When the Finns passed the front steps, they paused just long enough to blast each janitor in the back with long squirts of yellow goo and then plunge back into the crowd. Plums all over the quad erupted in cheers and chants of “Go, Mustard!” The startled janitors didn’t even have time to figure out the direction of the attack.
“Yet more signs of intelligent life at Del Heiny Junior thirteen,” Lucy muttered. “I bet the Finns are Aries. Their poor mom.”
The pack of ninth graders that the Finns had launched from was clapping and high-fiving Shane, who was wearing a Henry VIII costume. It was all I could do not to run over and yank that crown down over his smug grin. Clearly he’d ordered the attack. I couldn’t believe his nerve, twisting the mustard revolution for his own gain. He couldn’t have spelled “mustard” to save his life! Shane was tainting The Cause. And though the janitors were hated by the rest of us Plums, they’d been nothing but nice to Shane and his Finns. No loyalty among jerks, I guess.
“Another day in paradise.” Lucy sighed and trudged blobward. “At least this isn’t Del Heiny Junior five. I’d kill myself if I was a number five Big Boy.”
Now I gazed longingly after the bus. The stupid thing was long gone.
Lucy noticed I wasn’t following. “Are you planning to stand there all day? C’mon, already, I’m not gonna bring you lunch out here. Chop, chop.”
“Yes, sir, boss woman, sir,” I muttered. I wouldn’t want to miss lunch. After all, I’ve got my fat belt to feed.
Lucy stopped. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.” I plodded past her and into the crowd. Who does she think she is, anyway, calling me fat? Shane? I expect it from him. Some thanks I get for letting her be my coach. I swear, give someone a little power over you, and they forget what it means to be a friend.
“Don’t give me nothing.” Lucy pushed through the crowd behind me. “I heard what you said. Come back here.”
“Then why’d you ask?” I didn’t even pause. I just marched through a pack of pea-greeners and up the mustard-splotched steps.
“I said come back here, Shermie. I want to know what you meant by that. Come back here!”
“You want to know what I meant? Fine, I’ll tell you what I meant.” I spun to face her, right under Culwicki’s new banner. Paint fumes burned my bloodshot eyes. “See, there’s this theory.” I made quotation marks in the air with my fingers. “There are two kinds of people in this world, Lucy. People you can trust, and people you can’t.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The people you can trust are called friends. I have plenty of those. The people you can’t trust are Shanes. They get a little control over you and then, bam!, all they want is more. Shanes suck.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Oh, really? And in this theory, which one am I?”
“You”—I crossed my arms right back—“are a Shane.”
“What? Who are you calling a Shane? You’re the one who can’t be trusted.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you. You asked me to help you, and now you’re turning on me. For what? For telling you the truth? That’s what a coach is supposed to do. You’re such a Leo!”
She was at it again, flinging her fancy names around like they were contagious diseases. I turned to head into the school.
But she wasn’t done. She shouted after me from the top step. “Self-centered, inconsiderate, flash-tempered, and totally completely ungrateful!” Shut up, Lucy. Everyone in the quad can hear you! “Saying I’m controlling you. Well, you certainly can’t control yourself. I swear, I should have seen this coming. Your horoscope this morning said—”
I spun on her again. “Who cares about some stupid horoscope?” Good, she looked shocked. Take that, Coach. “Unless it said watch out for traitors, I don’t want to hear it.”
I headed for the main hallway. This time she didn’t follow. Finally!
The elevators had an OUT OF ORDER sign. Big deal. I wanted to take the stairs, anyway. I’d just imagine that each stair step was Lucy’s or Shane’s traitor face and stomp my way right to the top.
Tell me I have a fat belt. I’ll show you fat belt….
DAILY HOROSCOPE: LEO (JULY 23–AUGUST 22)
Today will be a totally rotten, sucky, nightmare of a day for you. If you can stay in bed, do. You’ll be better off. If you can’t, watch out for friends who want to control you. Business partners will prove untrustworthy, and the strategies you create together will explode in your face. Enemies and friends alike will strike at your weaknesses just to keep you under their thumbs. Do not let them tear you down or hurt your feelings. Hold your head high. Stay confident. You are a social giant and you have a Destiny. Especially avoid self-righteous, controlling Cancers who color code everything. Now is the time to tell people how it really is. Control your own Destiny and you will succeed.
CHAPTER 8
Stomping up three flights of stairs nearly killed me. My lungs were burning, my head was spinning, and my left calf felt like I was strangling it with a belt.
Gee, I just hope it’s not a fat belt.
In the room, Mad Max was leaning against her podium, marking her roll book with a pencil. Behind her, stretched the entire eraser board in orange curlicue letters, with the o gussied up like a smiling pumpkin. She didn’t have on a costume, and I didn’t see her blanketed cart or wooden crate anywhere.
I made my way to my seat next to Tater. He wasn’t wearing a costume, either. Just his usual yellow T-shirt. He might’ve been the first Plum to go yellow, and he had a huge photo collection of all the taggings thanks to his cell phone camera. He’d tried to convert me to yellow several times, but I was staying true to the Scoops white. Captain Quixote always said that a man wasn’t a man unless he knew where his loyalties lay. Hear that, Lucy?
Besides, the Scoops white reminded people that I was their ice cream connection. It wasn’t Hot Dog–Eating Champion of the World, but it got me some notice.
I thunked into my chair.
“Hey, hey, if it isn’t Mr. Thuff Enuff himself,” Tater said.
I froze in the middle of wiping sweat from my forehead. “What did you say?”
“Sherman, keep your voice down.” Max didn’t even look up from her roll book.
I lowered my voice so it blended in with the other chatting Plums. “How do you know about Thuff Enuff?”
“I know all about yesterday’s cafeteria showdown, man.” Tater clapped me on the back. “Everybody does. Way to go. You’ve got my loyalty forever. Shane is a jerk.”
“Well, yeah, he is a jerk, but how do you know about Thuff Enuff—”
Thwank. A tiny wad of paper landed on my desk.
I looked to my right, where the paper was tossed from. Gardo was there, leaning forward over his new table, giving me the thumbs-up. He was wearing a skimpy white dress with humongous stuffed boobs, a huge platinum-blond wig, fake eyelashes, and bloodred lipstick. A drag queen Marilyn Monroe. Why was that not surprising?
I unwadded the paper. Gardo’s handwriting was messy but legible:
Ladies and gentlemen, introducing our MAIN EVENT:
Hot on the heels of his first stunning upset comes
the Hulk Hogan of Hot Dogs…
the Rocky Balboa of the Buffet Table…
the next CHAMPION OF CHOMP…
the brave, the tough, the invincible
Sherman “THUFF ENUFF” Thuff!!!
** Are YOU Thuff Enuff? **
P. S. The word is out, Shermie.
P. P. S. You’re welcome.
I looked up from the note. Leonard Chumley, sitting at the table with Gardo and dressed as a jack-o’-lantern, was also giving me the thumbs-up. And so was the chef at the table next to them, Truman Banks. And so was the sheeted ghost next to Truman, and the octopus next to the ghost. One by one, Plum by Plum, Gardo’s side of the room went quiet and thumbs went up.
Goose bumps rippled up the back of my neck. There were at least a dozen thumbs
aimed at the sun, and every single one was for me. Me. Shermie Thuff. Amazing! Gardo was doing exactly what he said he’d do, spinning the hype. And Gardo knew everybody. By lunch, I could be class president! This Thuff Enuff thing was actually working. I was getting a rep. I knew I could count on Gardo. Now that’s a friend.
With adrenaline rushing through my veins, I made eye contact with my best buddy and give him a solid two thumbs up back. You’re the man, Edgardo Esperaldo.
I scanned the room in search of more thumbs. Sure enough, they went up all over. Except for the Finn’s, though. When he caught my eyes on him, he put up an entirely different finger for me. But who cared? The rest of the class loved me. Fame was an awesome thing.
Lucy came into the room just as the tardy bell rang. Max stopped her as she crossed behind the podium, and the two had a muted back-and-forth. Finally, Lucy took Max’s offered keys and rushed out of the room. I bet Max left her lunch in her car again. Lucy loved getting picked to fetch things for teachers.
Now and then during Max’s lecture on the industrial uses of recycled eggshells, costumed Plums went to the pencil sharpener to sharpen their number twos. They had to pass me on the way to the sharpener. Every single one clapped me on the back and whispered stuff like, “Atta boy, Thuff” or “You’re the man, Thuff.” It was better than any sugar rush. No way was I sleepy anymore.
Lucy missed the whole lecture. Boy, was she going to be bummed. That girl hated playing catch-up.
In the hall after class, more Plums clapped my back and cheered me on. “Way to go, Thuff…Get him, Thuff…Are YOU Thuff Enuff?” With my Captain Quixote uniform on, I felt like a war vet at a ticker-tape parade. Hail, the conquering hero! They knew I’d wipe out Tsunami at the hot dog table. Ladies and gentlemen, Thuff Enuff has entered the building! The best, though, had to be when Elizabeth Grace batted her eyelashes at me and said she thought I was brave.
At our locker, I found out that Gardo had told my “Are YOU Thuff Enuff?” slogan to some scrub wrestlers at their early morning workout, and it’d spread faster than syrup on a pancake. I guess Plums respected greatness when they saw it.
“I got the ball rolling for you,” Gardo said. “Now it’s in your court.” He adjusted his wig and straightened his boobs before handing me a white plastic shopping bag. “Here, put this on.”
“What is it?”
“It’s your new costume.”
“What’s wrong with the costume I’m wearing?” I reached into the bag and pulled out a white satin boxing robe and a pair of American flag swim trunks. Two boxing gloves sat at the bottom of the bag, along with a pair of blue-striped wrestling shoes.
“That Captain Spaceman look is doing nothing for you,” Gardo said. “You need to take advantage of the Thuff Enuff momentum. Put it on.”
“But this is the dress uniform. It’s got medals.”
“I don’t care if it has a jet pack in the pants. You’re Thuff Enuff, now. See?” He took the robe and held it up. It unfurled, revealing red stitching on the back:
I am
Thuff Enuff
Are YOU?
“Trust me, Shermie,” he continued, “your image is in a fragile stage right now. Don’t let it die.”
He did have a point. And at least the costume wasn’t a giant hot dog suit. “Okay. I’ll go change.”
“Atta boy.”
But as I turned to go to the john, I saw something white on the side of his neck, just under the edge of his wig. “What’s that?”
“What? Oh, nothing.”
“It’s a piece of tape.” I reached up to pull it off.
He batted my hand away. “Watch the stitches!”
“Stitches? What happened?”
“Who cares? It’s stupid.”
“I care. What happened?”
“Nothing.” He shoved at the junk in our locker so he could close the door. “I got cut by a fingernail at practice yesterday, that’s all.”
“What, were you wrestling a girl?”
“Ha. Ha.” He pulled on the lock to check it. “It wasn’t any big deal. When you’re an athlete, stuff happens.” He pushed by me, surprisingly nimble on the Marilyn heels. I would’ve killed myself on those things.
I hustled after him, but my photon taser stick jiggled out of my pocket several times before I caught up at the water fountain. I almost left the stupid thing on the floor the third time it fell because my left calf tightened up so much bending down to pick it up.
“So that’s why you were a no-show at the food court last night,” I said, “the stitches?”
“Yeah, sorry about that, man. Now like I was saying, you gotta pick up the ball and run with it. From now on, start acting your part. Selling Thuff Enuff is all in the attitude; you have to earn your legend.”
“I have attitude.”
“What, like, ‘Hey, everybody look at me while I run through the hedge because I’m late for class’ attitude? Oh, don’t give me that innocent face. I saw you do it.” He lowered his voice to an intense whisper. “You’re on the road to glory now, man. It doesn’t matter if you’re at school or in an eat-off, you need to intimidate. You got what it takes to make people notice you, you always have. But yesterday at lunch you took it to a whole new level. When you stood up to Shane, you actually made people wish they were you.”
That’s what they were excited about? That I stood up to Shane? But…I didn’t stand up to Shane. I nearly got my butt kicked. If Culwicki had come into that cafeteria just a few seconds later, he would’ve had to step over my dead body to correct Shane’s Sugarfoot. But hey, I wasn’t about to open my big mouth and point out this technicality to anyone. In junior high, false fame was better than no fame at all. All that integrity stuff adults liked to preach about was for their world, not for underclass Plums at Del Heiny Junior 13. I’d just have to take this tough-guy rep and refocus it on my competitive eating, that was all.
“So you really think Plums wish they were me?” Me was the last person I’d wanted to be yesterday, and that was the truth.
“Heck, yeah. Lots of them. You didn’t have to throw a single punch, man. All you did was stand your ground when Shane got in your face. You commanded that room.” He leaned in closer and stabbed his finger into my chest. Ow. “That’s the attitude I’m talking about.”
The trouble was, I didn’t have the attitude he was talking about.
But I could act. “That? That’s nothing.” I whipped out my taser stick and posed like Captain Don Quixote in a shoot-out. “I’m all attitude, muchacho.”
Gardo laughed. “You’re all crazy, muchacho.” He blew an air kiss at me with his big red lips and tottered off toward our Spanish class.
Grunting, I worked my sleep-deprived body back into a normal standing position and holstered my taser stick down the back of my pants. Then I plodded over to the bathroom to change into my new costume. Along the way, I rubbed the sore spot on my chest where Gardo had poked me.
Gardo said I had to work on my attitude, and I decided to start at my feet. After all, a guy’s attitude showed in his walk. I needed one that was worthy of the Thuff Enuff name. So between classes I worked on holding my head up high and tucking my shoulders back, trying to get as much swagger going as my exhausted body would allow. The wrestling shoes Gardo gave me with my costume were pretty comfy for swaggering, actually. Way better than my clunky Galactic Federation boots. Those things must’ve had moon rocks in the soles.
When Gardo saw my cool new walk at lunch, he halted in his tracks. “What’s wrong with you? Did you twist your ankle or something?”
“No. This is my new walk. Like it?”
“It looks like you sat on a plunger and can’t pull it out.”
“Now who’s the funny guy?”
“Well, that’s what it looks like. Here, watch me.”
Even in high heels, Gardo could cop attitude when he wanted. He balanced his tray on his left hand and let his other arm hang by his side and slightly behind him, swinging it ver
y slightly and just a bit stiff-elbowed behind his butt every other step. I’d seen rapper guys do that in videos. Now that was a walk with attitude. Even for a guy in drag.
I followed him to our table, working to get the stiff-elbow thing timed just right.
I’d just reached the table when someone came up behind me and clapped me solidly on the back. Ow! I arched from the stinging impact. Jeez! Why did guys have to hit each other all the time? I turned to find Kenny Goodman dressed as a Del Heiny Junior 13 janitor.
“Hey, Thuff. I’m with you, man,” Kenny said. Then he climbed onto the bench right where I was going to sit. “You just lead the way. I’m with you.”
Swell. Now there’s nowhere for me to sit. “Think you could be with me a few inches to the left? Shove over.”
“Oh, right. Sorry, man.”
Even after he scooched left, there still wasn’t much room for me to sit. When did my table get so crowded? Leonard, Kenny, William, Truman, Tucker, Brit, Jeff, Tommy…they were all sitting there giving me thumbs-up signs between bites. They’d never sat at my table before.
Slowly, I grinned. The Thuff Enuff legend was already working its magic. Dang, I’m gonna listen to Gardo more often! I kicked my leg up over the bench and squeezed in between Kenny and Gardo. Fans like rubbing elbows with their heroes, so Kenny probably felt privileged.
Most of the guys at my table were in costume, as were most of the Plums in the cafeteria. It was quite a sight. The sun above us was shining down through the sunroof on strange creatures, famous people, and mythical wonders who were dunking corn dogs in ketchup, chugging milk from brown and white cartons, and blowing straw wrappers into neighbors’ ears. At one of the pea-greener tables, Babe Ruth was using a baseball bat to test the strength of a knight’s armor. Two tables to their left, Jabba the Hutt threw a Tater Tot at Mark Twain, knocking Mark’s mustache into the Pillsbury Doughboy’s ketchup bowl. At the cash register, a towering Count Dracula gnawed the neck of a squealing French maid. The cafeteria lady didn’t even notice the bloodsucking; she just sat there with her eyes glazed and her hand out, waiting for the vampire’s money like a human vending machine.
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