I'm Going to Be Famous

by Tom Birdseye

  Ben has stopped the stopwatch.

  “But Mike,” I plead, “you trained so hard. You’ve got to try. At least give it a chance.”

  “I just can’t, Arlo. I tried last night. I only ate two quarts. My head hurt so bad, I thought it was going to split wide open. I just can’t do it anymore. I’m sorry.”

  Silence.

  “You’ve worked hard,” Kerry finally says. “That’s all that matters. Ice cream is just not the best food for you to eat, that’s all.”

  We all turn and look at Kerry.

  “You think so? Really, Kerry?” Mike asks.

  “Sure,” she says with a wave of her hand. “You should pick a food that doesn’t hurt your head—like pancakes or grapes, or … peanuts. Yeah, peanuts!”

  Mike’s eyes have lit up like a Halloween pumpkin’s.

  “You know, you’re right, Kerry,” he exclaims. “Peanuts! I love peanuts! Why didn’t I think of that before?”

  I’m getting fidgety. I must get this show back on the road. “OK, Kerry, it’s your turn to try for your world record. Mike can try peanuts some other time.”

  “Good idea, Arlo. Let’s get ready,” Kerry bubbles. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, in the center ring … I will perform at seed-spitting!”

  The Guinness Book of World Records says that the record for spitting a melon seed under WCWSSA (World Championship Watermelon Seed Spitting Association) rules is sixty-five feet, four inches. This was done by John Wilkinson in Luling, Texas, on June 28, 1980.

  Kerry forgot to write the WCWSSA for a set of their rules. She says you just spit, that’s all. And if it goes far enough, you win. Period.

  “OK, you guys, I’m ready,” she says.

  My curly-headed sister is standing on the spitting line. She’s got on Dad’s huge boots with the toe cut off to twelve inches exactly. “My spitting clompers,” she calls them. She’s so pumped up for this, she’s bouncing around like a set of rubber lips.

  “Calm down, Kerry,” John says. “This is a spitting record you’re going for, not a pogo stick contest.”

  “I know, I know,” she assures us. “I’m just getting my energy concentrated. You know, all bundled up into a little power pack. I’m putting it in my throat. Then pow, I let it go at exactly the same time I spit. Zing, I break the world record.”

  “Oh, I see,” John says, not at all convinced.

  And I’m afraid I’m not convinced either. The garage door is open. I can see down the driveway and out onto the street. Mike has his dad’s big measuring tape stretched out to the curb. And way out there, about one-third of the way across Holmes Road, I see Ben. He says he’s standing on the line that is sixty-five feet, four inches from the line Kerry is standing on. That’s how far she has to spit. It’s a long way.

  “Give me the seeds, Arlo,” Kerry says.

  “Oh, yeah. Here you go—three watermelon seeds, just like we agreed. You have three chances to beat the record.”

  “No problem, no problem, Arlo,” she assures me, still bouncing in place.

  Right … no problem.

  “You ready, Ben?” I shout toward the road.

  The distant voice returns. “Yep, fire away.”

  Kerry is concentrating now. She’s building up her power pack. Slowly she arches her body. She tilts her head back and puckers her mouth. She looks like an archery bow with big lips. Her eyes squint. She takes a deep breath, and … ptui, she snaps forward like a band of steel.

  “Twenty-seven feet, nine and one-half inches,” Mike yells from halfway down the driveway.

  “Good spit, Kerry,” I say. “Let it happen, now. Shift into high gear.”

  “Right, Arlo. No problem, no problem.”

  Kerry is dancing around like a boxer in the ring. She’s all concentrated power pack.

  “Ready for number two!” shouts Ben.

  “Ready for number two!” relays Mike.

  Kerry is on the line again. “I’m ready for number two, you guys. Stand back.”

  Once again, Kerry arches her body, puckers her lips, and tilts her head back. John, Michelle, and I stand back.

  “Do it, Kerry,” Michelle whispers.

  “Sssh,” says John.

  Kerry is taking a deep breath. She moans, squints, and … ptui, seed number two leaves the launch pad. Zing, out the garage door. We hold our breath and wait.

  “Thirty-three feet, one inch,” Mike reports from the driveway.

  “Good, Kerry,” I yell. “That was your best yet. You can do it. Let it all go. Don’t hold back. Concentrate!”

  I’m getting excited. She’s really been working at this. What form. What power. Look out, Guinness Book of World Records!

  “Ready for number three!” shouts Ben.

  “Ready for number three!” screams Mike, a little too loud. “C’mon, Kerry, you can do it.”

  “Give me a second, Arlo. I need to bring forth the power of gazonk.”

  “The power of what?” I ask.

  “Gazonk.”

  Kerry is dancing around like our dog, Pork-chop, when he ate a bee. She’s shaking her head and bouncing on her toes.

  “What’s the power of gazonk?” we all want to know.

  “Spit power,” she says. “Concentrated spit power. It’s all in the gazonk. I saved it till last. It’s my secret helper. Seeds number one and two were just warm-ups. This is it. I can feel it.”

  I think her hair is getting frizzier.

  “OK, Kerry,” I say. “Whatever helps. We’re ready for number three.”

  John, Michelle, and I are now backed against Ben’s garage wall. Kerry needs lots of room. Bouncing and boxing, she slowly circles up to the line.

  “Go, Kerry,” Michelle whispers and crosses her fingers. I notice John crosses his fingers, too.

  “Good luck, sis,” he and I both say at the same time.

  Standing with her twelve-inch boots on the line, Kerry arches her back for the third time. If she arched back any farther, I think she’d fall over backward. Maybe those heavy boots hold her to the floor. Her eyes squint, lips pucker, and head tilts. An ear-bonking scream starts low and comes from deep inside my curly-headed, superspitting sister. Watermelon seed number three leaves Ben’s garage with a thunderous gazonk. Zing, and it’s gone.

  CHAPTER 25

  “I can, I can, I can, I can …”

  —ARLO MOORE

  Watermelon seed number three almost hit Mike Snead. He was thirty-nine feet from the line. It then hit the pavement and bounced once. It skidded to a halt exactly forty-two feet, fourteen and three-quarter inches from where Kerry gazonked it.

  We stood in the garage door and looked at Mike, Ben, and watermelon seed number three. And they (except for ol’ number three) looked back. Kerry spoke first.

  “Not bad, huh, Arlo?”

  Not bad was an understatement.

  “It may not be a world record,” she continued, “but you’re looking at the best watermelon-seed-spitter in Seagrove, Oregon, aren’t you, John?”

  John’s mouth was hanging open like mine. “Well …,” he muttered, “I think you’re probably right about that.”

  “That was wonderful!” Michelle exclaimed. And with that, we all started cheering and slapping Kerry on the back and telling her how great she was. She kept saying, “Yes, yes, it’s true, isn’t it. But really, it was no big deal.”

  And we all told her that it was a big deal, and she was the best in Oregon (maybe), and then … and then I realized that Laura McNeil was also standing in Ben’s driveway. Laura McNeil, the most beautiful girl in Lincoln Elementary School. Laura McNeil, who I thought would never speak to me again, whether I broke the world record or not, was standing there in the Saturday-morning sun smiling at me.

  “I thought I’d drop by and see how things were going,” she said. “For a secret meeting, a lot of people sure know about this, including Murray Wallace. He told me he was going to get you guys in big trouble. I thought I should warn you. Murray can be such a �
� well, a nerd.”

  Then Laura McNeil smiled at me again, and I melted into a big puddle of Arlo in love.

  So now I, Arlo Moore, am sitting in front of the card table in Ben’s garage. Seventeen peeled bananas are on a plate in front of me. Seventeen bananas that need to disappear down my throat in less than two minutes. That is, if I’m to break Dr. Ronald Alkana’s world record set at the University of California, Irvine, on December 7, 1973.

  “Are you ready, Arlo?” Ben asks.

  That is the question of the year for me. Am I really ready?

  Kerry says, “I did better than I’ve ever done before, Arlo. You can, too. This is your big chance. This is it.”

  Kerry is right. This is it. I’ve got to do it now. Today is the day. This calls for concentrated effort. This calls for the Positive Brain Approach one more time … for the last time:

  I can, I can, I can, I can …

  “Remember, Arlo. I’m counting on you. I know you can do it.”

  Michelle … she still believes in me. I’ve got to do it, I’ve …

  “Me, too, Arlo. You can do it. I know you can.”

  And Laura, too. Aiyee, the pressure mounts. This is a job for Xexus, alien spacebeing from the planet Zoidtron. With PBA, my alien cosmic power, and bionic strength, maybe I can do it. Concentrate, Arlo Moore, concentrate.

  “Good luck, little brother. Maybe I’ll buy you a pizza, huh?”

  Even hotshot John is behind me. What magic is this? The powers of Xexus must prevail. For the far reaches of the cosmos, banana lovers around the world, and my now-loyal fans, I must excel.

  Ben begins the countdown. “Banana-eater to your mark.”

  This is really it.

  “Get set.”

  I’m concentrating my brain waves, my alien powers, my training, all my banana-eating talents. Five … four … three … two … one …

  “Go!” Ben screams.

  Hi yo, bananas, away.

  “Go, Arlo! Go! Go! Go!” everyone is shouting.

  Eating, eating, bananas down into my stomach. Smoothly and quickly, just like I’ve practiced.

  “Yahoo! Eat those bananas!” Kerry screams in my ear.

  “Thirty-seven seconds and counting!” Ben yells above the noise of the crowd.

  Thirty-seven seconds? I’m behind. I must eat faster.

  Kerry is leading the cheering section. “Go, Arlo! Eat, eat, eat!”

  My hand is moving faster than my mouth. Xexus of Zoidtron, where are you when I need you?

  “One minute!” Ben shouts. “You should be halfway finished. You’ve got to go faster.”

  Faster? I can’t go faster. My stomach is crying out for relief. I’m running out of room for bananas. I’ve only eaten six.

  My fans continue to cheer. “Faster, Arlo. Go! Go! Eat! Eat!”

  Come to me, bionic powers. PBA, Xexus of Zoidtron. Now is the time. Down, bananas, down.

  It’s Ben again. “One minute and seventeen seconds! Keep going, you can do it!”

  Aiyee. I’m failing. I feel sick. I feel weak. My stomach is as tight as a drum head. I’m having trouble breathing. I’m chewing so … so slow.

  “Go, Arlo, go!” Kerry screams. “Hey … look, you guys … it’s Murray. It’s Murray Wallace looking through the garage window. He’s got a camera. He’s taking pictures!”

  What’s all this noise and confusion? Do they realize I can’t do it?

  “Catch him, you guys,” Ben shouts. “He’s running for it! He can get us all in big trouble. Get that camera!”

  Where is everyone going? They’ve all run out of the garage. I’m here all alone and I feel sick. I don’t have any more room in my stomach. I can’t eat those last seven bananas.

  Tears are running down my cheeks. After all that training, all those bets, all those arguments, PBA, and bananas, I’m finally realizing that Murray Wallace is right—I can’t do it.

  Can’t.

  It’s that word again. Am I saying that word to myself? No! I hate that word. I’ve heard that word too many times. I stomp on that word and smash it into tiny banana peels. I grind that word into tiny banana dust. I blow that word into the void of space, flying past Xexus of Zoidtron at the speed of light. Can’t dies a horrible death at the hands of Arlo Moore.

  My time is almost up. I … I’ve got to get rid of these bananas. Can’t will not destroy me. Can’t must become can … Even … even if I have to cheat to do it. Yeah, even if I have to cheat.

  Down bananas

  Down you go,

  Where you stop

  Only I know.

  Into the garbage can

  Hidden away,

  the world record is mine

  today is my day.

  Can’t … says who?

  CHAPTER 26

  “You win the bet.”

  —ARLO MOORE

  The Dairy Dip makes an incredible banana split. They start with a perfect ripe banana cut in half and laid in the bottom of an oval bowl. Then comes the ice cream: three scoops, any flavors you want. The toppings are next: hot fudge, little pieces of almonds and walnuts, and mint sprinkles. And last, they put on three big mountains of whipped cream with a cherry on top of each one. It’s a masterpiece, a true work of art.

  It’s Monday afternoon, September 26, and I’m late for my banana split. I should have been at the Dairy Dip fifteen minutes ago. Instead, I’m walking slowly down Twenty-second Street with one foot on the curb and one foot in the gutter. Up, down, up, down, all at a slug’s pace.

  Kerry, Ben, Laura, Mike, John, and Michelle are all waiting for me. It’s supposed to be a celebration party for me—Arlo Moore, world-record-breaker.

  Ben was the first one back from chasing after Murray Wallace and his camera. He came flying around the corner and into the garage just as the next-to-last banana disappeared into the big garbage can beside the freezer.

  Without blinking an eye, I grabbed number seventeen, the very last banana, and stuffed it in my mouth. And for some strange reason it just slid right down my throat. That banana acted just like it was coated with grease from the hamburger grill at the Seagrove Cafe—zip, slip, and it was gone.

  Ben stood wide-eyed, staring at me and then at the stopwatch he still had in his hand. Then he looked back at me and then back at the watch again.

  “Turn it off Ben,” I said calmly. “I’m finished.”

  “One minute and fifty seconds!” Ben screamed. “He did it! Arlo really did it! He broke the world record for eating bananas!”

  There was a split second right then when I really wanted to tell Ben the truth. I looked up at my best friend standing in front of me, and I really wanted to tell him what I had done with those bananas.

  “Look, Ben,” I wanted to say. “Those six bananas are in the garbage can. I didn’t really break the record. I just tossed them. Out of sight, out of mind, right, Ben? Haw haw. Funny joke, huh, Ben? Haw haw.”

  And there was an instant when I actually opened my mouth to tell the truth, to admit that I was wrong and I’d cheated to cover it up. That was right before Laura McNeil hugged me, and brother John said, “Well, Arlo, I never thought you could do it. I guess that shows how wrong a big brother can be.” I tried to be honest, I really did. The words just wouldn’t come out, that’s all.

  So I just sat there and let Ben keep yelling the news. I just sat there with my mouth hanging open, and without saying a single word, I lied.

  Which all brings me to where I now find myself, like it or not, finally standing outside the Dairy Dip. Even if you walk slow, you eventually get where you don’t want to be. I feel just as bad today as I did in Ben’s garage. Probably even worse. It seems guilt doesn’t go away as quick as indigestion.

  I can see them all through the window. Ben, Mike, Kerry, Laura, Michelle, and John. They’re sitting around the table by the jukebox. They’re waiting for a hero, a world-record-breaker. They’re waiting for somebody with courage.

  Kerry has courage. I never knew it before Sa
turday, but my frizzy-headed sister is a hero. Not only did she put out a supreme, bionic seed-spitting gazonker (without cheating), but today she took on Murray Wallace. It was wonderful.

  Murray walked up to Kerry and me in the hall at school and started bragging about how he was going to get us all in trouble. He held out a roll of film in his hand. Then he told us that he had pictures of everything we did on Saturday.

  “You guys have had it,” he said. “When I get this film developed, I’m going straight to Mrs. Caldwell and then to your mom and dad with the pictures.”

  But before I could even open my mouth, before I could even start to beg for mercy, Kerry grabbed the film right out of Murray’s hand. “Oh, I love pictures!” she exclaimed. “Let’s look at them!” And then, right there in front of Murray, she pulled that exposed film out of the container.

  “You ruined it!” Murray yelled. “You exposed it to the light. You destroyed my film, you little twerp!”

  Kerry just looked at me and smiled. “See, Arlo. Aren’t these beautiful pictures?” she said. I had to agree with her. They were indeed beautiful.

  “You’ll pay for this, you little twerp!” Murray kept yelling. “If you weren’t a little fourth-grade nerd, I’d … I’d … I’d pound you into the pavement!”

  That’s when Murray grabbed the ruined film out of Kerry’s hand and stomped down the hall yelling over his shoulder. “You’ll pay for this, both of you! You haven’t heard the last of Murray Wallace!”

  Mrs. Caldwell sure looked strange when Murray slammed into her. She had walked out of her office, probably to see what all the yelling was about, just as Murray got there, still yelling over his shoulder. Her eyes popped wide open in surprise. Her mouth flew open like she was going to scream, but no noise came out. She and Murray both sailed through the air in slow motion, just like in the movies. They hit the floor at the same time and slid into the office door before they stopped.

  Mrs. Caldwell jumped up faster than I’ve ever seen her move. She grabbed Murray by his hair and yanked him into her office so fast I felt the breeze from thirty feet away.

  I think we may have finally heard the last of Murray Wallace.

  “Hey, Arlo. What are you doing standing out there? Come on in.”