“You think?” He looked downright sad for a moment. “Nah. He’ll make his move. He has to try for a comeback. Being decaptained is too humiliating. You know what? Just in case he gets in some lucky wrestling stuff in his desperation, let me show you counters to his favorite moves real quick.” He grabbed my left wrist and yanked my arm behind my back.
“Ow! Tater, stop!”
“The key is to grab his wrist. Jackie Chan does that all the time.” He wrapped his other arm around my neck.
“Stop!”
“See, if you’ve got a wrist, you’ve got control. Now all I have to do is squeeze my forearm to my biceps and I’ll crush your windpipe.”
“Don’t! Tater, let me go!”
He released me but then immediately grabbed at my other wrist. “Here’s another one.”
I saw it coming this time and pulled away in time. Adrenaline must’ve juiced my reflexes. “I don’t need another one. Just stop.”
“Okay. But just let me show you what to do if he gets you on the ground. I saw it in a movie once—”
“Tater, stop! He’s not going to get me on the ground. Just chill.”
I stomped to the food line. What was he thinking? He couldn’t make me a wrestler in two minutes. Even Gardo couldn’t do that, and Gardo actually knew what he was doing.
Tater was still with me. Jeez, he’s like a rash.
“You’re probably right,” he said. “Shane’s all talk. The Finns are the ones to worry about. They’ll punch your nose out the back of your head. Shane won’t do anything without them here. It doesn’t really matter, anyway. Shane’ll go down one way or another. You’re not the only one who wants some changes around here. Oh, there’s Runji. I’ll meet you at the table.”
He hustled away. Finally.
Now that I was in line, I was committed to buying lunch. But I didn’t know what to buy. I was hungry, real hungry, but without coconut to keep me in check, I probably wouldn’t be able to stop eating once I started. That would just land me in the bathroom with my face over a toilet like a total loser. Or like Max’s tuba player.
The line moved forward. I picked up a red plastic tray with the Del Heiny Ketchup logo on it. Someone patted me on the shoulder and wished me luck, but I didn’t look to see who it was. My eyes were glued on paper bowls piled high with cheese-filled raviolis. They came with low, nearly flat dishes of ketchup on the side for dipping. While ketchup wasn’t as good as spaghetti sauce, it was red and tomato-y, so it was close enough.
I lifted one of the bowls, hefting it up and down, weighing it with my hand. This won’t help my belt…. Aw heck, who cares about some stupid theory? I dropped the bowl onto my tray defiantly and shoved over to the next station. I wasn’t made for Gardo’s weight-cutting craziness. It had turned me into some kind of girl, worrying about diet and belt size and gorging then throwing up. I wasn’t a girl, I was Thuff Enuff. Worrying about my waist size was a waste of time. There were lots of Big Boys on the eating circuit, and they’d been racking up the records left and right, so me and my fat belt would do just fine, thank you. Cookie Jarvis was four hundred pounds, and he held records for ice cream, mayo, cannoli, chicken-fried steak, corned beef and cabbage, dumplings, pizza, and all kinds of other stuff. If big Cookie could be a winner, so could big Thuff Enuff. Thuff Enuff eats what he wants, when he wants.
The only problem was, if I was going to compete, I couldn’t eat what I wanted, when I wanted. I’d have to eat what people told me to eat during the competitions. And a lot of it. Like cow brains. Like asparagus. Like fifty-four hot dogs and buns.
Jeez.
Maybe I’d made a mistake with this competitive eating. The only time in my whole training that I’d been able to keep down my HDBs without reversing my fortune was when I took more than an hour to do it—and that was just eighteen HDBs. Eighteen. Why the heck was I killing myself over this? For the fame? That wasn’t such a dangling carrot anymore. Here I had all these new “friends,” but I could barely sit at my own lunch table anymore. And Lucy and Gardo had sworn me off. I missed being plain old nobody Shermie and hanging out with my old buddies.
Behind the lunch counter, a lady in a red paper hat and apron tossed a cardboard plate onto my tray with a vacant flip of her wrist. Tater Tots spilled onto my tray.
As I gathered them back onto the plate, Shane strode into the cafeteria. I could tell because the whole place went quiet. It was weird…nobody greeted him, and his fellow ninth graders didn’t clear a seat for him at his table. I guess trashing the locker room wasn’t the “comeback” he’d thought it would be.
Squaring his shoulders, he pushed past a girl to get in line behind me. I tried to pretend I hadn’t seen him. But he was so close, his foul breath warmed my neck.
I slid my tray along the counter to the next section. Egg rolls. Another red-aproned lady tossed a plate onto my tray. Then I slid over again, to the chicken nuggets section. That plate landed hard, too.
Shane matched my movements slide for slide, only he let his empty tray hang down by his leg so he could stand right next to me.
“Thuff,” he hissed into my ear as the nugget lady blankly plopped another dipping dish of ketchup onto my tray. “You’ve gotten too big for your britches, Thuff, if that’s even possible.”
Again I slid to my right. This time a birdlike woman with glazed eyes tossed a plate of corn dogs onto my tray.
Again Shane moved up close. “I’m gonna put you on a diet, big shot.”
I slid to my right once more, taking on a hamburger and a side of fries.
There was venom in Shane’s hiss this time: “Know your place, Thuff.” He slammed his shoulder into my back, right between my shoulder blades. Ow! A bunch of ketchup packets landed on my food. “Don’t forget your ketchup. Man, look at that slop. I just lost my appetite.”
Spinning on his heel, he stalked off toward his table, shoving his empty tray into Kenny’s hands along the way.
My own hands were shaky as I paid the cashier for my food. Not that she noticed my shakes. She was too busy popping her gum and looking bored.
Slowly I turned and faced a cafeteria full of Plums. My back throbbed where Shane had jammed his shoulder into me. Had anyone see him do it?
A bead of sweat trickled down my temple. My tray got heavier by the second. All eyes were on me except for Shane’s. He was standing next to his table talking to the seated guys, his back to me like he couldn’t be bothered. They still hadn’t scooted over for him, though I spotted one slipping him an illegal mustard packet. Another one offered him something to drink. He was making headway even though all he’d done was jam me in the back. Maybe killing me really would put the king back on his throne.
I had a sudden urge to go to the bathroom…not to pee, but to hide in a stall until the bell rang.
No! You won’t do that, Shermie. You can’t. Even getting my butt kicked in public was better than getting caught hiding in the john.
I took a deep breath. And then another. Finally I willed my shaky legs to transport me to my table at the back of the cafeteria. It was so strange, passing the mustard-scribbled walls without any janitors around to clean them up. The Olive Shirts were missing all the fun.
Tater, Roshon, Kenny, and seven or eight other guys had already made themselves at home. My table was solid Yellow Shirts. No Black Shirt. No Gardo. As I approached, the guys all gawked at me like, Well? Their expressions made me think of the Olive Shirts back when they were just janitors, rubbing their sandpapery hands together over a Shane terrorization.
Maybe the bathroom wasn’t such a bad idea….
“Sit next to me, Thuff Enuff.” Tater scooched over to make room for me between him and Roshon. “There’s room.”
Great. The guy wanted a ringside seat.
“Hey, where’re you going?” he said.
“I got business to take care of.” Taking a leak doesn’t make me a chicken. And if it happens to be a long leak, then so be it. I handed Leonard my tray. I would not take
my food in there. “Here, take this. And don’t eat it.”
He took the tray from me and dumped it into the trash can next to the table.
“Hey!” I shouted. “Why’d you do that?”
“You said, ‘Take this. I don’t need it.’”
“No, I didn’t!”
“Yes, you did. I heard you.”
“Aw, man,” I moaned. I knew I shouldn’t complain; Leonard had just saved me from myself and all, but still. “That was perfectly good food, Leonard. What am I supposed to do for lunch now?”
“Oh. I’m sorry, Thuff Enuff. I really thought you said you didn’t want it. Here, I’ll get you more.” Leonard jumped up and swung a leg over the bench. “You need to keep up your strength.” He rushed off.
As I stood there torn between sitting down to wait for food or ducking into the guys’ room, an angry shriek ripped through the air. It sounded like the Wicked Witch of the West right after Dorothy soaked her with water. But it wasn’t a witch screaming, it was Shane.
Halfway across the cafeteria, the situation was obvious. In hustling to get me replacement food, Leonard had plowed smack into Shane, spilling the jerk’s chocolate milk shake all over his sacred red wrestling shirt. Shane was a mess of poo-brown goo.
“You idiot!” he yelled. “Look what you did!”
Leonard froze in shock, but only for a moment. Then reflexes kicked in. Snatching a stray napkin from the table next to him, he attacked Shane’s chest and tried desperately to blot the goo.
“Stop!” Shane tried to block Leonard’s hands. “Stop! You’re making it worse!” The milky poo now oozed down the front of Shane’s pants. “Look at this! What were you thinking, you tub of lard? Are you as blind as you are fat?” He grabbed Leonard’s collar and tried to yank him forward. But Leonard couldn’t be budged by mere yanking, so Shane had to step forward to get in his face. “You’re gonna pay for this big time, you stupid loser scrub.”
Boy, the Olive Shirts would be bummed that they missed this. The zoned-out cafeteria ladies certainly didn’t appreciate the entertainment. Poor Leonard. There was no one to stop Shane. And even Leonard knew rescue wasn’t in the cards. He simply closed his eyes and cringed, waiting for Shane’s punch.
This is so messed up. You shouldn’t have to take one in the kisser just for being a nice guy. And this whole school full of people is going to let it happen. Pathetic. We might as well start genuflecting for Shane. The very thought of that roiled the butyric acid in my gut.
A shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds and spotlighted Leonard and Shane. I squinted in the glare off the white linoleum. With my face scrunched like that, I could be Grampy, going all cheeks and trying to talk me into something I didn’t want to do. I could almost hear his voice: “Sherman T. Thuff, this crowd looks tough, and you know what that means: When the going gets tough, the Thuffs get Thuffer! All for one and one for all!”
All for one and one for all…I hate Grampy sometimes. Especially when he’s right.
“Stop!” I hollered before Shane could sock Leonard. Then, faster than I’d yanked my wrist out of Tater’s grasp earlier, I stabbed my arms out right and left and yanked Tater and Roshon to their feet. They were both so surprised, they didn’t resist. There, it’s three against one now. All for one and one for all. Take that, Shane. “Leave Leonard alone.”
Plums around the room gasped.
Shane sized up the three of us standing there like a wall—Tater on my left and Roshon on my right, me in the middle bracing them up with my hands around their biceps. He smiled and let go of Leonard’s shirt.
“Well, well. So here we have it. Puff Enuff finally makes his move. I honestly didn’t think you had the stones for this, scrub.”
He raised his right arm up over his head like he was going to hail a cab, then bent his index finger in a brief come-hither motion. Immediately, two hulking, white-haired, bent-nosed goons in red wrestling T-shirts marched out of the guys’ bathroom. Finns! No wonder Shane wasn’t avoiding me. It was an ambush.
Tater tried to sit back down, but I squeezed his biceps hard and locked my elbow to hold him up. We were committed now. Preemptively, I locked Roshon into a standing position on my left. Captain Quixote said victory was in the numbers, and as long as we were standing, we were still three. They couldn’t take us all down. Not quickly, anyway.
Shane and the Finns started over to us, marching in step. Right, left, right, left.
Roshon whimpered. Tater babbled, “We’re dead, we’re dead, we’re so dead….”
Right, left, right, left.
What would Captain Quixote do now? He would’ve seen the ambush coming in the first place, that’s what he would’ve done! And he sure as heck wouldn’t have Tater and Roshon rounding out his three.
Right, left, right, left.
We were gonna get creamed.
Right, left, right, left.
At least I’d die knowing that I hadn’t hid in the john.
That realization gave me a rush of pride—a small rush, but it was enough. I held my head up higher. When the going got tough, Thuff Enuff could handle it.
“Stay right there,” I commanded, struggling to make my voice steady and strong like Captain Quixote’s. But Shane and his Finns kept marching. “I said stop.”
Jeez, I sounded more like a mouse than the captain of the finest space vessel of all time. I wouldn’t have stopped, either, if I were them.
Right, left, right, left.
“The man said stop.” The voice came from a table in the pea-greener section. A kid in a black shirt stood up at one of the tables.
Gardo! At a pea-greener table?
Gardo headed directly toward the Finns and Shane, throwing down his backpack like a knight tossing the gauntlet. The Finns’ eyes opened in surprise, then narrowed in hate. Shane started pulling at their arms and telling them to stay focused, but it was useless. Their focus had shifted completely to Gardo. One of their own was challenging them, and in the wrong color shirt, no less. No one liked a traitor.
Watching the three eighth-grade wrestlers staring each other down, I realized that Gardo might be a foot shorter, but his back was just as straight and sure as theirs. Even bigger than the height difference though, was the attitude difference: The Finns were scowling, Gardo was smiling.
“Get out of here, Esperaldo,” Shane warned. “You’re out of uniform. There are penalties for disrespecting your captain and teammates.”
“Yeah,” sneered Wayne. Or was it Blayne? “Maybe you need another bleacher tour. What do you think, Shane, twenty laps, or thirty?”
“Oh, give it a rest, Blayne,” Gardo said with disgust. He looked up at the sun trying to peek through the clouds and breathed in deeply. “Shane’s not captain anymore. It’s time to pick a new leader.” Grabbing his backpack, he walked over to our table and casually tossed the bag on top then added himself to my Roshon-Thuff-Tater wall. “I’m with Thuff Enuff.”
My knees wobbled as Shane sized us up again, now four against three.
Suddenly Kenny leaped up and locked elbows with Roshon. “I’m with Thuff Enuff, too.”
Kenny! My knees stopped wobbling. Five against three.
Next to Kenny, Runji stood up and locked on. “I’m Thuff Enuff.”
Six!
“I’m Thuff Enuff!” another Plum shouted. Then another shout. And another. All around me, Plums were popping up and locking arms.
Shane’s body couldn’t keep up with his head as he swiveled to see all around him. It was amazing—in seconds, half of the Plums in the cafeteria were standing up to Shane.
Slowly, like a rumbling storm, a low chant started. “Thuff, Thuff, Thuff, Thuff…”
The Finns had been surveying the room, too. They looked at each other for a moment.
“Thuff, Thuff, Thuff, Thuff…”
Then the left Finn nodded as the other turned and patted their former captain on the shoulder. “Okay. We’re done.”
“What?”
“We’re done. It’s been real.”
“You’re done?” Shane looked puzzled for a second, then the light bulb must’ve gone on. “You too? I can’t believe this. What’s with all the scrubs around here? When did you people forget your place? I outrank you. You’re all in serious violation.”
“I’ll tell you who’s in serious violation, Mr. Hunt!” Principal Culwicki’s bellow echoed off the walls as he marched into the cafeteria waving a bent locker door like a sword on a battlefield. All three slimy Olive Shirts were with him. “Cuff him.”
“What?” Shane backpedaled in our direction as the Olive Shirts rushed forward and grabbed him, cuffing his hands behind his back. “What’s going on? Stop! I haven’t done anything.”
“You wish you hadn’t done anything.” Our principal threw the bent door onto the ground. “Defacing school property is a criminal offense.”
“But I didn’t deface any—”
“Stop. Enough lies. The entire team heard you threaten your father and this school. You finally got sloppy, Mustard Man.”
“Mustard Man?”
“Don’t bother denying it. I’ve got all the proof I need right here, mister. One of your own honorable classmates realized it was time to put a stop to your shenanigans.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and waved it in Shane’s face, just a few feet from me.
I thought I’d fall over. A Plum had finked. On Shane…Shane, the Mustard Tagger. Holy cow.
Culwicki continued waving the paper. It had a bunch of photos printed on one side, and when he finally stopped flapping it around, I saw that the other side was a mess of curlicue scribbling.
“Green marker,” I whispered in amazement. Gardo and I whipped our heads toward Tater. He unhooked his arms from ours and looked up at the sunroof, whistling.
“Your days as a mustard-loving artiste are over,” Culwicki declared. “No more tagging for you.”
“I’m not a Mustard Tagger!” Now that the paper wasn’t thrashing, Shane was getting a good look at the pictures. “There! Look. That’s not me. I don’t have red hair. That’s someone else ripping the door off the locker.”
Culwicki paused and pulled the paper closer to his squinting eyes. “That’s not red hair….”
Big Mouth Page 27
