I Am Fartacus

by Mark Maciejewski

  Sports are the source of what I call the popularity vortex. It’s like the Bermuda Triangle—only instead of ships and planes getting lost, it’s common sense that disappears. Kids get sucked into the vortex and go along with whatever the cool kids want.

  “Tryouts are this week after school,” Coach says. “If you think you have the stuff”—he turns and looks directly at the Arch—“you come see me. I’ll make you a champion.” He winks at the Arch, then hands the mic back to the principal.

  Mr. Mayer is about to talk when Coach Farkas runs back and snatches the microphone again.

  “Go, Roos!” he yells, and the student body explodes in applause.

  We’ve won the county track title every year since Coach Farkas was on the team himself in sixth grade. It’s something to be proud of, I guess. It’s the one sport I don’t have an official policy on because it’s basically the only one that hasn’t become the Arch Show yet.

  Mr. Mayer wrestles the mic from Farkas. “Thanks, Coach Farkas. I’m willing to bet we’ve got another winner on our hands—or should I saaaay, feet!” The applause ends instantly. The lame joke floats in the silence like a turd in a punch bowl.

  Moby gets the punch line a few seconds later and lets out a loud “HA!” that echoes around the old gymnasium. Everyone turns to look up into the rafters. I want to shrivel up and disappear, but no one can see us up here anyway.

  “Anywhooo,” Mr. Mayer goes on, “we’re here to talk about something just as exciting as our track team—student government.” Somehow the silence deepens. Someone in the lower section sneezes, and it sounds like a squeaky chew toy hit with a sledgehammer. Some kids laugh.

  “This week you will all get to elect a treasurer, secretary, vice president, and most important, student body president.”

  More murmurs.

  Instinctively I glance at the Arch. To my disappointment, he actually seems to be paying attention for once.

  “This is a huge responsibility, since the student government is in charge of all social activities. Most important of all, they are your voice to the faculty in all matters, from student clubs to fund-raising to sports.”

  I’m starting to see why the Arch was giving me the hungry-coyote grin earlier.

  “Anyone interested in running for student government should come see me for the paperwork and . . .” Movement in the crowd stops Mr. Mayer in midsentence. I don’t have to look to know what the ruckus is about.

  The Arch stands in the middle of the group of jocks. The only lightbulb in the old building that throws off a decent amount of light is directly over his head, shining down on him like a sunbeam through the clouds.

  “Mr. Mayer, I’d like to volunteer!” The Arch’s voice booms in a very student-body-presidential way.

  Mr. Mayer stares at the Arch. “Um, it’s not something you volunteer for exactly.”

  But his protest is too late. The Arch Show has already started. As though following an unspoken command, the crowd parts, and the Arch makes his way down the bleachers toward Mr. Mayer. He vaults the railing and drops the six feet to the floor of the gym. Mr. Mayer and the rest of the teachers watch dumbfounded as he struts across the court. He plucks the microphone out of Mr. Mayer’s hand and turns toward the students.

  “I, Archer Norris, officially volunteer to be your president!”

  The students erupt in more applause and stomp the wooden bleachers so hard the building trembles.

  I read Mr. Mayer’s lips as he leans over to Coach Farkas. “It doesn’t work that way,” he says.

  Coach Farkas doesn’t respond; he just claps away like a trained seal.

  I’m starting to see why the Arch was so happy in the stairwell. If he becomes the official voice of the students in all things, it will only be a matter of time before he makes it illegal to be me. If he becomes student body president, no one will ever take my word over his again. He’ll for sure use his power to make life miserable for me.

  Mr. Mayer wrestles the mic back. “It doesn’t work that way, Archer. You have to have a platform and a debate, and you have to win the election.”

  Archer yanks the mic back and addresses the crowd. “I have a platform, and there’s no debate about it. If I get made president, I promise to clean up this school.” He waves a finger over the crowd of cheering students and then points it directly into the rafters where Moby and I are. The assembled students do a muted “Ooooh!”

  My stomach flops. I’m not being paranoid; he wants to be president to mess with me.

  Mr. Mayer leans over to Coach Farkas and mouths, “What does that even mean?”

  I know what it means. It means he will figure out a way to use his power against me any way he can. I’m not sure if the student body president can get someone expelled, but if it can be done, Archer Norris will figure out how to do it.

  When you combine my reputation as a troublemaker with his ability to get away with whatever he wants, I’m in deep doo-doo if he gets elected. I guess I couldn’t expect my classmates to endure years of my pranks without some kind of payback eventually. Stink bombs, greased toilet seats, and drinking fountains rigged to squirt you in the crotch so it looks like you peed your pants are not precision tactics. Over the years there’ve been lots of civilian casualties. Once, Moby and I unscrewed the showerheads in the locker room and put fabric dye in them. It seemed like a foolproof plan at the time. I thought the Arch and his buddies were the only kids who actually showered at school. What I didn’t know is that the girls’ volleyball team uses the shower room after morning workouts. The fifth-grade Smurf attack was never officially pinned on me, but everyone sort of knew who did it. Even so, promising to put an end to my shenanigans isn’t a good enough reason to elect him student body president. Is it?

  “And,” the Arch continues, “if I win the presidency, I promise”—he pauses for effect—“to join the Alanmoore track team and win another county title!”

  The Arch raises his arms in a victory pose and drops the microphone like he just won a rap battle. It screeches when it hits the ground, but the roar of applause drowns the earsplitting sound.

  Our archnemesis relationship was built on lack of respect and mutual dislike. But if he is going to be president of the school, this thing is about to go to a whole new level. He’ll instantly be in Mr. Mayer’s inner circle. Every little thing that breaks in this crumbly old school he’ll blame on me. Who’s the principal going to believe when it comes down to it: me or Mr. Perfect?

  Moby and I need a plot to take the Arch down a peg or two, and we need one fast. We have to make him unpopular enough that someone else will have a shot at winning the election.

  “It doesn’t work that way,” Mr. Mayer continues to protest, but nobody can hear him over the roar of the crowd.

  Maybe it does now, I think.

  CHAPTER 3

  I feel sorry for Moby having to trim his grandpa’s toenails, but the Colonel is a gold mine of good prank ideas, and he comes up with his best stuff while Moby works on his feet. The Colonel says it’s called “taking one for the team.” Whatever you call it, I need some fresh ideas, and the Colonel is my best bet.

  He likes to start his monthly toenail trimming at exactly 2000 hours (eight o’clock). My mom drops me off with time to spare. I knock on the Dicks’ door at 1945.

  They live only a few blocks away, but in the city a lot can change in a few blocks. Moby’s house looks like a miniature version of the White House. Our house looks like the shed where the people who own Moby’s house keep their lawn mower.

  Moby answers the door with a queasy look.

  “You didn’t start yet, did you?” I ask.

  He shakes his head and lets me in.

  Moby’s dad and stepmom are in the kitchen cleaning up the dishes from dinner. They are cool parents, I guess. They pretty much leave Moby alone. They’re both lawyers, but you’d never know it by the way they dress at home. Here they look like college students getting ready to protest something. They get their l
awyer clothes dry-cleaned at our shop, and my parents never get tired of talking about how nicely the Dicks dress. If they only knew. They don’t hang out together, thank goodness.

  I walk into the kitchen, and Moby’s stepmom puts down a wineglass and gives me a hug. She’s wearing a sweater that looks like a failed attempt to repair a badly damaged fishing net. If she hugged me any harder, the garment would rub some skin off my face.

  “Maciek!” she says, giving me a fake kiss on each cheek. She’s one of the few people who use my real name. The kiss thing is weird, but at least she says my name right. “Have you gotten taller?”

  I look down at my feet; they don’t look any farther away than usual.

  “No.”

  “Well, then I must be shrinking.” She laughs a little too hard.

  When Mrs. Dick lets me go, Moby’s dad shoves his enormous hand at me. “Wassup, Jet Ski!” He could crush a lump of coal into a diamond with his grip, and he likes to prove it to me every time I visit. “You missed out. We just had some awesome eggplant and quinoa casserole. There’s probably some left if you’re hungry.”

  “Sounds delicious, but I’m allergic to eggs,” I say, dodging the vegan bullet. Behind him, Mrs. Dick sneakily unscrews the lid of a jar of cookie butter and takes a gigantic swipe with her finger. She offers the jar to Moby, who does the same, then she quietly replaces the lid and stashes the jar in the pantry while Mr. Dick is distracted pumping my arm. When I get my hand back, I make sure nothing’s broken and shake the blood back into it.

  His smile looks like he wants to sell me toothpaste. “So, what are you two up to tonight? No good?”

  “What makes you say that, sir?” I ask.

  “Save the ‘sir’ for my dad.” He pokes his thumb toward the stairs. “I told you before, call me Jason, Chub.”

  We stand there in awkward silence for a moment. He has been telling me that for years, but it feels like a trick. I can’t imagine my dad telling one of my friends to call him Kasmir. Moby kicks my foot.

  “Okay—Jason,” I say.

  He laughs like I just told him he won the lottery and slaps me on the shoulder. “Right on, man.”

  “I better . . .” Moby nods toward the stairs.

  “Oh, yeah, yeah, don’t keep the commandant waiting.” Jason flips a mock salute.

  “Levi?” he calls when we are almost to the stairs. We stop and turn around. “What are our two favorite words?”

  “Antioxidants,” Moby recites.

  Jason makes his finger into a pistol, points it at us, and winks.

  “I’ll take ’em before bed.”

  We turn and head up the stairs. I whisper to Moby, “ ‘Antioxidant’ is only one word.”

  “Just keep walking,” he whispers back.

  The Colonel throws each of us a quick salute when we enter the theater room. He’s in the same chair as always, front row center.

  “Perfect timing. Show starts in a few minutes,” he says in his snarly army voice.

  “What are we watching tonight, sir?” I ask.

  The Colonel sneers. “It’s a show about a bunch of terrorists trying to destroy our way of life!”

  “Is it a spy show?”

  “Whale Wars.” Moby rolls his eyes.

  The Colonel makes a sound like air leaking out of a tire. The show hasn’t even started yet and he’s already grumpy. This is going to be good.

  Whale Wars is a reality show where environmental activists try to save whales from getting harpooned by Japanese whalers. I guess people watch it because they have too much time on their hands; either that or they really care about whales. The Colonel watches it like it’s a sport, and he roots hard for the Japanese. Every time the whalers launch a harpoon, he raises his arms in a V, and every time the protestors ram the whalers’ ship, he boos at the screen. I don’t think he realizes that they’re trying to show the whalers as the bad guys. Maybe it’s just a matter of how you look at it. Moby’s parents watch the show in another room, rooting for the other team.

  While I catch the Colonel up on what I did over the break, Moby gets down on the floor at his grandpa’s feet and lays down a towel embroidered with the insignia of the US Army. Then he unzips a black case, revealing the Colonel’s pedicure kit. It’s like something an evil dentist would use to torture answers out of someone. It’s actually kind of cool, but I make sure I don’t express any interest. I absolutely do not want to get a lesson in how the tools work—that way I can never get drafted for TD. Colonel Dick calls that “plausible deniability.”

  Moby is about to start trimming when the Colonel stops him. “Wait! Have you been vaccinated against fun today?”

  Moby shakes his head. “I take my vitamins before bed, Grandpa.”

  The Colonel chuckles at his joke, then points at his feet. “As you were,” he says. And Moby starts chunking away. Right before the show starts, the Colonel says, “Just be glad I taught you how to swallow those tablets so you don’t have to get suppositories anymore.”

  Moby shudders.

  “What are suppositories?” I ask.

  The Colonel chuckles.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Moby says. He snaps off a huge shard of yellow toenail, which hits the wall on the far side of the room.

  Moby doesn’t get to see most of the show. He’s too busy dodging chunks of toenail that the clippers send flying around the room like shrapnel.

  “Hey!” the Colonel yells when Moby clips a little too close. “Go easy with those trimmers, Private.”

  “I’m not in the army, Grandpa.”

  “And with that attitude, you never will be.”

  If TD is any indication of army life, I’m pretty sure Moby is fine just being a civilian.

  When the show is over and the Colonel has his slippers on, I see my chance. If there’s one thing that gets the Colonel fired up, it’s people with long hair protesting stuff. If I can channel the Colonel’s annoyance with the “dirty hippies” on the show trying to stop the whalers, I can probably get something good out of him.

  “Boy, those hippies sure are undisciplined,” I say. Discipline is the Colonel’s favorite subject.

  He cocks an eyebrow at me, and so does Moby.

  I shake my head to show him I share his frustration. “I wonder how someone could teach them a lesson.”

  Moby looks at me like I’m nuts. But then the Colonel runs a hand over his boot-brush haircut and starts telling stories about basic training. Moby nods at me knowingly. He sees where I’m going with this.

  “Back in boot camp we had a guy who would never come out of the bathroom in time. The whole platoon had to do extra push-ups as punishment.”

  “No discipline,” I say.

  “Exactly.” He shoots me a look but keeps going. “Let me tell you what we did to help him speed things up. . . .”

  Without realizing it, he lays out a plan for a plot to embarrass the Arch in front of the whole school. If this works like he says it does, the Arch won’t be able to show his face at school again, let alone have enough cool left over to win the election. Like I said, the Colonel’s a gold mine.

  Before I leave, we sneak into the Colonel’s room and use his phone to make a call. The phone has a round dial instead of buttons, but we figure it out.

  Luckily, Darby, Delvin, and Darwin McQueen are still awake. I’m not sure which one of the triplets I talk to, but he agrees they will meet me after school tomorrow.

  If you slide between the trash Dumpster and the recycling Dumpster behind the school, you’ll find a small alcove, like a brick cave built into the side of the building. The smell from the Dumpsters keeps kids from getting curious and discovering it. I found it while I was looking for a place to hide from a group of basketball players who wanted to touch my head for luck before a game. I think it’s where they used to deliver coal to heat the school in the old days. Now it’s where I go when I need a little privacy to conduct business.

  All three McQueens meet me there after the f
inal bell.

  The triplets have a tattered leather hat they all share. It’s a flat, floppy cap like you’d see on a kid selling newspapers in a really old movie. You can talk to any of them, but only the one wearing the hat will respond. That’s the way they like to play it. It’s cost them a few detentions here and there, but I think the teachers have learned to respect the system. Either that or they’ve just gotten tired of fighting it.

  I’m pretty sure Darwin is the one in the hat today.

  “G’day, Chub.”

  “Guys,” I say.

  The other two nod but don’t speak.

  “Make it quick, boyo. You’re cutting into video game time.”

  “Like I said last night, I need a level-three plug job.” The triplets specialize in wet work: sabotage of water fixtures and plugging of toilets. They trade grins among themselves. This job is right up their alley.

  The hatted one nods. “Did you bring the payment?”

  The McQueens live by the Joker’s advice: “If you’re good at something, never do it for free.” And they are the best at what they do. I hold up three tardy slips, with their names, that I “borrowed” from Mr. Mayer’s office earlier in the day. The McQueens aren’t political like me and Moby. They are in it for the pay, not the principle. Also, I suspect, because they just like causing havoc. I guess I trust them because their parents are from Ireland and their bright-orange hair makes them magnets for kids looking for someone to pick on.

  I hesitate before handing the slips over. “Do you have the goods?”

  The spokesman nods to the other two. They reach into their messenger bags and pull out the tools of their trade. The one on the left (Darby, I think) proudly holds up a roll of superabsorbent paper towels in one hand and a thick Sunday newspaper in the other. The one on the right (Delvin?) brandishes two family-size cans of extra-chunky beef stew.

  As a rule, I try not to smile in front of anyone but Moby, but I really have to fight to keep the grin off my face as I imagine the mess the triplets are about to make. I nod and hand over the slips. The hat-bearer looks them over, then passes them to the one with the newspaper, who tucks them into his pocket with a wink.