by Tom Birdseye
Aiyee. Ben has spotted me. It’s too late. I’ve got to go in. I’m now walking inside the Dairy Dip like a traitor to the gallows. I’m doomed.
“Hey, you guys. Look who’s here,” Ben says with a big grin. “It’s Arlo Moore, world-record-breaker.”
I can’t stand this.
“Yay, Arlo!” everyone cheers.
“Great, Arlo! Way to go,” Kerry shouts (of course).
“Have a seat, champ,” Mike says, offering me a chair.
“You did it, Arlo! I knew we could count on you,” Michelle says, giving me a hug. Laura just smiles her big, blue-eyed, warm, fuzzy smile.
This is too much. I need to shrivel to the size of a mosquito. I need to be swatted like a buzzing little pest. That’s what I deserve.
“And guess what, Arlo?” Ben asks.
Please, nothing more. Let me just dribble down a drain and flow into the ocean.
“What, Ben?” I ask. “I don’t feel like guessing.”
“The letter came today!” he exclaims.
“The letter? What letter?” I ask.
“You know. The letter from Norris McWhirter, editor and compiler of the Guinness Book of World Records. It came in the mail today. It’s probably got all the information in it on how to prove that you did what you did, right, Arlo?”
I fiddle with my jacket zipper. Guilt is bouncing through my body, cringing my nose, elbow, and toes.
“I thought you should open it since you’re the champion,” Ben continues. “Here, you do the honors,” he says, handing me the letter.
He means cheater. I’m a cheater, not a champion. Nobody needs to prove that to the Guinness Book of World Records.
“Go on, Arlo, open it,” Laura says, looking at me with her bright blue eyes and wonderful smile.
I can’t go on anymore. I can’t stand this. I look at them and try to talk. “Hey, you guys … Ben … Laura … Kerry … Mike … John … Michelle …”
This is terrible. I feel like a kick starter on a mule, a complete waste of everybody’s time.
“What is it, Arlo?” Kerry asks. “Why aren’t you opening the letter? Are you feeling OK?”
If she only knew—but that’s it. She should know … they all should know … and I’ve got to tell them … now.
I finally speak. “I’ve got to tell you something … about Saturday … and the world record …”
“What is it, Arlo?” Michelle wants to know. “We’re listening.”
Here goes. Goodbye, friends. Goodbye, family. Goodbye, cruel world.
“I cheated,” I say softly, my voice hoarse.
Silence.
“You what?” Ben asks.
“I … I cheated on Saturday. I didn’t really eat seventeen bananas in less than two minutes.”
Silence. Silence. And more silence. I’m no longer human. They’ll never speak to me again. I’m a cheater. I deserve it.
I go on. “And I want to apologize to all of you. I cheated and I lied. And I don’t deserve a party.”
Silence.
I think I’ll go shrivel up and crawl into a crack in the sidewalk.
I get up to leave. “Goodbye. See you guys later … maybe.”
And so I leave my former happy life. Dragging heavy feet toward the door, I face guilt and shame forever.
“See, I told you he’d come through in the end,” I hear Michelle say.
What’s this? Who is she talking about?
“Yep, you were right, Michelle, you win the bet,” John says.
What bet? What in the name of a monkey’s elbow is he talking about?
“I was beginning to wonder myself,” says Kerry. “I thought he’d never level with us.”
They’re talking about me. They’re talking about Arlo Moore, cheater and liar supreme.
“Not me. I was sure he would,” says Laura. “He just needed a little time, that’s all.”
“I told you so,” says Ben. “I’ve known Arlo for a long time. We go way back. When I found those bananas in the garbage can, I knew he would eventually tell the truth. He just needed some time, that’s all. He’s a great banana-eater but a lousy liar. Right, Arlo?”
The garbage can. So they know. They all know I threw the bananas away, that I cheated.
But they’re smiling. They’re looking at me and they’re smiling.
“Right, Arlo?” Ben asks again, his grin getting even wider.
Nobody forgives what I did … do they? Sausageheads like me don’t get smiles. We get pelted with open-faced peanut butter sandwiches and squirted with slug juice … right?
“Come back here and sit down, Arlo,” says Mike Snead. “We’re going to eat some ice cream, and we’re going to eat it S-L-O-W.”
EPILOGUE
“When I think about it, I guess she’s right.”
—ARLO MOORE
I still eat bananas sometimes. I like to sit up in the big pine tree on a warm day and slowly peel that luscious fruit, and eat it inch by inch, bit by bit … carefully … in slow motion. And I imagine that I’m a chimpanzee, with nothing to do but be lazy and pretend I’m Kerry’s ten-year-old brother in disguise.
Every now and then, when the sun is shining and a warm breeze is blowing off the ocean and singing through the needles of the big pine, I think about breaking a world record.
I can close my eyes and see myself doing it. I can hear the fans yelling my famous name. I can smell the aroma of roses and I can taste victory. And I really think I could do it.
But I don’t talk about any of that to anybody. That’s just between me, the big tree, and my new edition of the Guinness Book of World Records.
And if I do try again, it’ll be for the fun of it and because it makes me feel good to try. That’s all. No bets. No cramming food down my throat. No indigestion. No weird me driving my fifth-grade brain bananas. And for sure no lies.
I’ve paid off all of my bets. Kerry said she wanted watermelons instead of banana splits. She now has a set of the official World Championship Watermelon Seed Spitting Association rules. Almost any sunny afternoon you can find her spitting and clomping around the backyard in her twelve-inch spitting boots. Mike Snead eats peanuts and watches. Kerry is practicing for next year’s national spitting contest in Luling, Texas. Dad says no. Mom smiles and calmly says, “We’ll see.” Kerry says, “Gazonk! Gazonk!”
Laura McNeil and I sit next to each other in Mr. Dayton’s fifth-grade class, room 11. She told Murray Wallace that she would talk to whomever she wants to, no matter who won our bet, and that she definitely didn’t want to talk to him. Ben snickers and says I’m in love. That’s when I usually punch him in the arm.
John got his pizza. He and Michelle and I went out to Papa Dietro’s for an extra large supreme pizza, which I paid for. My piggy bank is now empty. But John had to pay for the Cokes. That’s what he gets for betting Michelle that I wouldn’t tell the truth about cheating instead of eating. Michelle says she believed in me. She says she knew I could do it. And when I think about it, I guess she’s right.
Who knows … I might even be famous someday.
About the Author
As a kid, Tom Birdseye was decidedly uninterested in writing—or any academic aspect of school, for that matter—never imagining that he would eventually become a published author. And yet, nineteen titles later—novels, picture books, and nonfiction—that is exactly what has happened. His work has been recognized for its excellence by the International Reading Association, Children’s Book Council, National Council of Social Studies, Society of School Librarians International, Oregon Library Association, and Oregon Reading Association, among others. Combined, his books have either won or been finalists for state children’s choice awards forty-three times. Life, it seems, is full of who’d-a-thought-its. He lives and writes in Corvallis, Oregon, but launches mountaineering expeditions to his beloved Cascades on a regular basis.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion
thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1986 by Tom Birdseye
Cover design by Connie Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-4976-4591-2
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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