My Life as a Potato

by Arianne Costner

  She frowns. Maybe frizzy is a bad thing. “I mean nice and shiny?”

  “Flattery won’t work. Did you throw this hot dog, yes or no?”

  My smile drops, along with my stomach. It’s over. I’ll get detention, my parents will freak, and I definitely won’t get to go to the basketball game tonight—all because of a stupid hot dog. This is so embarrassing.

  I’m not ready to give up. “Aren’t I innocent until proven guilty?”

  She arches an eyebrow. “You’re not going to make us review the video footage in the cafeteria, are you?”

  Video footage? What is this, a prison?

  I open my mouth, but it takes a while for anything to come out. “I didn’t mean to hurt him,” I finally manage. “Honest.” I look her in the eye, hoping she realizes I mean it. Hoping she realizes this isn’t like me.

  She smirks. “Well, I’m glad you confessed, because there are no video cameras in the cafeteria. Follow me.”

  Dang. She’s good.

  I trudge behind her as we weave our way through the halls, a total walk of shame. Who else in this hallway saw me get busted? Chucking hot dogs is cool. Getting in trouble is not. You’re supposed to be sneaky about it.

  “Principal Jensen does not tolerate food-throwing,” Ms. Jones calls over her shoulder. I wish she wouldn’t talk so loud.

  But wait. We’re going to the principal’s office? I’ve managed to never speak to a principal in my entire life, a streak I did not plan on breaking. I think I’m gonna be sick.

  Ms. Jones has me sit in a chair by the secretary’s desk as she steps into the principal’s office. My ears won’t stop ringing. Mom used to say that meant people were talking about you. I guess she was right.

  After a few long minutes, Ms. Jones comes back out. “Principal Jensen will see you now,” she says before she leaves to return to the cafeteria. My stomach lurches. Here we go. I walk to the door, turn the handle, and step inside.

  I’m hit with the smell of old books and new leather. On the wall hangs a picture of Principal Jensen with his wife and daughters, two little girls with matching pigtails.

  “Hello, hello!” the principal says. Against his dark brown skin, his perfect smile gleams beneath a thin mustache. I don’t believe it—it’s like he’s actually happy to see me.

  The man sitting across from him, however, is clearly not. “Hmph,” he grunts. It’s Coach Tudy, the gym teacher and basketball coach. What’s he doing here?

  “Take a seat, Ben.” Principal Jensen motions to the fancy swivel chair in front of his desk. I sit and resist the urge to swivel.

  Coach Tudy glares at me, his bald white head gleaming under the fluorescent lighting. He’s a seriously tough guy—and his muscles would agree—despite his hilarious last name, which is pronounced tooty.

  I met Coach in the front office when Mom was registering me for classes on my first day of school. “You play sports?” he asked. I told him that I skateboard but not much else. “That’s not a sport, boy!” he said in a voice that, at its lowest volume, could wake a corpse. “Doesn’t even use a ball.” Then he stomped away, shaking his head and muttering something about kids not being the same these days.

  I try to ignore Coach Tudy’s glare and focus on Principal Jensen instead. He clears his throat, and his mustache twitches. “I understand we had a little…accident in the cafeteria today?” He’s acting like I’m a five-year-old who peed his pants.

  “Not just a little accident,” Coach Tudy says. “He tripped my star mascot!”

  Star mascot? I’ve heard of star quarterbacks. Star basketball starters. But star mascot? Really?

  Principal Jensen gives Coach an understanding nod and then looks at me. “Three years ago, we had a massive food fight in the cafeteria. One girl slipped on some Jell-O and fell into a trash can. Fractured her wrist. Since then, we take food-throwing very seriously around here.”

  I try not to laugh at the image of legs kicking out of the top of a trash can. I thought food fights only happened in movies. Maybe this school is cooler than I thought.

  “So,” Principal Jensen says, scrunching up his face with regret, “considering your actions could have started another food fight, this could definitely warrant suspension.”

  “What?” I blurt. This isn’t fair! I mean, it’s not like I’m innocent, but suspension? That’s for kids who ditch class and get into fistfights. If I get suspended my first month at a new school, I’ll be forever known as a Bad Kid. I’m not brooding enough to pull that off!

  Principal Jensen shrugs, slowly and dramatically. “In situations like these, we normally meet with your parents and set some behavioral goals.”

  My parents? They’ll kill me! How can I get Principal Jensen to show some mercy? I lower my voice and widen my eyes. “Please, sir. They’re already worried sick about my dog’s worms. We don’t want to add another thing to their plate.”

  Principal Jensen chortles to himself and leans back in his chair. I’m clearly not getting any sympathy here.

  He doesn’t get it. Back in fifth grade, my math teacher complained to my mom that I would read books during class. Books! She grounded me for two weeks. If that offense equaled two weeks, then this will equal—oh, let me do the math—forever! I’ll never get to hang out with Hunter and Ellie again. Just when I was getting used to having real friends.

  “I’ll do anything.” I widen my eyes with all the sincerity I can muster. “I messed up, but I promise it will never happen again. Isn’t there anything I can do?”

  “In fact, there is.” Principal Jensen looks suddenly delighted. “Coach Tudy has a generous proposition for you. Take it from here, Coach.”

  Coach Tudy crosses his beefy arms and grunts. “When Wyatt fell, he rolled his ankle. Pretty nasty sprain, swelled up like a balloon. He’ll need two weeks of rest. Maybe three.”

  The mascot got injured because of me? Guilt plops in my stomach like a brick.

  “I want you to sub for him,” Coach says. “There are four games left in the season, including the one tonight. If we make playoffs, Wyatt should be able to take over again.”

  “Wait. You want me to be the mascot?” Now, in a normal school, subbing for the mascot wouldn’t be a huge deal, but we are the South Fork Spuds. Spuds. I’d have to dress up like a potato. The same potato everyone was just laughing at in the cafeteria. I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing that ridiculous costume.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “What if I led a few cheers or something? Like a school-spirit leader.” Still embarrassing, but at least I could wear my own clothes.

  Coach leans forward, his whistle dangling menacingly around his neck. “Are you seriously trying to bargain with me? I’m doing you a favor, kid.”

  “I’d just rather not wear the costume.”

  “It’s part of the deal. Take it or leave it.”

  “But everyone will laugh at me—”

  “Seems you like making people laugh.”

  “And it’s a potato—”

  “Our school founders were potato farmers,” Principal Jensen cuts in.

  “So I’ve heard.” I grimace.

  In middle school, it’s easy to get stuck with a label, and it’s nearly impossible to peel it off. I’d hate to be known as the dorky potato mascot for the rest of my school career. But I’d also hate to be known as the kid who got suspended. For the first time in my life, people seem to respect me and know who I am. I just had the whole basketball table chanting for me. I can’t mess this up.

  I picture everyone laughing at the Spud in the cafeteria. But I also picture Mom’s disappointed face. And people whispering in the halls: Did you hear the new kid got suspended? The back of my neck burns at the thought.

  At least as the mascot, I’ll be covered up. No one has to know it’s me.

  “Fine. I’ll do it.”
I hardly believe the words as they exit my mouth. “But no one can know about this. No one.”

  “Sure,” says Coach. “Mum’s the word. Now, how do you get home after school?”

  “I walk.”

  “All right. Meet me in the gym before you head home. You’ll try on the suit and we’ll go over instructions.”

  “Yes, Coach,” I grumble.

  Principal Jensen clasps his hands together. “Well, well. Looks like we’ve found a solution that makes everyone happy. Isn’t compromise wonderful?” He scribbles out a tardy pass and hands it to me. I turn to leave.

  “Wait, Hardy,” Coach says before I can escape. “I have your word you’ll do all four games?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  He holds out his hand and we shake on it. My fingers crunch under his firm grip.

  This might go down in history as the worst deal ever made.

  3

  Let the Lies Begin

  When the final bell rings, I head to the gym. I’ve got a date with a potato suit.

  I can’t believe it’s come to this.

  Halfway down the hall, a deep voice calls after me. “Hey, Ben. Come here.”

  Duke Watters, the leader of the “chuck it” chant, leans against his locker and nods at me. He’s the basketball team’s center, and possibly the only redhead in the world who never got made fun of for his hair color. At five foot eight, he towers over the other seventh graders and likes to stick little pieces of paper in the hair of whoever’s sitting in front of him during class.

  Did he find out I’m the mascot? If so, I’m doomed. I wouldn’t be shocked if Coach let it slip, and in a school with fewer than two hundred students, word travels faster than a hot dog flying through the air.

  I draw in a deep breath and head over. Stay cool.

  Duke lifts his chin. I brace for the worst.

  “I didn’t think you were actually gonna throw the hot dog today. That was hilarious.”

  Well, that was unexpected.

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to sound like I didn’t just almost have a heart attack. “They give us rubber meat. What else are we supposed to do with it?”

  “Dude, and when the mascot tripped…” He mimics the flailing arms, and I can’t help but laugh. His impression is spot-on.

  “Spudboy didn’t know what hit him!” I say.

  “Spudboy. Ha! That’s got a nice ring to it.”

  And just like that, I’ve created my new nickname. It was pretty dumb to make fun of the very mascot I’m about to become.

  Duke lowers his voice. “I saw Ms. Jones talking to you after lunch. Did you get busted?”

  “Nah.” I shrug like no big deal, knowing he’ll think it’s cooler if I snuck away uncaught. “I just complimented her hair and she let it slip.”

  “Smooth!” He smacks my hand, and I try to keep from wincing. Duke high-fives pretty hard.

  “See that guy over there?” Duke motions down the hall to a scrawny kid with ghostly-white skin. His large orange jacket puffs out like a Cheeto. I recognize him from our English class. He called the teacher Mom the other day, and that’s all I really know about him.

  “Mitch, right?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. The weird one. I saw him pointing you out to Ms. Jones right before she tried to bust you. Thought you should know.”

  Really? Mitch has always seemed nicer than that. I think back to earlier in the cafeteria. I try to remember what I saw. You know what? I did see Ms. Jones go up to a kid in an orange jacket. Right before the bell rang.

  What the heck? What does Mitch have against me? I even lent him my pencil once. Come to think of it, he never gave it back.

  “What a snitch,” I say.

  “Mitch the Snitch!” says Duke. “Ha!”

  “Maybe I should report him for having the world’s ugliest jacket,” I say. “He looks like a traffic-cone-colored marshmallow.”

  Duke tosses his head back and laughs like I’m a stand-up comedian. “Ah, man. It’s true.”

  So maybe that was mean, but at least it made Duke laugh. Besides, Mitch deserves it. It’s thanks to him I’m gonna have to dress like a potato. I should charge him for that pencil he borrowed. Plus interest.

  Duke opens his locker, and a handful of sparkly four-leaf clovers falls to the floor. It’s like a leprechaun exploded in there. The locker is stuffed with green glitter, paper clovers, and mini pom-poms.

  Duke pulls out a piece of green paper and reads it:

  I’d be LUCKY to go to the Winter Dance with you.

  Paris

  I recognize that name. She’s the girl with a blue streak in her hair. She’s always with Jayla.

  “Dang it, Paris.” Duke brushes glitter off his pants. “I’m gonna be sparkly for days.”

  I can’t believe it. He just got asked to a dance, and he’s not even fazed. If that happened to me, I’d probably pass out.

  I heard there was a girl-ask-guy dance coming up, but I didn’t believe anyone would actually take dates. Last year I went to my school’s sixth-grade Spring Fling, and it was just a bunch of kids either standing awkwardly in the corner or jumping around.

  Literally jumping. There was a bouncy house.

  “Has anyone asked you yet?” Duke says, shaking off his backpack. It’s weird he assumes I’m gonna get asked.

  “No,” I say, and to be honest, I’d rather it stay that way. Having to make conversation while attempting to dance? No thanks.

  Jayla and Paris jump out from behind the corner down the hall and start cracking up. “Glitter-bombed!” yells Jayla. She’s still in her red-and-black outfit from the pep rally at lunch.

  They make their way toward us, and my stomach flips like I’m at the top of Splash Mountain. I can already feel my tongue swelling up.

  “Hey, I gotta go,” I blurt, and book it in the opposite direction. Behind me, the girls catch up to Duke and start waving the glittery clovers all over him. Close call.

  With the exception of Ellie and blood relatives, my general policy is to stay clear of girls—especially ones I like. It always ends in disaster.

  Evidence #1: Fifth grade. Wilson Elementary School cafeteria. Jenny Phillips said, “Hey, how are you?” and I said, “Burrito.” Burrito. Why? Because I was eating a burrito, and it was the first word that came to mind. We never spoke again.

  Evidence #2: Sixth grade. Roosevelt Middle School hallway. Natasha Mendoza waved at me. When I waved back, I spilled my water bottle. Worse, the water splashed in a very unfortunate place, and Jimmy Rogers told everyone I had peed my pants. I’ll never forgive Jimmy.

  Evidence #3: Last semester. Ms. Carola’s math class. Sunny Matthews showed me her perfect test score. I tried to high-five her and accidentally hit her in the face.

  Clearly, talking to Jayla is not worth the risk.

  I check my phone for the time. I need to get to the gym now. No more distractions.

  When I step through the door to the courtyard, I immediately spot Ellie and Hunter peering into a trash can. Ellie’s hard to miss because of the giant cello strapped to her back. Her voice rings out. “I’m not reaching in there! You do it!”

  I know I said no more distractions, but if someone’s gonna reach into that trash can, I want to witness it firsthand. Plus, I need to tell Ellie I can’t walk home today. I can’t believe I almost forgot.

  I make a beeline for them. “Hey, guys. Looking for treasure? Or should I say…”—I pause for dramatic effect—“trash-ure?”

  Hunter snickers, but Ellie doesn’t look amused. “Hunter threw my phone in the trash,” she sputters. “In the trash!”

  “By accident!” he squeaks.

  “How do you throw a phone away by accident?” I ask.

  “I was throwing away a fruit-snacks wrapper and forgot I was holding it.” He
shrugs like it’s the most obvious explanation in the world.

  I hook my thumbs under my backpack straps. “Well, wish I could help, but I’m kind of in a rush. And, Ellie—I can’t walk home today. I have to help Coach Tudy with some…chores.” Not the best lie, but at least it’s partly true.

  “Chores? What, like some punishment for throwing the hot dog?”

  “Yeah, exactly. Like a punishment.”

  Ellie sets her cello down and uses Hunter’s phone as a flashlight to peer through the hole at the top of the trash can. Her black braid dangles dangerously close to an open carton of milk. “You’ll have to tell us about it at the game tonight.”

  “Oh, and Misty had her foal,” says Hunter, “so I’m not on pregnancy watch anymore. I can come too!”

  The game tonight. Shoot.

  I scratch my neck. “About that. I’m so sorry, you guys, but I can’t go.”

  Ellie freezes, and for a second I think she’s gonna drop Hunter’s phone in the trash. The sad look on her face makes me feel like the worst friend in the world.

  “Why not?” she asks.

  “I’m super grounded.”

  “Grounded?” Hunter leans against the trash can. “How are you already grounded?”

  “The school called my mom and she texted me. She said, ‘Ben, you’re super grounded.’ ” I really need a better game plan next time I’m gonna lie.

  This might be the first real secret I’ve kept from Hunter and Ellie. I mean, it’s not like I’ve told them every detail of my life. They don’t know I used to skateboard. They don’t know I didn’t make my last school’s basketball team. They don’t know I watch reruns of My Little Pony with my ten-year-old sister when I’m bored and have nothing else to do. But if they asked me about any of those things directly, I wouldn’t lie to their faces. (Except maybe about My Little Pony.)

  But hiding the fact that I’m the mascot is truly necessary. I need this to blow over quickly and quietly. Besides, Hunter couldn’t keep a secret if his lips were duct-taped shut. He can’t even keep his own secrets. He showed up to school the other day admitting to everyone that he forgot to wear deodorant and had to rub hand sanitizer on his armpits instead.