Food Freak

by Alex van Tol

  Copyright © 2017 Alex Van Tol

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Van Tol, Alex, author

  Food freak / Alex Van Tol.

  (Orca currents)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-1339-7 (paperback).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1340-3 (pdf).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1341-0 (epub)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca currents

  PS8643.A63F66 2017 jC813'.6 C2016-904455-6

  C2016-904456-4

  First published in the United States, 2017

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016950084

  Summary: In this high-interest novel for middle readers, Dani is mortified by her father’s public rants about the dangers of processed foods.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover photography by iStock.com

  Author photo by BK Studios

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  www.orcabook.com

  For Apocalypse Guy

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  You’re never closer to death than at the grocery store. That’s what my dad always says.

  The way he talks, you would think the Grim Reaper lurks behind every box of cereal and jar of spaghetti sauce, ready to lop off people’s heads with his scythe. Sugar. Palm oil. MSG. Preservatives. Saturated fats.

  I turn the box of crackers around in my hand and scan the ingredient deck. Partially hydrogenated vegetable oil. Nope. As I put the box back on the shelf, I hear Papa’s voice in my head: That stuff clogs your arteries and leads to obesity.

  Maybe I’ll have to start making my own crackers. I’ve already started making our granola bars and yogurt. And we’re practically down to only oatmeal for cereal.

  I check the brown rice carefully. Looks okay. There’s just the one word on the bag: rice. I know the avocado and tomatoes will be fine, because they’re organic. I don’t know about these tortilla chips though. They’ve only got a few ingredients, which is always a good sign. But on the other hand, I’m not sure about canola or sunflower oil. I put them back on the shelf. I’ll look it up later.

  I walk right past the salad dressings and barbecue sauces. Jam-packed with sodium benzoate, Papa would say. Enhances the flavor of acidic foods. Brilliant for the food industry. Absolutely brilliant. But it causes cancer.

  I don’t even go down the soup aisle.

  I buy free-run eggs, not because Papa thinks regular eggs are bad but because I feel sorry for any animal that has to live in a cage that’s too small to stand up in.

  When I’ve got everything I need, I pick Maria’s lane. There are shorter lines, but I don’t care. Maria is the nicest cashier. “How is grade nine going, Dani lovely?” she asks once I reach her till. Her square brown hands move quickly as she passes things over the scanner. The computer beeps as it registers each item. Basil, onions, parmesan cheese, almond flour.

  “Grade eight,” I say.

  “Ah, sí. You seem so much older,” Maria says. “Such a tall and lovely girl is my Dani. You have not been in for long time,” she says. “Is nice to be back at school with all your friends?”

  I force a smile. “Sure is.” She finishes the packing and hands me the receipt. I take it and tuck it into my wallet, then give Maria a nod. “See you soon.”

  “Sí, Dani, see you soon.” And she turns her beaming smile on the next customer.

  I head for the exit, a cloth bag in each hand. At the doors, I take a quick look around. I don’t want to run into anybody I know.

  The coast looks clear. I head outside, dreading what’s next. But maybe I’ll get off easy today. Maybe the neighborhood weirdo won’t be there.

  No such luck. He’s there, all right, the tall guy with the salt-and-pepper beard and wild gray hair. It’s cold out, so today his hair sticks out from under a knit cap. Long face. Lots of wrinkles.

  He’s dressed nicely enough in black loafers, gray dress pants, tie and button-down shirt. You’d never know he was a freak except that he’s wearing a crazycakes sandwich board and holding an even bigger sign on a long stick. All the signs have thick black lettering on them.

  He turns slowly, revolving back and forth in a semicircular arc, as usual. He wants to make sure everyone has a chance to read the message on the sandwich board. He waves the long sign back and forth high above him as people hurry toward the store’s automatic doors. They all avoid his eyes.

  Every time I see him I expect to catch him looking up at the sky and muttering or shaking his fist. So far it hasn’t happened. He just stands and turns, watching people as they leave the store with their bags full of death.

  Yeah, that’s our resident freakomatic.

  And, oh so lucky for me, he’s also my dad.

  Chapter Two

  I duck behind a chubby guy and hurry along in his blind spot so that Papa can’t see me. If he does, he’ll greet me with a “Hallo, Dani! How was your day?” in his thick German accent. Like he’s a normal father or something.

  It drives me crazy when he talks to me in public, especially when other people are around. One time last spring I was coming out of the store with Joss Jameson, the worst possible person for me to have been with right then. When she saw Papa standing on the boulevard in the parking lot, she curled her lip and said, God, isn’t it embarrassing for you that your dad does that all day long?

  Of course it’s embarrassing. It kills me with shame. But do you think I was about to let Joss know it?

  He doesn’t do it all day long, I said. He still works at the university.

  Does he lecture his students about processed foods there too? I could hear the sneer in her voice.

  No. Just history. I said it with as much acid as I could muster.

  Joss gave a delicate shudder. Then her phone pinged, and she grabbed for it. Thank God.

  Now I do my shopping alone.

  I’ve told Papa in a dozen different ways that it’s not cool for him to stand around wearing signs about doom and destruction. Especially outside our own grocery store. But he doesn’t even hear what I’m saying. People need to know, Dani, he always says.

  I haven’t brought it up with him lately. Now I just do my shopping at Grant’s, which is within walking distance from Central Middle School. I don’t come to Origins Market very often anymore.

  The number 28 bus wheezes to a stop in front of me. Yellow leaves swirl into the doorway as I heave my bags up the stairs. I find a seat near the back and arrange the bags at my feet, then take out my book for the ride home. I open it to the page with my bookmark, but my eyes drift back toward the market entrance. The woman sitting beside me is looking at Papa too. He’s still turning this way and that, spreading his message of ruin to all who pass by. She squints a little, and I can see her lips moving slightly as sh
e reads his sign. Then she blinks and faces forward again. I wonder what she’s thinking.

  Papa is always careful not to stand in any one location for too long. Store owners don’t like that. Some days I see him at the market. Other days he’s on the corner at the intersection. Sometimes he goes to other parts of the city. But most of the time he stays close to home. Sometimes he stands outside the plaza liquor store or the pharmacy. And the pizza place. That’s always great—lots of my old friends go there.

  Old friends as in, they aren’t my friends anymore. At first they didn’t make a big deal of my dad’s weirdness. But when it became evident his sign waving wasn’t just a phase, when you could see he was in this for the long haul, some people started making fun. Just little jokes here and there, but they hurt. My social capital at school tanked. Eventually it felt like I was being shunned. So I shunned them back. Why should I try to get along with jerks?

  The final straw was when Jordan Rigby showed up at the spring masquerade ball dressed as the Food Freak. He had the sandwich board and the sign and the beard—the whole nine yards. PROCESSED FOODS = WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION, the front of his sandwich board said. In smaller letters below: INSULIN RESISTANCE. HIGH TRIGLYCERIDES. INCREASED FAT + CHOLESTEROL. CANCER.

  There was another sign on his back. SUGAR IS A KILLER. BASTARDIZATION OF THE EARTH’S BOUNTY. He also had the long pole with another sign at the top. He waved it back and forth, just like Papa does. JESUS DIED FOR YOUR SINS—BUT YOU’RE DYING FOR YOUR FOOD. EXCESS SALT. TRANS FATS.

  They were exactly like my dad’s signs.

  I knew the jig was up when Peyton—my so-called best friend—laughed her guts out. Papa and I had a big fight about it that night. I burst into tears as soon as I got home.

  Dani? he asked. What happened? Did somebody hurt you at the dance? He was instantly beside me, holding my elbow and patting my hair. I threw him off like he was something disgusting.

  Nobody hurt me, I snarled. I could see he was surprised, because he took a step back.

  Then what happened? Why are you crying? he asked. He was so confused that I’d almost felt bad for him.

  I almost never cry. But oh man, I was crying that night. Everyone was making fun of you, I sobbed. Which was an exaggeration. But I wanted him to get it, you know? I wanted him to get what this was doing to me. Jordan Rigby dressed up like you for the masquerade, Papa.

  Jordan? Why does this boy dress like me? Papa asked.

  I glared at him through my tears. Was he really that stupid? Because you wear those, I said, pointing to the stack of signboards leaning against the wall. Nobody else’s dad stands around wearing a bunch of weird signs.

  Papa didn’t like that. His brow got all thunderous then, and he stood up taller. People need to understand, Dani, he began. The food they buy is making them sick!

  But can’t you tell people in a different way, Papa? I said. Okay, let’s be honest—I was shouting by that time.

  Papa got quiet then, and I wondered if I had hurt his feelings. Turns out he was just obsessing about food, as usual. People are dying left and center, Dani, he said. He always got those sayings wrong. Usually it made me laugh, but I wasn’t laughing that night. His blue eyes were wide and earnest, and his hands danced around as he talked. The food industry is packing our food full of toxic chemicals to make it taste good and selling it cheap. And people say, “Hey, this is cheap, and it tastes so good! I will buy more and eat more!” He spread his arms wide. Everybody is being tricked! Everybody is eating fake food! Everybody is getting sick! His voice started to tremble. Do you want more people to get sick, Dani? Do you want more people to get sick? Like that?

  He didn’t even have to say like that. I knew.

  All the fight went out of me then. Of course I don’t, I said. And even though he was being stupid and he was being embarrassing and he was ruining my social life, he was still my Papa. I didn’t want to see him cry.

  I had seen enough of that.

  Chapter Three

  After remembering that hopeless conversation with Papa, I don’t feel like reading. I’d rather sit and sulk. I close my book again. The bus drones away from the curb.

  I sulk my way through the next eleven stops, then hunch homeward through a stiff fall breeze. When I get home I discover that the wind has knocked over one of the big plant pots at the bottom of the stairs. I straighten it, feeling depressed at how dirty and sloppy everything looks. The lawn is way overgrown. It’s gone all brown, so it looks even more depressing. I go around back and pick some rosemary and oregano from the garden, which is a tangle of green and brown. I should really get out here and tidy up. But I can never find time to work on the yard.

  I open the front door, my hands full of herbs, and look around. The house is a mess too. Mornings are always a rush now. I still haven’t got the hang of getting up half an hour earlier so I can bus it all the way across the city to Central.

  I kick off my shoes and take my herbs into the kitchen. I put the cereal away and close up the bread bag. At the sound of crinkling plastic, Kevin comes running. He rubs against my legs, almost tripping me as I go to rinse my cereal bowl in the sink. His own bowl is empty.

  “Oh, Kev,” I say. “I’m sorry. I forgot to feed you this morning.” He meows as I pull down a tin of food. I mix it with some kibbles in his bowl.

  Mamma’s face smiles at me from the photo on the windowsill. In the picture she’s standing with Auntie Carlotta in front of their house in Tuscany. Her round face is framed by curls.

  That was before she got sick and lost all her hair.

  “Mamma, can you please stop Papa from acting crazy?” I ask her, setting Kevin’s food on the floor. He dives for it. “I know he only wants to help. But he’s so bananas about this. I’m worried that people at Central will find out he’s my dad. He already wrecked things for me at Spruce Cliff.”

  Mamma doesn’t reply.

  Doesn’t matter. I know she can hear me.

  “So far, it’s going okay,” I say, washing my hands. I keep talking as I chop tomatoes, onions and cilantro for fresh salsa. “Two months into the school year, and I’m still invisible. I don’t talk to anyone, and nobody really pays me any attention. But if anybody ever finds out the wacko sign guy is my dad, I’ll have to change schools again. I don’t want to change schools again, Mamma.”

  Rinse, shake, chop, scrape.

  I nod, carrying on our imaginary conversation. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. Homeschooling might be the way to go.” There’s something about preparing food that makes it easier to talk about important stuff. My favorite with Mamma was making pies. They were so detailed that she and I could have a good long talk while we rubbed the butter into the flour, rolled out the pastry, and peeled and chopped the apples. We did a lot of kitchen talking, Mamma and I. Pie talking. Bread talking. Ravioli talking.

  “I don’t mind the idea of doing school at home,” I continue. “I think I’m smart enough to keep up. Except I couldn’t handle being inside this house all day. Not in the state it’s in now.” I look over into the living room. God, this place needs a vacuuming. The corners are decorated with drifts of cat hair, silverfish skeletons and dead spiders.

  It would be nice if Papa helped out. But he doesn’t have the time. Whenever he isn’t teaching, he’s out preaching. Our living room has been taken over by poster board and plywood and paint. A hammer teeters on the edge of the piano bench. An old coffee can bristles with paintbrushes. It’s his workshop. He’s like a demented Santa who exclusively makes signs that proclaim the end of humankind and then goes out into the world, bearing gifts for everyone in ALL CAPS.

  Papa is convinced that processed foods killed my mother. It was the meats, he says. All the prosciutto and capocollo and salami and pepperoni and mortadella. Mamma’s cancer came from the nitrates. Papa is certain that’s what did it, even though Mamma usually bought her meats from the Italian deli and not from the supermarket, where they sell the stuff that’s mass-produced and full of ch
emicals.

  I think he needed something to blame.

  I finish grating the cheese for the (organic, free-range) chicken enchiladas. I leave the salsa to sit, then head for the laundry room. I pile clothes into the washer. I have to be careful not to fill the machine more than halfway, or it’ll leak all over the floor. Twice now I’ve reminded Papa to get it fixed.

  At the bottom of the basket is a pair of Papa’s pants. As I stuff them into the washer, I notice some weird crusty stuff splattered on one of the pant legs. There are all these little bits of white stuff stuck to it. I pick one off and examine it. It’s eggshell.

  Somebody threw eggs at my dad.

  Rage surges inside me, and I feel my mouth go tight. How dare anybody throw eggs at my father?

  Because he’s a freakazoid wack-job, that’s why.

  But it kills me that someone would throw eggs at him. Do you throw eggs at a kid with autism? At a little old man who takes forever to cross the street? At the people who dance around with signs advertising the pizza specials?

  I guess some people do. I try not to think about the expression he might have had on his face when he realized someone had egged him. How hurt he must have felt.

  One by one, I begin to pick off the shells. What’s next? Paint bombs? My anger slowly turns to frustration and then to shame. Why can’t Papa just be normal and do normal things? If this processed-food issue is so important to him, why can’t he just write articles about it like a regular professor? Why does he have to stand on the street corner and make a fool of himself in public?

  Why does he have to make a fool of me?

  Chapter Four

  I’m always hungry by the time the bell rings for lunch. I packed a chicken gyro today.

  As I arrange the onions and tomatoes around the roasted chicken, my thoughts are already on what I’ll make for supper. Maybe I’ll play around with sweet-potato chips tonight. Thinly sliced sweet potatoes, oiled and salted and then baked until they’re crispy. A little rosemary? Or no—a touch of ancho chili pepper. And a squeeze of lime. My mouth waters at the thought.