My Life as a Potato

by Arianne Costner

  I choke on a gasp and splutter to a stop.

  “Ben, are you okay? What’s wrong?” Ellie demands.

  But I can’t speak, because a round figure is looming in the doorway.

  And into the gymnasium walks Steve the Spud.

  24

  Revenge Is a Dish Best Served Mashed

  The Spud walks to the bench and wobbles as he sits. I gape at him from the bleachers, feeling like I’m going through one of those out-of-body experiences.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Ellie says.

  I blink hard, hoping she’s right. Nope, he’s real. Definitely real. “Uh, Ellie,” I say. “Did you see anyone leave the gym while I was gone?”

  “Did I see anyone leave the gym?” she repeats like it’s the most ridiculous question in the world.

  I point at the Spud.

  She makes a face. “Who’s that?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  I mentally replay everything that happened since my court appearance. I slipped out of the gym, into the closet, out of the suit, into the hall, and back into the gym. A lot of slipping occurred, and it was all very sneaky. No one was watching me in the halls—I’m sure of it.

  But in my rush to get back to the stands, I probably forgot to lock the closet door behind me. Someone could have slunk into the closet after I left and hijacked the suit. I run through some possible suspects:

  1. Paris. Maybe she’s planning on committing a crime and framing me.

  2. Wyatt. Maybe he’s fully recovered and found himself unable to resist returning to his beloved suit.

  3. The suit itself. Maybe it’s under a curse and came to life. I always knew something was creepy about it.

  “Is that your phone?” Ellie asks.

  The question crashes my train of thought. “Huh?”

  “Your pocket,” Ellie says. “It beeped.”

  I pull my phone out and slide my thumb across the screen. The beep was notifying me of the unopened message from three minutes ago.

  It’s from Mitch: I see what you’re doing, trying to be in two places at once. Ellie’s gonna catch on if you keep switching in and out of the suit. I’ll take over from here. Enjoy the game

  I shove my phone into my pocket.

  “Who was it?” asks Ellie.

  “Mitch.” I clamp my tongue between my teeth. He must have misunderstood me when I saw him before the game. He thinks I’m tricking Ellie, and he’s trying to cover for me.

  As the cheerleaders finish up their halftime routine, Mitch stands on top of the wooden bench and does the Twist, only to be met with boos from the same annoying hecklers as before. This isn’t right. This is my battle to fight, not his. I have to get down there and convince him to switch back with me ASAP.

  “So, are you and Mitch both the Spud?” Ellie asks, confused.

  There’s not enough time in the world for all the things I’ll have to explain when this is over.

  “No. Just me. I hate to run off again, but I’ve got to get down there. I’ll see you after the game.”

  “Okay?” Ellie says. She’s probably so sick of all this nonsense. I didn’t even have time to apologize. I’m really pushing my luck.

  As I jog down the bleachers, Paris speaks into a microphone from center court. “How you doing, Spuds?” The crowd cheers in response. Beside her, some of the other student-council kids spread a giant plastic tarp over one side of the court.

  “Thank you all for coming out to cheer on our awesome team!” Paris says when the applause dies down. “Student council has arranged a very special show for you tonight. Bring it on out, guys!”

  I reach the bottom of the bleachers and squeeze myself onto the end of the front row. Mitch sits on his bench ten feet in front of me and to the side. “Mitch,” I whisper forcefully, planning to motion him out the door when he turns around.

  Mitch watches the court as the same five kids who laid down the plastic tarp drag a large blow-up kiddie pool out from under the guest bleachers. I crane my neck to see what’s inside, but with no luck.

  “Mitch,” I whisper with more urgency. Who am I kidding? A whisper can’t penetrate that foam headpiece. I’ll have to wait until he turns around. I want to just go tug on his arm, but it would be way too embarrassing to walk out in front of everyone.

  I forget my mission for a moment as the student-council members drag the kiddie pool to the middle of the tarp. What’s in there anyway? It looks…white?

  “Here we have a pool full of mashed potatoes!” Paris announces with a flourish of her hand. The audience oohs and aahs. Everyone stretches their necks to get a better view. The blue inflatable pool is about four feet in diameter and two feet deep with runny potato goop. Someone must have dumped like a hundred boxes of instant potatoes in there.

  Paris points at the pool. “Hidden inside is a golf ball. We’ll call three volunteers from the audience, and whoever finds it wins a fifty-dollar gift card to Sammy’s Diner!”

  The noise level is out of control. Students, siblings, and even a few parents wave their hands wildly in the air.

  Ooooh, pick me! the impulsive part of my brain begs. I could use fifty bucks’ worth of ice cream! My hand shoots up to volunteer, but then I remember I have a more meaningful task at hand.

  I lower my hand. “Mitch,” I call louder. Again, he doesn’t budge.

  Paris selects the first two volunteers, and they trot down the stands. “I need one more volunteer,” she says. “Raise those hands high!”

  I pan the crowd. Everyone’s distracted enough for me to pull Mitch out of the gym without making a scene. Paris picks the third volunteer—Coach’s nephew, the Lost Boy look-alike who chased me after the last game. He does a goofy victory dance before running to the court.

  Just then, Duke and Cole appear in the doorway. Aren’t they supposed to be in the locker room?

  They crouch low and run up behind Mitch’s bench. Duke grabs the foam head with his beefy hands and yanks. The headpiece slips off as easily as a pen cap, since Mitch didn’t attach the latches.

  “No!” I stand. Those jerks!

  Duke tosses the head onto the court and, with Cole’s help, swiftly hoists Mitch into the air. The boys spin Mitch toward the stands to expose his pale, openmouthed face.

  Gasps erupt from my section. “Hey, it’s that one kid!” one of the hecklers says.

  A tornado of anger whirls in my chest. “Cut it out!”

  Duke doesn’t hear me. “Dunk the Spud!” he roars.

  The audience rips their attention from Paris and her volunteers to Duke and Cole. They haul Mitch across the court, lugging him sideways like a giant cannon. I can’t let them get away with this.

  I charge for the microphone, my feet pounding against the court. I’ve never run faster in my entire life. Not even when I was being chased by the rabid fans.

  “What’s going on?” Paris says into the microphone, all high-pitched and innocent. She doesn’t fool me. This little stunt has her name written all over it.

  I yank the microphone out of Paris’s hand and yell, “STOP!”

  The crowd falls dead silent. Duke freezes, confusion spreading across his face as he drops his end of the potato suit. The weight of everyone’s attention presses down on me. I’m center stage, all eyes on me, and I’ve forgotten my lines.

  Just then, Coach appears in the doorway, and we make eye contact. He lifts his chin and folds his arms. I can almost hear him telepathically communicate: Finish this, Hardy.

  “He’s not really the Spud!” My voice echoes across the gym. “I am!”

  The crowd starts to murmur.

  “That’s right.” I gasp for air. “Mitch is just trying to sub for me, so leave him alone! He’s the coolest guy here, and a great friend. I tripped Duke. And I knocked down the cheerleade
rs.” The crowd’s clamor grows to an all-time high. “And I did the cool skateboarding tricks,” I quickly add.

  Duke smiles devilishly and gives Cole what I can only interpret as a let’s get him nod. I have no choice. I can either be tossed in the pool against my will, or—

  “CANNONBALL!” I drop the mic with a clang and run full speed to the potato pool. I leap into the air and land inside with a smack, potatoes splattering over the inflatable sides.

  The potato goop seeps into my mouth and ears. I can’t believe I just did that. I’m getting so busted.

  The ref blows his whistle like crazy, but I’m not done yet. I have to show Duke that that was the last time he’ll mess with me and Mitch. I emerge from the pool a giant potato monster, globs of goo dripping off my body. I scoop up a handful and chuck it at Duke. The potato snowball falls apart on its way through the air and splatters across his jersey. Perfect shot.

  Duke’s face hardens and he lunges for me. I jump to the side, but my shoes slip on the plastic tarp. I slide straight into Paris, who topples into a volunteer and falls on her butt. Again.

  “Agghhh!” she cries, smacking potatoes off her legs like they’re mosquitoes.

  “Food fight!” The Lost Boy gallops toward the pool. The other volunteers exchange a glance and run to the pool as well. They probably still believe there’s a golf ball in there.

  About half a dozen kids, including Wyatt and the pit-bull boy, rush down from the bleachers to join. Coach and the ref run around trying to shoo everyone away, but to no avail. They would be better off shooing a drove of bees from a hive.

  More kids spill onto the court, probably thinking they can’t get in trouble when they’re part of such a large group. The student announcer cranks the music over the speakers and abandons his corner table. Even a couple of cheerleaders venture onto the court. Not Jayla, though. She and most of the squad desert their courtside spot to seek shelter in the top rows of the bleachers.

  Pretty soon the court is full of kids flinging potato goop at each other. Duke’s so caught up in the food fight he seems to have forgotten he was chasing me. “This is awesome!” he yells as he slops a handful onto the back of Paris’s neck.

  “Blagh.” Her fingers curl into fists.

  Mitch lies on his back in the middle of the madness, squirming like a worm. I tug down on the suit so he can wiggle out of the top.

  He kicks the empty suit like it deserves a punishment. “Thanks, dude.”

  “Anytime,” I say. “Thanks for trying to cover for me.”

  A couple of parents join Coach and the ref, but by now it’s them against twenty, a lost cause. Students dart around the adults, avoiding them like they’re playing tag. Once the pool is empty, they resort to scooping spuds off the floor and reflinging them. The Lost Boy is the most boisterous of all. He takes off his shirt and smacks anyone in his path, laughing like a maniac. Others roll around the tarp like pigs in mud so they can go hug someone who’s clean.

  I’ve just scooped some potatoes off the tarp, preparing to nail Mitch, when someone grabs my shoulder and whirls me around.

  Ellie’s eyes pierce into me. Her shirt’s a little speckled, but for the most part, she’s clean.

  “What were you thinking?” she yells. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I let the potatoes in my hand fall to the court. “You must think I’m such an idiot.”

  “Obviously,” she says, but a smile touches the corners of her lips. Suddenly I’m completely out of breath, and I don’t think it’s because of the potato fight.

  I step forward. “Ellie, I’m sorry. For everything. I lied to you. I was so embarrassed. I thought if I could get through these past two weeks, no one would ever have to know. But there’s no excuse. I really blew it. I—”

  Before I can finish, she leans forward and kisses me. Right on the lips. I freeze like a stun gun shot me in the face.

  “Ben,” she says. “You didn’t blow it. Or, if you did, this is the most epic fail ever.”

  I look around and realize she’s right. Mitch is chasing Cole and looking happier than I’ve ever seen. Paris is filling a shoe full of potatoes, probably meant for Duke. Wyatt has stolen the Lost Boy’s shirt and is smacking him back in retaliation. This is the coolest halftime show ever.

  And Ellie. She just kissed me. It doesn’t get any better than that. I put my hand on her shoulder and take in her smile and her dimples and her beautiful hair, which I’ll definitely be able to brush out of her eyes from now on. I close my eyes and lean in for another kiss.

  Smat. She slaps potatoes in my face and runs off laughing.

  I gasp and wipe away the salty goop. “You asked for it, Ellie!” I scoop some potatoes off the court, and the chase is on.

  Overall, that was not how I imagined my first kiss would go.

  I never could’ve thought up something so awesome.

  25

  The Aftermath

  It’s been two weeks since the Mashed Potato Incident, and I’m still dealing with the aftermath. I’ve developed a rare form of PTSD called post-traumatic spud disorder, where every time I see a potato, my hands start to feel clammy and my knees start to shake and my fingers reach for my ears to make sure no potatoes are still in there.

  Okay, okay, it’s not that dramatic, but I have fun playing it up. Like, whenever I see potatoes, I pretend to faint and fall on the floor. I straight up told my mom I’d have to stop eating her mashed potatoes for a while, and surprisingly, she obliged. Dad must have been grateful I got her to stop making the potato glue, because he bought us tickets for a Utah Jazz game next month, and we’re gonna take a mini road trip. Their mascot is the firework-spewing motorcycle bear from YouTube, and I can’t wait to see him in person. Who knew I’d become such a mascot fanboy?

  The food fight on the court didn’t last much longer. After a minute of chasing Ellie, I noticed Coach Tudy, the ref, and the parent helpers really starting to look worn out. I grabbed the mic and told everyone we should get off the court—that the potatoes were drying out anyway. Surprisingly, they listened.

  Everyone who’d participated in the food fight was kicked out of the gym. (Everyone they could catch, anyway.) Coach shook his head at me as I walked past him. “Look at the disaster you’ve caused, Hardy. You should’ve stepped off the stage after your speech. Quit while you were ahead.”

  “I’m sorry, Coach,” I said. “But winners never quit, you know?”

  “You’re no quitter, I’ll give you that.” He pointed me out the door. “But don’t expect to avoid the consequences.”

  Mitch texted us the game results when it was over. Apparently, Coach made Duke and Cole sit out the whole second half, but we didn’t need them anyway. The Mashed Potato Incident had garnered so much momentum that our crowd cheered our team on to victory. Mitch said Coach was jumping all over the place like a little kid, ecstatic that we made the playoffs.

  That night I told my mom and dad everything that had happened at the game (except for Ellie’s kiss, obviously). I figured the school would call them anyway, so I’d rather they heard it from me first. Plus, whenever you fess up to something, parents are a lot more compassionate.

  They grounded me for two weeks, which is the same I got for reading books during math in fifth grade, so it could’ve been worse. Mom said I deserved a month, but since I’d effectively grounded myself during the two weeks when I was the mascot, she let me count that toward my punishment.

  The Monday after the food fight, I got called into Principal Jensen’s office during second period.

  “You know, Ben, I like you,” he said once I’d made myself comfortable in the leather swivel chair in front of his desk. “I think you’re a good kid. In fact, you remind me a lot of myself when I was your age. ‘Pleasantly disruptive,’ my teachers called it.” He chuckled.

  Principal Jensen clear
ed his throat. “Now, what you did on Friday, I heard it was quite the show. But, unfortunately, there have to be some consequences for your actions.”

  Here comes the suspension, I thought. Bring it on.

  “We’re going to have to suspend you for two days.”

  Whoomp, there it is.

  “We try to avoid out-of-school suspensions if possible, but this is what our administration has concluded. We’ve received numerous parental complaints. It really tainted our school’s reputation. And you know how we feel about food-throwing.” He shrugged as if to say, What can ya do? “Now, generally, suspension means you cannot participate in any school-related activities for the rest of the quarter. However, Coach Tudy informed me that your mascot performance played a big factor in our team’s historic win. So you may resume attending school-related events beginning February twenty-first.”

  I counted the days in my head. “That’s the day of the dance.”

  “Is it?” He winked. “I had no idea. Oh, and one more thing.”

  Gulp.

  “You can’t run for student council or be elected head of any clubs. It’s too bad, really. I think you have great leadership potential.”

  Only a guy like Principal Jensen can call you to his office to punish you, yet leave you feeling better about yourself. “Ms. Wu said the same thing. I never considered myself a leader, but I guess I’ve changed a lot since moving here.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Well, maybe you can run a club next year. Or even start one.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  And I meant it. I’ve been thinking we need a spirit club, like a group that promotes school pride and makes posters and stuff. We could even run a fund-raiser to order a new mascot suit. That thing reeks, especially now that it’s all crusty with dried potatoes.

  I’ve been looking for a replacement suit online, but they’re running upward of three hundred bucks. Who knew a brown sack of foam could be so expensive?

  News of the food fight spread like wildfire. After I got back from the principal’s office, everyone was asking me about what happened.