Big Mouth

by Deborah Halverson

“I don’t get it, though. I always thought that because he’s got a coach he was okay. But he looks like roadkill or something. He’s even worse than the other guys. Except Shane, the wimp. He just sits there in his wheelchair being the captain but not doing any of the work.”

  “He just might be the smartest one.”

  I snorted. “He’s a puss. Get over it or get out.”

  Max eyed me a moment. Then she rose and picked her way around the trash can and several stacks of papers to reach a packed bookshelf. “Have a seat.”

  I released the knob and dropped heavily back onto the stool, suddenly tired. A crack in the metal pinched the skin behind my left knee.

  She shoved aside some beakers, revealing a row of maybe twenty book spines with small, gold-stamped lettering. The books were slim and tall, and most had blue covers, but some were red. Max ran her finger along them, parting the thick dust on the leftmost books like sand behind a snake. The books on the right, the red ones, were relatively dust-free. How did dust get into rooms with no sunlight?

  “Maybe…,” she mumbled, pulling down one of the less dusty books. She thumbed through the back pages rapidly. I could see the blue cover. It was a Del Heiny Junior 13 yearbook from six years ago.

  “No, not this one…” She put it back and pulled out the one next to it, another blue one, and peeked briefly at the back pages. “Yes, this is it.”

  She picked her way back to her seat and handed me the book, open to a spread of black-and-white photos. When she sat down, more foam popped out of her split seat cushion.

  The yearbook spread was for the marching band. A lot of the photos showed the same bird’s-eye view I’d seen with Gardo of the band practicing down on the football field. But there was a large close-up on the right-hand page of a kid with a tall, furry white hat who was blowing into a tuba, his cheeks puffed, his eyes closed, sweat dripping off his eyebrow, his face so tense I thought his furry hat might shoot into the air like a rocket. The stiff hat strap was strained over his chin, digging into the skin. Why did band people have to wear those hats? They always looked so uncomfortable. Not that the guy looked especially comfortable squeezed into the middle of that tuba, regardless of the hat. Did tuba players have a belt theory?

  “Sean was a student of mine,” Max said, smiling. “He played a mean Dixieland jazz. West Virginia University gave him a full scholarship.”

  I read the caption under the photo: Ninth grader Sean Scholfield, tuba/sousaphone. “Never heard of him. He’s not on Culwicki’s Wall of Fame.”

  “Please,” Max said with clear disgust. “It was a band scholarship, not a wrestling scholarship; of course he’s not there. You mistake our principal for someone who cares about something besides pinning people on the ground until they holler uncle.”

  She pursed her lips a moment, then pointed to the tuba player. “Music was Sean’s passion. But being an overweight tuba player isn’t good for getting onto a high-performance college marching band. He did some…what did you call it, stupid things?…to fit into his tuba and beat out the competition for that scholarship. At least, that’s what I learned later on. He came to visit me when he was a junior at WVU. It was shocking to see him. He was thinner than I am.”

  I gestured weakly at the picture. “All that marching…”

  She shook her head. “He wasn’t on the team anymore; he’d lost his scholarship. He couldn’t march because his heart couldn’t handle it.”

  She took the yearbook from me and rotated it before setting it on her own lap, where she could look at the photo right side up. “He thought he had everything under control, but he didn’t. He finally got help after losing the scholarship, but the damage was done. You can’t do that to the human body. Eating disorders may make you skinny—notice I said may—but they thrash your insides.”

  “Eating disorder?” He’s wearing a tuba, not a tutu. “But he’s a guy.”

  “The biggest myth about eating disorders is that they’re girl problems.” She closed the book gently. “Plenty of guys have eating issues; they just hide it better. Or people who do notice just think they’re being good jocks and push them to do more. Boys have just as much pressure about weight as girls; they just don’t talk about it. And once they start, it’s a hard ride to get off of.”

  As she spoke, my face heated up again, the memory of the Finns stuffing me into that trash can coming on hard. Big, fat scrub doughnut. I looked down at my shorts, pretending to flick off some lint.

  That day was so mortifying. The whole school watched them push me deep into the can, my butt jammed in tight and my legs and arms dangling over the edge, just like they watched Shane and the Finns “dunk” other chubby scrubs. The bent metal lip of that can scraped the back of my thighs and bruised my back something awful. Even worse than the dunking, though, was the fact that I couldn’t get out. The big, fat doughnut was stuck. Gardo wasn’t around when it happened so he couldn’t rescue me, and no one else rushed to my aid out of fear of a secondary attack. So I’d had to swing my arms and kick my legs and throw my weight sideways until the can tipped over and I could crawl out. I felt like a beetle trying to flip over. I never told on them about it, though. All I wanted to do was forget about it. None of Shane’s other dunkees said anything about the dunkings, either. Well, Jasper Finch did. But he learned the hard way that nothing would happen to Shane. All Culwicki did was blow Jasper off, calling it a prank, and then people were making fun of Jasper for telling. There was no way he’d shed that rep, not at this school. He should’ve kept his big mouth shut.

  “How are your workouts coming along, Sherman?”

  I whipped my head up, surprised by the question. I’d forgotten she saw me at the stadium the first day I walked the track after school. “Fine. They’re going fine.”

  “Still jogging?”

  “No. No, I’m walking. I walk every day before and after school. I have a hurt calf.” I rubbed my leg for emphasis.

  “Walking’s just as good as running,” she said.

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “That’s all you’re doing, walking?”

  “I ride my bike. I like that, it’s fun.”

  “Good. Nothing else? Dieting? Anything like that?”

  I clamped my lips shut. I knew where she was going with this, I wasn’t stupid. The taste of the coconut milk I’d poured over my Lucky Charms this morning was still with me, souring my mouth. Chewing spearmint gum hadn’t killed it completely. I probably had coconut breath. But that didn’t matter, I didn’t need to feel guilty. The coconut was proof that I was eating. I was no Sean. And I was no Gardo. I was losing my belt the smart way. “I’m not dieting. Everything everybody eats is part of their diet. I’m watching what I eat.”

  Max nodded. “Sounds wise. Moderation is the key. I don’t care what anyone else says, the only way to get and stay in shape is to eat healthy foods in reasonable portions and exercise smartly. Period.” She flicked her wrist angrily, sending the yearbook into the papers on her desk. “Not starving yourself, or wrapping yourself in plastic.”

  There was a knock on the door. I shot up, knocking over my stool with a loud crash. “I gotta go.”

  “Sherman—”

  “I gotta go.” I righted the stool quickly, then yanked the door open. Gardo was standing there, his red wrestling shirt covering his gray sweatshirt and a sheen of sweat glistening on his hoodless, shaved head. His hand was raised, ready to knock again.

  “Shermie?” His face clouded for a moment. Then he lifted his other hand and waved a small pink paper over my shoulder. “Ms. Maxwell”—he flashed his Charming Man smile at her—“will you sign this permission slip for me? Coach Hunt is taking the team on a field trip Friday to a special wrestling clinic. There’ll be coaches from three colleges there.”

  “Unless Coach Hunt will be staying behind to take your unit test for you, you’ll need to be in class. Since you’re here, though, I want to ask you something. Come in for a second.”

  “I gotta go
.” I shoved past Gardo.

  “Hey, watch it, Shermie!”

  I didn’t watch it. I just wanted out of there. I hadn’t talked to Gardo since our fight yesterday morning, and I didn’t trust what I’d say to him now. Especially now. Because as Gardo stumbled out of my way, it wasn’t his protest that echoed in my ears. What echoed in my ears was the unmistakable rustle of a plastic bag.

  CHAPTER 23

  Twenty-four hours after my betrayal, I was hunched over a bowl of Lucky Charms with coconut milk, so hungry I almost wanted a bite of the vile concoction. I’d been too tense yesterday to deal with nasty coconut, so I hadn’t eaten anything after my visit to Max’s office. But the first spoonful of coconut-bloated marshmallows and soggy cereal gagged me.

  I can’t do this! I dumped the horror down the garbage disposal. I’d rather starve than eat coconut again.

  My stomach was still growling violently when I walked into Science Concepts in Action. Gardo’s seat was empty. Lucy was missing, too. Nice going, Thuff. Your friends are vanishing faster than T’larian heat probes in the galactic sun.

  I dropped into my seat next to Tater.

  “Traitor,” he spit out.

  My heart stopped. How did he know about me and Gardo?

  “I can’t believe she went red,” he said.

  My heart started thumping again. Tater wasn’t glaring at me, he was glaring at Max, who’d just come out of her office wearing a red shirt. She was whistling as she strolled across the front of the room.

  Max had defected. I couldn’t believe it, either.

  “Stupid Culwicki,” Tater said. “I bet he’s behind this. He probably threatened to fire her. Or he had the Olive Shirts chase her with brooms or something.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. Max didn’t look like she’d been broomed. She seemed pretty chipper to me, actually, whistling all the way to her podium, only stopping when she stood behind it and faced the class. Row upon row of hostile Yellow Shirts met her gaze.

  She smiled lightly. “It has come to my attention that this school is off balance. We’ve been working against each other instead of together, and we’ve lost sight of our common goal. I think it’s about time someone spelled it out, don’t you?” She stepped away from the podium and posed like a supermodel. Her offending red shirt was one of Culwicki’s free In Del Heiny We Trust deals. Only she’d blacked out his propaganda and written her own: Go, RED! “Like it?”

  The Yellow Shirts stayed stony.

  The tardy bell rang and Max broke her pose. Turning to the whiteboard, she set a black marker on the ledge, right next to a small stuffed turkey in a pilgrim’s costume. “I’ll leave this here for anyone who might need it. Mr. Culwicki has thoughtfully left a booth full of shirts unattended in the quad. I suggest you avail yourselves of it. Ah, Mr. Esperaldo, nice of you to join us today. You know the way to your seat, I presume?”

  I twisted in my seat. Gardo was in the doorway, half in and half out. I hadn’t seen him since yesterday morning in Max’s office. He’d disappeared after that, skipping science and Spanish and even going AWOL at lunch. Now he looked like a totally different person with a solid black T-shirt on instead of his wrestling red, no sweatshirt or hoodie, and deep, angry creases in his forehead. He shot me a wilting glare as he went to his seat next to Leonard.

  And wilt I did.

  Next to me, Tater was muttering—though whether to me or to the cosmos, I didn’t know. “Who needs her anyway?” he said. “She didn’t keep the faith. The Mustard Taggers will get Culwicki off our backs. Mark my words, big things are in the works.”

  Max pounded the tibia bone on the podium. “All right, people. We’re in a school, let’s act like it already.” She pointed the bone at a giant picture of maggots or something else wormy and nasty that she’d just taped to the whiteboard. “Ham beetles. Blow flies. Flesh flies. We’ve finally secured approval for an exciting new lab that explores the role of insects in forensic entomology. Today we’ll work with insects, and tomorrow I’ve got a surprise lab starring your newest best friend, Porky the Sus scrofa Linnaeus….”

  Max might as well have been talking Swahili. My attention was on Gardo for the rest of the period. Not that he acknowledged my existence. He never looked my way, not even once. None of his usual winking, no funny faces behind Max’s back, nothing. I wasn’t stupid; I could read the writing on the wall: Gardo was done with me. Years of friendship down the dumper. We were through.

  When the bell rang, I left without waiting for him. There was nothing to say. He hated me.

  But so what? Lucy hated me. I hated me. Shane and the Finns hated me. Who didn’t hate me?

  “Thuff Enuff, buddy!” Tater caught up to me in the stairwell. “Have you heard the latest? Shane got replaced yesterday as wrestling captain. Terence Vanderfite got the job. The first scrub captain ever.”

  I groaned but kept walking. That explained Gardo’s black shirt. He was in mourning.

  “Isn’t that hilarious?” Tater said. “The great Shane, replaced by a scrub. I love it! I bet the Finns were fit to be tied. Shane sure was. He stood right up out of his wheelchair and threw it at his dad, swearing revenge. Kind of suspicious, don’t you think, seeing as how we got trashed last night and all?”

  I stopped on the second floor landing. “Trashed?”

  “Yeah. You didn’t hear? All the Yellow Shirts know about it already. You’d know, too, if you went yellow.”

  “Will you stop already? I told you, Thuffs stay loyal to Scoops white.”

  “All right, all right. At least you know how to keep the faith. Even if it’s the wrong faith…”

  “Tater. What about something getting trashed?”

  “Oh yeah.” He leaned in like he was revealing some great secret. “What happened is, someone splashed yellow paint all over the guys’ locker room, and a bunch of locker doors were ripped right off. And this happens the same night Shane threatens his dad at practice? Suspicious.” He practically sang the word.

  “How do you even know all this? Wrestling practice is closed.”

  He jingled his office aide keys. “Tater has his ways.”

  Tater is creepy.

  I spun and headed down the hall toward Spanish class.

  He fell in step beside me again, snickering like a B-movie villain. “I told you, buddy. Big things are afoot at Del Heiny Junior thirteen. It’s better than TV.”

  Not quite. You can change the channel with TV.

  Kenny and Runji ran up to us halfway down the hallway. Their eyes were as wide as their grins. Tater and I stopped short. Lucy practically bowled us over from behind. Where’d she come from?

  “This is a hallway, not a bus stop,” she snapped. She had a fresh scrape on her forehead and a large Band-Aid on her arm.

  Kenny ignored her and slugged me in the shoulder. “Thuff Enuff! Have you heard? Shane is out of his wheelchair.”

  “I already know. So what?”

  “So then you already know he said he’s gonna kick your butt at lunch today, once and for all.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah,” Runji said. “Shane’s telling everyone he’s tired of scrubs putting on airs, and he’s gonna make an example out of the biggest scrub of all. That’s you! ‘Puff’n Stuff needs to be taught some respect,’ he said. I told you he’d try for a comeback! And the timing couldn’t be better. Both the Finns are absent today, so this is your chance to take him down one on one.”

  “Take him down?” Lucy said. “Shermie, you’re not going to fight Shane. He’ll murder you.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I had no intention of fighting Shane, but I did have my pride. “Kenny, you know the rumor mill at this school sucks. Nothing’s gonna happen.” Sure, the Finn hadn’t been in Max’s room this morning, but that didn’t prove anything.

  “Oh, we’ll make sure he doesn’t hide like a wimp,” Kenny promised. “You can count on us.” They high-fived all around.

  The vultures.

  “I
gotta go.” I left before anyone else could hit me. “Class starts in four and a half minutes.”

  Lucy caught up with me as I rushed off, her voice urgent now, not snapping. “You’re not actually thinking of fighting Shane, are you?”

  “I can’t wait to see Max’s surprise lab tomorrow.”

  “Shermie, no fighting.”

  “Something to do with bugs, she said? Should be cool.”

  “Shermie…”

  “Here’s my stop. Nice talking to you.” I ducked into the guys’ bathroom. As the door shut, I caught a glimpse of Gardo standing a few feet behind Lucy. He was looking our way, his face blank. Then the red door closed.

  I leaned my forehead against it. What was I going to do? The guys expected me to beat up Shane at lunch. I couldn’t do that. Even though he’d been in a wheelchair for two weeks, he wouldn’t be weak. He was a muscle-bound jock wrestler. A trained fighter. I was just a fat scrub doughnut—and it wasn’t jelly that I was full of.

  How did I get myself into this?

  CHAPTER 24

  Lunchtime was on me faster than ants on a picnic. And news of Shane’s upcoming “comeback fight” spread even faster. In between every class, Plums egged me on—or “supported” me, as Tater called it. Boy, was that guy getting caught up in the excitement. That, or he was secretly worried I’d be killed. When I ran into him in the hall at lunchtime, he couldn’t talk about anything else.

  “You know,” he said as we entered the cafeteria, “I’ve been watching Shane at wrestling practice. He puts up a big act, but he’s all talk. He was only captain of the wrestling team because his dad’s the coach, not because he’s any good. He won’t wrestle any of the scrubs or pea-greeners because they’d make him look bad. I bet Coach was looking for an excuse to can him. You’ll take him down in one punch, maybe two. No sweat.”

  Easy for him to say. He thought shooting Tots out of his nose was a high talent.

  “It won’t even be an issue, Tater,” I said as carefree as I could. “Shane’s going to avoid me.” I hope, I hope, I hope, I hope.