American history: I walk like an Egyptian. I frame my face. I do the Shopping Cart, the Sprinkler, and, of course, the Mashed Potato. I peek at Ellie up in the stands. She’s shaking her head and cracking up. She definitely wouldn’t be laughing like that if she hated me. Maybe she’ll forgive me after all.

  A bolt of energy runs through me, and like an impulse, I throw my hands on the floor and kick my feet up in the air. I channel my energy to balance on my hands, tightenin
g my ab muscles to keep from wobbling. After three seconds or so, I come back down and take a bow to whistles and stomps. I didn’t think it was possible. A potato handstand! Nothing can stop me now.

  At halftime, we’re up by twelve. So far, so good: no revenge plot in sight. I think I can manage to slip back into the stands to sit by Ellie for a bit. Coach said student council is taking over for halftime, so I’m not really needed. Halftime lasts about fifteen minutes, so that’s plenty of time to get up there and beg Ellie for forgiveness.

  The cheerleaders start their routine, and I disappear into the hall. I run to the closet and heave my round self through the doorway like a whale through a hoop. I throw on my clothes with supersonic speed and slip back into the gym with my hands in my pockets like nothing ever happened. I’ve got a knack for this double-agent stuff.

  I catch Ellie’s eye, and her face practically explodes into a smile. I quicken my pace.

  I’M A JIGGLY JELL-O MAN

  YOU’RE A JIGGLY JELL-O FAN

  JIGGLY JIGGLY JELL-O IN YOUR TUM

  The annoying commercial jingle blares from my pocket, and a few people shoot me funny looks. I can’t believe I forgot to change that stupid text-message alert. Whoever it is will have to wait.

  As I jog up the bleachers, I scan the sidelines for Coach. What would he say if he saw me up here? Luckily, he’s leading the team to the locker room, so he’ll never know I disappeared. I reach Ellie’s row and side-shuffle my way past the same eighth graders as before.

  “Why’d you come back?” Ellie asks.

  “I have a little time,” I say. “I wanted to sit with you, like we planned.”

  “Well, good.” She crosses her arms. “Because I have a lot of questions.”

  “I’ll start from the beginning.” I lean in and talk just loud enough so that only she can hear. “Remember two weeks ago when I threw that hot dog in the cafeteria? Remember how I—”