by Tom Birdseye
Everyone has stopped eating and is looking at me. Big brother John, the hotshot senior in high school, is grinning like he’s in a toothpaste commercial. A little piece of onion is on his chin.
“You’re gonna eat what real fast, Arlo?” he asks.
John is going to give me a hard time about this, I can tell.
“Bananas, John, bananas.”
“And how fast are you going to eat them?”
I didn’t like his tone of voice. It makes me mad. I can feel myself getting hot in the face again.
“Fast enough for a world record,” I answer, trying to stay calm. “I’m going to eat seventeen bananas in less than two minutes. That will put my name in the Guinness Book of World Records. And Kerry will then have to clean my room and do all the lawn mowing for one full year. That’s the bet.”
John laughs. “Seventeen bananas in less than two minutes? C’mon, Arlo.”
I knew he’d give me a hard time. No one has any faith in me. I must set John straight.
“That’s right. I can do it. I’m going to be famous!”
“You can’t do it, Arlo,” John says.
There it is again, that word can’t.
“You want to bet, John?” I ask angrily.
He puts down his hamburger, wipes his chin, and grins. “Sure, why not. I’ll bet you all the firewood splitting for this winter—four cords of wood.”
“It’s a bet. Shake on it,” I say as I stand and begin to move around the table to shake John’s hand.
“Hold it a minute, kids,” Dad interrupts.
He probably wants to bet, too. Well, great. I’ll bet anybody.
“This is getting out of hand. I want these bets called off.”
“Dad! Why?” I almost scream in his ear.
“For two reasons, Arlo,” he says. “First, your jobs around the house are your chores, not something to win or lose in a bet. Your mother and I expect you to do them as part of your responsibility to the family. Second, I think eating bananas that fast could be dangerous. I don’t want you hurting yourself because of stubborn pride over a bet.”
I look at Mom. A soft smile crosses her lips. She nods in agreement with Dad.
“But—”
“That’s it, Arlo,” Dad says. “The bets are off. I don’t want to discuss it anymore.”
“But—”
“I said, that’s it, Arlo. The end. No more. Finish your hamburger.”
I’m mad. I sit back down. I’ll show them. I’ll break the world record, bets or no bets. I’ll be famous. I’ll be the fastest banana-eater alive.
CHAPTER 5
“I think I’m in love.”
—JOHN MOORE
“Psst … hey, Arlo.”
“Huh? What do you want, John?”
“Come in here, I want to talk to you.”
John is leaning out of the bathroom door.
“You mean come into the bathroom?” I ask. “No, thanks. The last time I did that, you put shaving cream in my ear.”
“I won’t bother you, Arlo,” John promises. “I want to talk to you about our bet.”
“You heard Dad,” I say. “He said the bet is off.”
“Yeah, I know, I know. I’m talking about another bet. Come on in here so we can talk privately.”
Should I trust John? That is the big question.
“C’mon, Arlo,” he pleads. “I’ve got to get ready for my date with Michelle. I don’t have much time.”
Well, I guess I might as well see what he has up his sleeve. Besides, this should be interesting. It’s worth the risk. Watching John get ready for a date is like watching Porkchop scratch fleas—there’s a lot of action, but nothing seems to get done.
John is shaving. I’m not quite sure why he does this. He only has about twenty hairs on his face, and they’re all blond. You can hardly see them. The way he puts that shaving cream on, you’d think he has a beard like Santa Claus.
“OK, John, what about the bet?” I ask, keeping my distance. John is getting too big, too fast. Those long arms can reach out and grab me like a frog does a fly. I hate being picked on and always losing our wrestling matches.
“Well … Dad said no betting our chores around the house, right?”
“Right,” I answer.
“But he didn’t say we couldn’t bet something else, right?” John asks.
I can tell this is leading somewhere I probably shouldn’t go.
John continues. “So let’s just bet something else—OW!”
He’s just cut himself again. He’d save himself a lot of blood and pain if he’d just shave without a razor blade. No one would know the difference.
“What do you want to bet, John?” I ask.
“Well … how about an extra-large supreme pizza from Papa Dietro’s?”
“An extra-large pizza? Aren’t those really expensive? I don’t have that much in my piggy bank.”
John now has three pieces of toilet paper stuck on his face to soak up the blood from razor nicks.
“I knew you’d back out, Arlo. You can’t eat seventeen bananas in less than two minutes. You’re all talk and no action.”
“You want to bet?” I quickly ask. I’m getting mad again.
“Of course I do, dummy,” he says. “That’s what I’ve been talking about. Hand me that towel, will you? I’ve got to get myself beautiful for tonight. I think I’m in love.”
John turned seventeen last week. Mom and Dad must have given him a head the size of a watermelon for his birthday. He thinks he’s so handsome that Michelle Angier must believe he hung the moon in the sky. Someday, I’m going to ask her what she sees in him. Besides, that is, his two new pimples.
“OK, John, it’s a bet,” I say. “An extra-large supreme pizza for you if I lose, and one for me if I win. Let’s shake on it.”
He grins. “It’s a bet, little brother. You’ve got three weeks to get ready. I’ll mark September twenty-fourth on my calendar.”
September 24. I can taste that pizza now.
“Hey, you guys, open up! I need some water for my goldfish bowl. Louise and Lionel are swimming around in Dad’s coffee cup.”
It’s Kerry, our wonderful sister.
“Beat it, Kerry,” John says. “Arlo and I are having a man-to-man talk.”
“Pig feathers, John. You’ve been talking about the bet.”
“How did you know, Kerry?” I ask. “You been spying again?”
Leave it to Kerry to spy on a private conversation. She must be hiding superbionic ears underneath all that frizzy red hair of hers.
She giggles. “Well, I couldn’t help but hear. This door is awfully thin. They don’t make bathroom doors like they used to, you know.”
“They don’t make sisters like they used to either, do they, Arlo?” John asks.
For once he’s right.
“Aw … c’mon, you guys,” she begs, “let me in. Louise and Lionel might die if they don’t get fresh water. Besides, I need to talk about our bet, too. I thought you might want to bet a few banana splits, Arlo.”
Banana splits. Now she’s talking. I love banana splits.
“How many, Kerry?” I ask.
“I don’t know. How about six?”
Six. I can taste them now. Rich, smooth ice cream, luscious syrup, whipped cream, nuts, mint sprinkles, and a cherry all piled on top of a wonderful ripe banana. Wow.
“Is it a bet, Arlo?” she asks, still talking through the door.
How can I resist?
“It’s a bet, Kerry,” I answer.
I might even eat them all at once. I might even …
“Arlo!” Kerry shouts.
“What?”
“Aren’t you going to open the door so we can shake on it?”
I look at John and shrug. “OK, come on in. You can get some water for Louise and Lionel and watch John get ready for his date, too.”
John has finished shaving and is now applying large amounts of Acnehide to his face. I call it “pimple goop.�
�� He fights a never-ending battle with the evil pimple forces of the deep. I think they live in his closet and sneak out and attack when he’s asleep.
Next he’ll put on enough deodorant to make my dead tennis shoes smell like perfume. I’ve seen this performance before. I think this is Kerry’s first time. She’s watching intently.
After the deodorant comes the mouthwash. John gargles so hard that little droplets come spraying out of his mouth and splatter on the mirror. I’ll have to brush my teeth while looking at myself through dried gargle spots.
And last, but not least, comes the men’s cologne. John is sure that smelling like something other than himself is the secret to a successful date. He then carefully brushes his hair, trying to make sure every strand is in place, and—presto—John Moore, ace lady’s man, is ready.
He turns and looks at Kerry and me. A big smile is on his face. “What do you think? Can Michelle resist this handsome guy?”
Answering that question truthfully could get a little brother or sister in trouble fast. I’m still not sure what someone as smart, friendly, and good-looking as Michelle sees in John.
I think I’ll go watch Louise and Lionel swim around in Dad’s coffee cup. I’ll let Kerry get shaving cream in her ear this time.
CHAPTER 6
“We only have one bathroom.”
—“MOM” MOORE
Getting out of bed in the morning is never easy. But today being the first day of school at Lincoln Elementary makes it even harder.
Maybe I should stay in bed. I could cover my head with my pillow and lie here like a big rock. School would start without me. All the kids would sit at their desks. The teacher would say, “Where is Arlo Moore, the kid who loves bananas?” And some kid with thick glasses and purple lips would say, “Oh, Arlo—he turned himself into a rock.” And everyone would sigh, and the teacher would say, “Please get out a sharpened pencil and a clean piece of paper.”
“Arlo, get up, honey.”
It’s Mom. She hasn’t realized that I’m now nothing more than a rock.
“Come on, dear. Today is a big day, the first day of school.”
That’s exactly why I am now a silent rock.
“Arlo, get up.”
I think she’s figured out my plan. She’s probably not interested in her son being a rock on the first day of fifth grade.
“Your breakfast is almost ready.”
And she probably has figured out how to deal with my plan.
“Or maybe you’d rather eat a blob of cold oatmeal and a piece of burned toast as you run after the school bus you’re going to miss.”
Yep, I think I’ll get up.
Nature calls. I must go to the bathroom. To do this I have to dodge through the dirty clothes, model cars, Monopoly game, and scattered banana peels left around from practicing for my world-record attempt. I do this dodging with the skill that comes from a lifetime of keeping a messy room. I clean it up every week, but it seems to get messy within ten minutes after I’m done. Mom and Dad think it’s a problem. They don’t realize that only messy-room-keepers can make the rapid turns, quick stops, and daring leaps that it takes to get from the bed to the bathroom before it’s too late. I’ve had lots of practice. They should be glad I keep a messy room.
The bathroom door is shut. I’ve arrived here from my bedroom obstacle course with little time to spare. Nature is still calling to me—loudly. It’s Tuesday morning and I’m on the wrong side of the bathroom door.
“Hey Kerry, you about done?” I ask politely and in a calm voice.
There’s no answer. I can hear the water running in the sink. This lets me know that Kerry is brushing her hair. Her hair feels like steel wool. It looks like a porcupine with a permanent, and it makes lots of noise when she brushes it. She has worn out at least three brushes this summer trying to straighten that frizzy red stuff. She does it in the bathroom with the door shut and the water running so no one can hear the sound of a brush being murdered.
“Hey, Kerry, hurry up. I need to use the bathroom.”
“In a minute,” she says.
In a minute may be too late. I’m no longer feeling calm. What I’m feeling is pain. Maybe I should do a favor for all the brushes in the world. Maybe I should mail my sister to the moon.
“A minute is too long. I need in there now.”
“I’m brushing my hair, Arlo,” she says.
“I know you’re brushing your hair. I can hear. Hey, listen. I have to get in the bathroom. Do you understand?”
“Say please.”
Yes. I’ll do a favor for all the brushes of the world. I’ll do a favor for me also—I’ll stuff her into an envelope and send her air mail to the outer reaches of the galaxy.
“Kerry!” I hiss through clenched teeth.
“Say please and I’ll let you in, Arlo.”
I’ve lost control. I’m beating on the bathroom door. I’ve become a wild man filled with the strength of a lion. I’m Bigfoot, about to rip the handle off the door. Then I’ll change into Tyrannosaurus rex, tearing my sister Kerry into little shreds. I’ll be the creature of the black lagoon.…
“Arlo, what’s going on here?”
Help has arrived. Mom seems calm. I’m most definitely not. In pain I shout, “Kerry won’t let me in the bathroom!”
“We all have to share, Arlo. We only have one bathroom,” Mom says. As always, calm.
My kingdom for a million bathrooms. Bathrooms in the hall. Bathrooms in the garage, the attic, and the big pine. A million bathrooms everywhere. Nature calls to me. Very loud it calls.
“But Mom! I need to be in the bathroom now.”
She looks at me. I think she understands.
“Kerry, come on out. Arlo needs to use the bathroom. Hurry up.”
The sound of a brush being murdered stops. The water has quit running in the sink. I’ve been saved, rescued from pain on the wrong side of the bathroom door.
There she is, miserable creature. May the hairbrushes of the world get their revenge. May you go bald at age ten. May you always find the bathroom doors of the world locked. May you …
“Good morning, Arlo.”
Miserable creature.
“Good morning, Kerry.”
CHAPTER 7
“I’d swear to it on a stack of pancakes.”
—BEN HAMILTON
Riding in a school bus makes me feel a little sick to my stomach sometimes. It’s not the motion. It’s not that smell that all school buses seem to have. It’s not even the fact that school buses take you to school every morning. I guess it’s just that I’ve had some bad experiences on school buses. Or maybe embarrassing is a better word.
For example: that bus driver didn’t really have to tell everybody just now about the first time I rode the bus, the first day of school, the first time, ever.
“Oh, I remember you,” she says. “You’re little Arlo Moore. Remember the first time you rode on my bus?”
“Yes. Please don’t remind me,” I say. She reminds me anyway.
“You were so cute,” she says. “On the way home from your first day of school as a first-grader, you sat in the very back seat. You were so small I couldn’t even see you back there.”
I smile and try to get away down the aisle to a seat. Kids are in line behind me, standing on the bus steps and on the sidewalk outside.
“After I had dropped everybody off and driven the bus all the way to the garage,” she says, “I found you.”
Everyone is listening. I’m beginning to turn red with embarrassment.
“And there you were, little Arlo Moore, sitting in the back seat. I asked you where you were supposed to get off the bus and you said, ‘At the green house.’ And I said, ‘Which green house?’ And you said, ‘The big one with my other shoes in it!’”
Kids are giggling.
“And I looked down,” she says, “and there you were …”
Some kids are laughing out loud.
“… You had tied your left shoe t
o your right shoe with a big knot that you couldn’t get undone. You couldn’t stand up or walk. You were stuck back there like a hog-tied grasshopper.”
Howls of laughter fill the bus. Trying to smile, I quickly find a seat. Embarrassing. Very embarrassing. I should have stayed in bed and missed the bus. I should have stayed home and practiced eating bananas.
“Hi, Arlo.”
It’s my best friend, Ben Hamilton. Mrs. Richardson, my next-door neighbor, thinks Ben and I look alike. “Why, you two could be brothers!” she always says. Ben has blond hair. I have dark brown hair. Ben has blue eyes. I have brown eyes. Ben is three inches shorter than me, is right-handed, and talks in a high, squeaky voice. But Mrs. Richardson still thinks we look alike.
“Howdy, Ben. How was summer camp?” I ask.
“Great!” he says, sitting down beside me. “I just got back last Saturday. We got to go canoeing every day. We had horses to ride, pillow fights at night, Cokes for lunch, and homemade ice cream every Sunday night.”
“Wow! Sounds nice.”
“Yeah, but the best part was that I didn’t even have to see my little sister for four straight weeks. I felt like I was in heaven.”
Four straight weeks without having to see your sister. I’ve got to talk to Mom and Dad about summer camp.
“Hey, Arlo, what’s this I hear about you trying to set a world record eating bananas?” Ben asks.
Motor-mouth Kerry, the bathroom hog, strikes again.
“Who told you that, Ben?” I ask, just to confirm what I already know.
“That’s what Kerry is telling everybody. She says you’re going to try to eat seventeen bananas in less than two minutes. Then she starts laughing.”
I feel embarrassed again. The whole school will know about it before morning recess. People will think I’m nuts, just like Kerry and John do. I’ll be the laughing stock of the cafeteria. I’ll probably be pelted with open-faced peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Hostess Twinkies.
“Yeah, well … I thought I might give it a try,” I say quietly.
“I think it’s a great idea, Arlo,” Ben exclaims.
