by Betty Hicks
“Or we could stuff them in cupcakes,” says Eric.
“Killer!” shouts Parker, jumping up and down. “Or cram them in Hostess Twinkies!”
“Perfect!” I exclaim. Then great idea number two hits me. “Hey! This could be a science project.”
Eric is quiet for a second, thinking. Then he grins. “You could call it ‘The Digestive Impact of Winged Insects on the Human Gastrointestinal Tract.’”
“Huh?” says Parker, who suddenly stops moving and stares.
“Nasty, scratchy, gassy guts,” Eric explains, laughing out loud and punching the air.
“Cool!” exclaims Parker, happily hopping again. “Or ‘Protein Twinkies’!” he shouts.
“‘Protein Twinkies—Healthy or Hazardous?’” I scream.
We are all so pumped we may explode.
ERIC
Journal Entry #178
Gambits:
Avalanche = rock, rock, rock
Bureaucrat = paper, paper, paper
Toolbox = scissors, scissors, scissors
Paper Dolls = p, s, s
Fistful o’ Dollars = r, p, p
Crescendo = p, s, r
Scissor Sandwich = p, s, p
Rock—the most aggressive throw. Think of it as a weapon. Some players fall back on it when losing.
Scissors—the clever throw. Think of it as a tool. Arts and crafts. An outflanking maneuver used by confident players. Or, it can be considered aggressive. Think sharp—a weapon.
Paper—the most subtle. Some players think surrender—open palm. Others link paper to writing—power of the printed word. Know your opponent. Will he think paper is wimpy? Or strong?
Cloaking—delay your throw intentionally. Trick a hand watcher into thinking you’ll throw rock.
Shadowing—pretend to throw one thing, then switch at the last second. Caution: very risky—the ref may claim you changed too late. Safer to twitch fingers during the prime, then throw rock.
Tells—think poker player’s face. Hand, face, or body movements broadcast opponent’s next move. Personal trainer can help you watch.
False tell—let your opponent see your mannerisms, then fake him out.
Important:
“Think twice before using RPS for life-threatening decisions.”—Rule #6 of The World RPS Player’s Responsibility Code.
Parker
Could the RPS tournament get any better?
Yes.
Frank was going to referee. Mom would charge a dollar to be anybody’s personal trainer.
Thirty-two dollars in entry fees had been collected already, and word was spreading faster than the flu.
Parker wished V would help.
Lily
“This is going to be amazing,” says Cassie, as she tapes another one of my RPS ads onto a gym locker.
“Yeah,” I agree. I’m really proud of how well all this is working.
“And all of Eric’s friends will be there!” she exclaims. “Who do you think is cuter, Will or Jason?”
Her question totally throws me. For two reasons.
One, I have never thought of tenth-grade boys as anything but scary.
And two, she’s right. Eric has friends. Lots of them. They call our house ten times a day—asking Eric for RPS strategies. Asking where they can buy tickets. Asking if we’re really going to eat bugs.
RPS has become the “in” thing for guys—grades nine through twelve. Girls are coming around slower, but there’s hope. Yesterday, I swear I spotted Miss Prom Queen playing RPS with two friends behind the gym.
Parker has totally psyched grades K through four. I just pray we can get this tournament over with before the high school kids see all those hyper kindergartners and decide it’s dumb.
I think we’re safe. All the older kids are into metastrategies like Rusty and Crystal Ball. And technical terms like “synching the prime,” or knowing how many cubits of distance is legal between one fist and another.
“Well?” says Cassie.
“Well what?” I ask.
“Jason or Will?”
“Oh. I don’t know. Jason, I guess.”
Cassie sighs. “I like Will better.”
Like it matters.
“Cassie,” I feel forced to point out, “you do know that Jason and Will wouldn’t notice us if we were”—I search frantically for a word—“naked.”
Cassie giggles at the crazy picture that is suddenly in both of our heads. “Come on, Lily. They would, too.”
She’s right. They would. Suddenly I can’t stop laughing, either.
Cassie tapes up two more ads, giggling softly to herself. Then she gets quiet and asks, “What about V? Is she helping with the tournament yet?”
“No,” I say, “but she and Mom are BFF.”
“No way!” says Cassie. “Your mom? And V? Best friends forever? How?”
“V volunteers for chores like it’s some kind of Better Homes and Housekeeping contest.”
“Doesn’t that make you mad?”
“No.” At least, I don’t think it does. Mom needs help, and I’m way too busy with RPS and my science project to lose much sleep over V, even if she did kill my flower.
“I don’t care what she does,” I add in a voice that comes out way louder than I meant for it to.
“It’d make me mad.” Cassie jams her hands on her hips. “I bet she’s trying to get you back for hanging out with her dad in his workshop.”
Sometimes Cassie is way too dramatic for me. “You should see how my science project is coming,” I say. “I’ve researched everything there is to know about cicadas—where they live, whether you can eat them, what their nutritional value is. It’s all drawn up on a poster, with pictures and everything. All I need to finish it are comments from the crazy people who eat them at the tournament.”
“Do you really think anyone will do that?” Cassie makes a face like she swallowed a lemon.
“Parker’s friends will. They can’t wait.” I tear off a strip of Scotch tape and hand it to her. “They’ll scarf them down like Tic Tacs.”
“Scarf? Does that mean eat?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you know you talk funny since your family got teenagers?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool.” Cassie scans the locker room, then tapes one more ad over the exit door. “Your bug project’s cool, too,” she says. “Mrs. Finley will wear out her red marker writing, ‘Inventive! Ingenious! Imaginative!’”
I twist my mouth into an even barfier version of Cassie’s previous yuck face and add, “‘Indigestion.’”
I lean over, pick up my leftover ads, and slide them neatly inside my backpack.
It makes me feel good that Cassie thinks I talk older. But what about the other thing she said? About V and Mom? Is V getting me back?
“So,” I ask Cassie, “do you really think Mrs. Finley will like it?”
“Totally,” she says.
“I hope so.” I zip my pack closed with one firm, fast motion. “That’ll show V she’s not the only one who can make an A.”
Cassie turns and gives me a confused look.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says. “Only…” She hesitates. “Two minutes ago, you said you didn’t care what V does.”
V
Hi! This is Misty, breathed a soft voice. I’m out right now, but leave your number and I’ll ring back.
“Misty?” I stared at the telephone. Since when had Melissa, my mother, become Misty? And ring back? Who said that? Not my mom.
Had living in L.A. made her go Hollywood? Was she trying to land some movie part where she needed to sound sexy and stupid?
Why not? I never heard from her anymore, so anything was possible.
I missed my mom.
I missed Ben.
I missed Chicago.
Heck, I even missed Eric—the brother who’s here, but not here. And sharing Dad was taking some getting used to. But at least Mary Beth had discovered me. Finall
y.
She promised to take me to the new Italian market today—the one that just opened next to the Better Bread Basket. Would all these new specialty shops hurt Dad’s fresh-foods grocery business? I felt a little bit like a traitor shopping at Milvio’s, but they carry real Tuscan spices for my spaghetti, and Dad’s stores don’t.
I wandered off looking for him, thinking, he’s gotten extra good olive oil shipped in from Italy before. Why not spices?
I stopped.
The door to his workshop gaped wide open. “I’m proud of you,” came Dad’s voice from inside.
My ears burned. Was he talking to Lily? Proud of her for my soccer-ball idea?
“No big deal,” muttered Eric.
Eric! Dad was talking to Eric.
Proud of him for what? My soccer-ball idea?
I wouldn’t mind that.
“It is a big deal,” answered Dad. “You’ve earned enough money to buy your own car—”
“Hearse,” said Eric.
I could hear Dad sigh all the way from where I was eaves-dropping.
“I’d rather you bought a car,” he said. “But it’s your money, son. And you’ve done your homework on the insurance. And even raised enough money for that, too. I’m extremely proud of you.”
Silence.
Dad’s voice was warm and fuzzy. Practically glowing. Exactly what Eric needed. Why didn’t he answer? Can he hear only negative-Dad?
“How’s the RPS plan coming?” asked Dad.
“Fine,” said Eric, in a way that really meant, can I go now?
Fine? How uninformative could you get?! Where was the Eric who exploded with RPS ideas? The Eric who wanted me to figure out the profits for the best moneymaking project in the history of the world?
“Is V helping?” Dad asked.
“No.” Eric’s voice shot out through the open door, hard and flat.
“Son,” said Dad in a sympathetic tone, “all this has been hard on V.”
“All what?” answered Eric, his voice rising.
“Our new family … her mom—gone … Ben.” The last word a whisper. “It’s difficult for her.”
“Her?!” Eric exploded. “Her?!”
“It’s difficult for you, too,” said Dad. “But you’re older. And easier, and—”
Easier? What did Dad mean, Eric was easier? Didn’t I help around the house, and get good grades, and … and … communicate! For God’s sake, I’m easy!
“I’ll do what I can,” muttered Eric.
The scraping sound of my chair meant Eric was getting up. I rushed back into the house and slammed the door, ready to bolt straight into the seclusion of my room.
“How’s my Italian spice girl?” exclaimed Mary Beth, standing by the kitchen door dangling her car keys in one hand, her hair up in a twist. “Ready to go?”
“Um … what … no,” I said, panicking. Fighting back tears. The last thing I wanted to do was be in a car with Mary Beth. With anybody!
Which was worse? For her to see me crying? Or to seem difficult for not going?
I swallowed the ache in my throat and swiped at my eyes.
“Sure—let’s go. I’m easy,” I lied.
ERIC
Journal Entry #179
Dad expects me to be Superman. Like I can fix everything—and everybody.
He hates my hearse.
Journal Entry #180
“Eat my shorts.”—Bart Simpson
Lily
I thought tournament day would never get here, but it has. Tomorrow a jillion people will magically appear in our backyard, ready to do hand-battle and spend money. I hope.
The RPS stickers and the grand prize T-shirt finally got here. A very cutting-it-close two days ago. Eric has been losing it all week. Not the package. His cool.
“The tracking number says it’s in Atlanta!” he screamed. “Yesterday it was in New York! It flew over us!”
“Maybe Atlanta is a sorting hub,” said Mom. “You know, a checkpoint location where everything has to go before it comes here.”
“And maybe it’s not,” Eric groaned.
Even Frank looked worried. But he was clearly trying to stay out of our plans. He’s big on all of us being leaders. Especially Eric.
But, the prizes did finally get here. The stickers are funky, and the T-shirt is worth every penny of its $18.50 price tag. It’s black with a medium-sized blue circle. Inside the circle are three muscle-men silhouettes throwing rock, paper, and scissors. Every player will want it so bad they’ll enter twice—maybe three times.
Eric would kill for it—it’s so him.
Everything else is almost ready. Parker and I are in the kitchen, stuffing scaly frozen cicadas into Hostess Twinkies. We totally messed up the first three, until we figured out that we needed to fold the wings tighter and stuff them in headfirst.
I especially try not to look at their beady red eyes and wonder how they’d taste. Or even worse—feel. Do insect eyes crunch or squish?
The only good thing about this project is that when I cram a cicada in, half the filling squirts out. Which means I get to eat the creamy part.
Parker went nuts when he got to the grocery store with Mom. He discovered Shrek Twinkies, specially made with ogre-green cream filling instead of the regular white stuff. “Same great taste!” shouted the box.
So he freaked and bought twelve 10-packs. Even I can figure out that that’s 120 non-returnable gross-colored Twinkies!
Mom tried to talk him out of it, but somehow he convinced her that he’d make a profit. He’s planning to sell them for double the forty-two dollars of our ticket money that he paid for them. But 120! I think that’s way too many. He thinks it’s way not enough.
I try to do more math.
We’ve sold fifty-four tickets so far, which gives us $108, minus $42 for Twinkies, $9.60 for lemonade, and $33.50 for prizes. Plus $25 that Papa Bud donated, minus $6 a ball for postage, minus another $1.75 for the three Twinkies we ruined and the two that Parker ate. All of which means we can buy … I don’t know how many balls.
V says, with the 50 percent discount she talked the Sport Shop into, we can buy three good ones or six crummy ones. Maybe even a few more if we find a cheaper way to ship them, but a whopping five to nine more if Parker sells out of his bug snacks. The Insect-insides are clearly our biggest profit item. If they’re a hit.
And one monster-green loss if they’re not.
The whole thing reminds me of impossible word problems. Like if Jack has ten dollars to buy twenty apples that are scheduled to arrive Tuesday on a river barge traveling upstream at thirty miles an hour, will the apples be red or green?
Thank goodness, V has decided to help. Numbers make my brain ache.
Lately, she’s been strange, though. Agreeing out of nowhere to keep the money totals for the tournament. One day she just appeared, smiled as if everything in our stressed-out house was normal, and said, “I’m in.”
Too bad she didn’t take over the books before Parker overspent half our money.
Since then, she’s painted my toenails Cranberry Crazy, told me I had pretty teeth, cut my hair so it actually has style, and talked me into getting two new tops that aren’t T-shirts. She even gave me two good suggestions for improving my science project. Still no apology, but she’s clearly going for a gold medal in getting along.
Fine. Papa Bud always says it’s important to turn the other cheek. So I’m trying to get over it. Move on. Forgive and forget.
Besides, Eric told me that hanging on to old hurts won’t make anybody miserable but me. Did he read that in one of his books, or did he learn it the hard way?
Whichever. Today, I’m more worried about how many people will eat Parker’s cicadas. Cassie thinks more people will show up than the ones who actually compete. I hope so.
I also hope they like Insect-insides. A lot. But just in case they don’t, I’m going to put out a donation jar. I called the newspaper to place an ad, but it was way too expensive. So totally
beyond our budget that I didn’t have to do any math to figure it out—no way, José.
“Stop eating the Twinkies!” I yell at Parker, who apparently thought I wasn’t looking.
“Look!” screeches V, rushing into the room clutching a newspaper. Her face is radiating so much panic I wonder if she’s just read about a permanent ban on nail polish.
“What?” I ask, licking cream off my finger, and getting a yummy whiff of sugar and moist yellow sponge cake in spite of the slime green color. Fortunately, frozen cicadas have almost no smell at all.
“This!” she shouts, thrusting the paper in my face.
“Election Primaries Postponed,” I read.
“No!” she says. “The headline under that.”
“Cicada Allergy Kills Forty-Three-Year-Old Man”
“Kills!” I exclaim. “Kills how?”
“He ate one,” says V, waving her hands. “And he died.”
Parker’s eyes open rounder than the plates we’re stacking the Twinkies on. His mouth falls open.
“Did he choke?” Parker asks feebly.
“No,” says V. “He had an allergy to shellfish. And maybe that made him have an allergic reaction to bugs. And maybe it didn’t. The doctors don’t know.”
Parker blinks a couple of times, clearly trying to focus on what this means. Then he closes his mouth, stands as tall as he can, and announces, “Okay. So. We won’t sell any cicadas to allergic people.”
I feel so sad. For him. For me. For all of us. We can never sell the cicadas now, and I know it.
“Fine by me,” says V, faking a half-hearted smile. “I’m easy.”
What is with her? All of a sudden, “I’m easy” has become her favorite expression. Of course we can’t feed people killer cicadas! Is she crazy?
I stare at our piles of Insect-insides. A hundred and twenty little bitty possible death traps—minus five.
A third of our profits. Gone. Or would it be more like half? Two-fifths?
I have no clue what percentage of our money just dropped directly into the garbage can. But I do know that all of my science project just got an F.
