Elvis and the Underdogs

by Jenny Lee

  Dedication

  For every kid who loves to laugh,

  especially Benjamin, Addison, Olivia,

  Dustin, Annabel, & Georgia.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  This story starts in a hospital, but don’t freak out. No one died. No one almost died, and there was no blood. (Okay, there was a little blood. It was just because I got a nosebleed, but I get those all the time and that’s not why I woke up in the hospital on this particular afternoon.) So why I woke up in the hospital was because there was an “episode” at school. And by “episode” I mean I passed out and hit the floor. Hard.

  Obviously, since I was the one who passed out, I didn’t see what happened. But if you believe the rumors, any of the following may or may not have happened in the hallway: My eyes rolled back in my head. I drooled. I spit. I foamed at the mouth. I hit the ground and released a perfect spit bubble that floated up and popped on the ceiling. I convulsed on the floor. I bit my tongue off. I flopped around like a fish. I flopped around like a seal. I waved my arms like a beetle on its back. I peed in my pants. I didn’t pee in my pants, but it looked like I peed in my pants because Janice Hickenlooper was standing next to me when it happened and she was holding an apple juice box (because she’s always holding one) and she freaked when she saw me hit the ground, squeezed her juice box, and squirted it all over my pants, making it look like I peed in my pants.

  But again, I wasn’t exactly conscious, so I don’t know what the real story is. The way my life goes, I’m pretty sure a video of it will appear on YouTube any moment. The very last thing I remember is leaving the library, taking the scenic route to my classroom. I took the long way because I don’t like walking by the gym. I remember seeing Billy Thompson coming in the opposite direction with his band of thugs. I stopped suddenly when I saw them.

  Billy Thompson is my archnemesis. The Lord Voldemort to my Harry Potter, the Tom to my Jerry, the Lex Luthor to my Superman, the Captain Hook to my Peter Pan, the walnuts to my brownies. (I’m allergic to all nuts, but walnuts especially, and seriously, it makes no sense to add them to brownies anyway. They’re perfect just the way they are.) Billy is the biggest bully in fourth grade. When I say biggest, I mean literally the biggest, because he is already five feet seven inches tall, which means he’s almost a foot and a half taller than the shortest boy in our class, who is, you guessed it, me.

  Billy’s greatest hits are as follows: Put a frog in Ms. Parriot’s purse. Set loose a few crabs in the girls’ locker room. Pulled the fire alarm to get out of taking a test. Filled Pickles McGrew’s locker with oyster crackers (bet you thought I was going to say pickles, didn’t ya? It’s the obvious choice, I know, but trust me, Billy Thompson is not the brightest flame in the chandelier). Stuck a slice of cafeteria pepperoni pizza on the ceiling of the teachers’ lounge. But best of all, he stole the chalk machine we use to line the soccer field and wrote BILLY THOMPSON IS A BADBUTT across the parking lot. Only he used the other word for butt that, if I use, I’ll get grounded for. Now Grady, the school janitor, is always the first one to school, so when he parked in his spot, he covered up the word that rhymes with “glass.” It just read BILLY THOMPSON IS A BAD. Don’t even get me started on how dumb it is that he signed his own name, but that’s Billy for you. As for all the things he did to make my life miserable, I don’t even want to go there, because it makes my stomach hurt just thinking about it. But if you think he’s above putting a can of baked beans down the back of my pants, you’d be wrong. The “Benji, Benji Bean Butt” song became so popular, the girls made up a jump-rope routine to it.

  So I break all the records for missing the most school every year because I’m sick, and Billy Thompson breaks all the records for missing the most school every year because he gets suspended a lot. To be fair, he pretty much spends his school days being a troublemaker in general, and whoever happens to be nearby is collateral damage. But he has told me on several occasions I’m his favorite. Once I tried to explain to him that it’s not very sporting of him to go after the weakest kid in the class, and I gave him that whole shooting fish in a barrel metaphor, but he didn’t understand what I was talking about. So then I had to draw a diagram of what I was talking about—you know, how it’s just too easy to shoot the fish because they’re all bunched up at the bottom of the barrel.

  He just stared at me with his mouth hanging open. Clearly he didn’t get it, and then I had to spend the rest of the day worrying that I’d just sentenced a lot of innocent fish to a not-so-nice ending. Some people use words, and I guess others use baked beans. Now, don’t break out the miniature harps and the world’s smallest violins to feel sorry for me. It’s not like I’m the one everyone picks on at school. I keep to myself and try to stay out of people’s way. I’d say half the kids in my grade know who I am. If they heard my name, they wouldn’t make a face like they just ate something sour. I’m first known because I’m absent a lot, second for my winning sense of humor, and third as someone who always has his homework done. I’m friendly, but I don’t have any close friends. I guess I’m what you would call a loner, which makes me easy prey for kids like Billy.

  Billy moved to town two weeks after the start of third grade, and we officially met when he sat behind me in Ms. Parriot’s third-grade class. He took an instant liking to me. Or rather, I should say he took an instant disliking to me. The problem with kids like Billy who aren’t into school is they get bored easily. And when a kid like Billy gets bored, that’s when the trouble begins. Billy’s favorite thing to do when he was bored was move my chair when I tried to sit down. Sometimes he’d kick it forward, sometimes he’d pull it backward, and other times he jerked it to the right side. I usually ended up on the floor. Everyone in class would laugh, and my face would flush bright red.

  Finally, I got so tired of Billy, I racewalked through the hall before school to make sure I got to class and sat down in my chair before he arrived. This was when Billy started drawing on the back of my neck with black Magic Marker. I mostly scrubbed it off with a toothbrush when I got home from school, but one time my mom saw it. She immediately called the school, and by the next day Billy had been moved to another seat.

  But even though my prayers were answered and we weren’t in the same fourth-grade classroom, the torture had not ended. Now Billy looks for me before school, before and after lunch, and during enrichment classes, like art or band, where the teachers weren’t as strict about bathroom breaks. I know Billy hates me, but he obviously isn’t on the top of my these-are-a-few-of-my-favorite-things list either. But then again, he isn’t well liked by most of the teachers or Principal Kriesky. There are plenty of days when I pass the principal’s office and see Billy being led in there by a teacher, or walking out with a scowl on his face.

  Luckily, even though Billy is stronger than me, I’m smarter. I have two class schedules memorized: mine and his. And even though we had the same teacher last year, this year we don’t. I even dropped band because Billy was taking it too. I had a nightmare over the summer where he locked me in a tuba case. But the real danger, of course, is not in the classroom, where th
ere are teachers around. The real danger is in the hallways and bathrooms. It took me a week of serious recon work to figure out when it would be safe for me to use the bathroom. Billy tends to go to the bathroom a lot—before class starts, after lunch, and sometimes after school. I spent an entire night mapping out the best ways to avoid him in the hallways based on where his locker is and his favorite bathroom. All that work paid off. I mostly get through my days without a Billy Thompson sighting.

  Anyway, that’s why it was so weird to see Billy on that particular day, because he wasn’t where he was supposed to be, which was not near me. I do remember debating whether to turn around and make a run for it. Then I noticed he wasn’t scanning the hallway looking to see who he could pick on next; he had already found his victim of the day. I didn’t recognize the kid because he had his back to me. But he was about my size, and instead of a carrying a backpack, he had a laptop case on wheels. Oh, that was definitely not a good choice for him, or anyone who wasn’t an accountant, a computer programmer, or any businessman who travels a lot for work. I wondered if he was the new kid in school I had overheard Penny Bakerson talking about that morning. Penny Bakerson has this very grating high-pitched voice that pierces your eardrum. Even when you want to shut out what her big mouth is saying, it’s hard.

  I hoped that since Billy and his band of thugs already had a victim, it was safe to continue on my way. I turned my head, pretending to read the banner hanging on the wall about the school bake sale. I also put my hand in my pocket and took out my lucky titanium lug nut. It’s an actual lug nut from an actual rocket that actually once went to the moon. My dad brought it home from work for me when I was five years old, and he told me that there is only one of these particular-sized lug nuts in the entire rocket ship, and it was specially made for a particular vent near the engine. It was my mom who later translated my dad’s techno-nerd-speak. She said the lug nut was an example of how small things can sometimes play a big part in huge endeavors.

  My response to this was “Huh?” So then my mom told me that without this titanium lug nut, the rocket ship wasn’t going anywhere. She said it was a metaphor about me being born premature and tiny, and that what my dad was trying to say was that the whole family wouldn’t work right without me. And my response to this was “Huh?” And my mom said it means my dad loves me and I’d understand the deeper meaning when I was older. Basically, the titanium lug nut was something cool I could show my friends. She put a leather string on it so I wouldn’t lose it.

  I actually won my first blue ribbon with it when I told my kindergarten class what my dad said. Yes, that’s right, I won the vote that day for best show-and-tell. (It was only later I realized that during the course of the year every kid in the class eventually won a ribbon. But I did win mine first, which I still feel means something.) Anyway, so it’s been my good luck charm ever since. I always carry it around with me. I pull it out of my pocket whenever I see Billy Thompson. Maybe it doesn’t really help much. But for all I know, things could be even worse without it.

  So when I pulled the lug nut out of my pocket on that day, I saw Billy turn the new kid’s laptop case upside down over his head. All the kid’s papers, books, pencils, and whatnot came showering around him, graph paper flying everywhere. I felt bad for the kid, I really, really did, but at the same time I also felt a tiny bit relieved that it wasn’t me. And then I felt guilty for feeling relieved it wasn’t me. That kid didn’t deserve to get picked on by Billy any more than I deserved it.

  Then I panicked. What if Billy spotted me and thought of me as the main course after a delicious appetizer of new kid on a cracker? I felt light-headed and whispered to myself, “Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me. . . .” After that, I don’t remember a thing, until I woke up in the hospital.

  I know it sounds freaky to wake up in a hospital, and I’m sure it is for most kids, but another thing you should know about me, I’m not most kids. When I hear my mom’s friends talk about me, they sometimes call me “sickly” or “poor dear,” but what I hear most often is “special.” They even say it in a voice like they’re using air quotes. This is because I happen to get sick a lot. You name it and I’ve had it: flu, bronchitis, upper respiratory infection, pneumonia, asthma attack, bladder infection, allergies, foot stuck in pickle jar, itchy head, hamster bite that got infected, weird rashes, twitchy eyes, laryngitis, kickball in the face, spider bite, fell in bathtub, fell out of bed, fell out of car (it wasn’t moving, relax), unexplained swollen big toe. I’ve spent three hundred plus days in the hospital over the last ten years, four months, and fifteen days of my life.

  I know three hundred days sounds like a lot. It’s almost an entire year of my life. Like I said before, I was born super premature, so I spent the first four months of my life at the hospital, so that’s why the number is so high. I was kinda hoping they’d just go ahead and name the pediatric floor of the hospital after me (the Benji Wendell Barnsworth Wing sounds pretty good, huh?), but apparently you have to be superrich and give money to get stuff named after you. So when I grow up and get superrich, I’m gonna give money to this hospital and name it after some kid who’s stuck there all the time just like me.

  But truth be told, the hospital isn’t so bad. Mainly because I have Dino’s punch card. Dino is my favorite nurse. He made me a hospital punch card like they have at frozen yogurt places (buy ten yogurts and get the eleventh free!), so after I have ten hospital visits, I get a cool prize. For my last prize, Dino took me up to a different floor (one where he said all the patients were heavily medicated and wouldn’t hear us if we got too loud), and we got to race wheelchairs down the hall.

  So when I opened my eyes and saw the fluorescent overhead lights, my first thought was the punch card. Then I heard my mom shriek.

  “Benji! My baby, are you awake?! Can you hear me?!”

  “Hey, Mom, did Dino punch my card yet?” I asked.

  Here’s what you need to know about my mom. She’s blond, she’s got big hair, and she’s loud. She tells people that she was a bear in her former life, because she likes to eat, she likes to sleep, and if you threaten any of her cubs, she’ll hunt you down and mess you up. So needless to say, she’s not as mellow as I am whenever I end up in the hospital. She cries, she yells, she prays, she buys a bunch of candy bars from the gift shop and stuffs them in her purse and will pull one out as needed (for herself or to try to bribe the nurses). Dino says that dealing with my mom makes him think about requesting a transfer to the morgue, “where it’s nice and quiet.”

  She didn’t answer my question, because she was too busy kissing me all over my face: “Oh (kiss) my (kiss) God (kiss), I (kiss) was (kiss) so (kiss) worried (kiss) about (kiss) you (kiss). And (kiss) if (kiss) you (kiss) ever (kiss) scare (kiss) me (kiss) like (kiss) that (kiss) again (kiss), I’ll (kiss) kill (kiss) you (kiss kiss).”

  Somehow I managed to push her away, but it wasn’t easy. She’s strong, and I’m not. There’s a reason I get picked last in dodgeball. Weak arms. Given the fact that I wake up in a hospital on a semiregular basis, we’ve established some routines to keep it from getting boring. Lately we’ve been playing this game where she pretends she’s a game-show host and I’m a contestant, and I guess what landed me in the hospital for a chance to win fabulous cash and prizes. If I guess right on the first try, I get twenty bucks. Second try, banana split. Third try, a comic book.

  “Okay, I’m gonna have to go with allergies,” I started.

  Out of nowhere, I received another ten kisses all over my face.

  “Mom! Stop it. What was that for?”

  “What? A mom can’t kiss her baby?”

  “I’m not your baby. I’m a contestant. And my first guess is allergies.”

  “Honey, let’s not play this today. But don’t you worry, Daddy’s picking you up a banana split with caramel and hot fudge. He’s also bringing an entire jar of cherries.”

  An entire jar of cherries? My mom thinks those marasch
ino cherries are disgusting and gross. So much so that I had never even heard of one, or even seen one, until a year or so ago. Then last year my dad took my twin fourteen-year-old brothers and me out to Benihana when my mom was away. It was so crowded we had to wait for a table. I was sitting at the bar when the bartender smiled at me and handed me a cherry. I popped it into my mouth without a moment’s hesitation. Now that I think about it, I clearly disobeyed one of my parents’ ten commandments: Thou Shalt Not Eat Anything Offered to You by a Stranger. But come on, I was at Benihana, and nothing really bad ever happens at Benihana. That cherry was pretty much love at first bite. Maraschino cherries quickly became my favorite thing in the world, much to my mother’s annoyance.

  So I pretty much only get them every now and again, like when we go to Benihana (which isn’t often enough), and when I’m lucky enough to score a banana split. So you didn’t have to be Encyclopedia Brown to know her offering me a whole jar was not good. Not good at all.

  “What happened? Am I okay?” I asked.

  Suddenly I decided this was a good time to wiggle all my toes and move my arms and legs around. Phew, everything was still attached and working.

  “You’re fine, baby. Totally fine. You just had an ‘episode,’” my mom said, making the air quotes.

  “What’s an episode? What does that mean? Did I faint again?” I’m always fainting. It’s just something I do when I get nervous. But I could tell this was something different because when I faint, I always wake up right after I crumple to the floor, and I don’t end up in the hospital.

  “Why don’t we wait for Dr. Helen to come in and explain everything? Now, do you want me to text Dad and have him bring you anything else from SuperDuperScooper besides a banana split, maybe one of those chocolate-dipped waffle cone bowls?”

  I shook my head. I wasn’t in the mood for a banana split stuffed into a chocolate-dipped waffle cone bowl, which made me even more worried. Why didn’t I want a banana split? I always want a banana split. So let’s review: there were now three weird things going on. First, I didn’t want a banana split. Second, my mom offered me a whole jar of maraschino cherries. And third, my dad was leaving work to come to the hospital. I looked out the window, and it was still light out.