Yep. Hand sanitizer.
I’m already dreading the game tonight, but if Hunter told people it was me in there? I’d die of embarrassment. I can see it on the evening news: LOCAL BOY DIES IN POTATO SUIT. POSSIBLE SUFFOCATION.
Ellie would probably keep my secret. But she’d probably also go all school-spirit on me and critique my performances. What if I’m the worst mascot ever, and she doesn’t want to be friends anymore? I’m thinking that what she doesn’t know won’t kill her.
“How long you grounded for?” Hunter asks.
The final game of the season is two Fridays away. Then Wyatt can be mascot again if we make playoffs. “Two weeks and I’ll be free.”
“Could be worse,” he says. Little does he know.
Ellie resumes looking in the trash for her phone. “I still want you to buy a game-day shirt, you know.”
“I will,” I say. “I promise.” It’s the least I can do. And compared with the costume I’m about to try on, the shirt suddenly doesn’t seem so bad.
“Aha!” She flings her arms around like she’s swatting invisible flies. “Hunter, I see it! Right there, under the milk carton. Get it!”
Hunter sticks his arm into the trash can and scrunches up his face. “It’s all slimy in here!” He yanks his arm out and pretends to barf.
“Come on!” Ellie nudges him. “Try again!”
I try not to laugh for Ellie’s sake, but a snort comes out anyway. As much as I’d enjoy watching Hunter reach into the trash can again, Coach might call off our deal if he thinks I stood him up.
“Guys, I really have to go. Good luck getting the phone out,” I say, and rush to the gym.
4
The Felty Suit of Doom
The South Fork gym building sits far in the back of the school, past a couple of portable trailers used for art classes. It definitely looks in need of an upgrade. Hundreds of black spots dot the gray stucco—wads of chewing gum that have probably been there since Coach Tudy started working here like thirty years ago.
I walk through two sets of doors and onto the empty court. The inside’s almost as sad as the outside: rickety bleachers, ratty nets, scuffed floor. The red banners are impressive, though. They line three of the four walls, each announcing a South Fork achievement. GIRLS’ SOCCER CHAMPIONS, CROSS-COUNTRY STATE QUALIFIERS. The latest banner proudly announces BOYS’ BASKETBALL STATE RUNNERS-UP. I heard that the poop-scattering Jackrabbits took first last year. And the year before that.
The metal doors clang, and in marches Coach Tudy, sporting a long-sleeved shirt that says WINNERS NEVER QUIT, QUITTERS NEVER WIN.
“Hardy! Follow me,” he orders. No time for pleasantries with this guy.
I follow him to a medium-sized storage closet in the hall. The door squeaks open like dying mice. A single dim light bulb shines over a mess of brooms, mop buckets, and cleaning supplies. On a hook in the corner, the potato suit bulges out from the wall like a firm pillow.
Coach Tudy snatches the suit off the hook. He holds on to the head and thrusts the body at me with a “Go ahead—see how it fits.”
I stare blankly at the blotchy, brown fabric. “How do I put it on?”
“There’s two leg holes. Don’t you dress yourself, boy? Step in, one leg at a time.”
I dig around the cushiony inside of the suit with my left foot until it slips through the leg hole. I do the same with my right foot, and then pull the costume up to my chest. It literally smells like moldy old potatoes.
“Put your arms through the armholes,” Coach says.
I slide my hands through the itchy felt fabric. My arms hang down like a gorilla’s, arching out from my body. The sad part is, a gorilla costume would be much preferable to this.
“Time for the head.” Coach Tudy places the mud-colored mound over me like he’s helping a child put on an oversized helmet. Inside, it feels muggy, like the last guy’s sweat never fully evaporated. It’s dark, as if I wormed my way into a real overgrown potato.
In front of my eyes rests a black mesh screen—the opening of the Spud’s smiling mouth. I can see out, but no one can see in, and my view is limited to a hand-sized rectangle.
“Secure the head,” orders Coach Tudy. “There’s a latch on each side that snaps onto the suit.” I reach up to find the latches, and Coach guides my hand to click them into place. “That’s so the head doesn’t fall off when you take a spill,” he says.
“When I take a spill?”
“And you’re gonna need brown tights. I’ll tell Wyatt to drop his off in here before the game.”
“Hold up. I am not wearing tights. Especially tights another dude has worn. That’s gross.” I cross my arms in determination.
“Bring your own, then.”
I scoff. “Like I have tights! I’ll wear basketball shorts.”
Coach’s bushy eyebrows knit together. “The Spud doesn’t wear basketball shorts. He’d look ridiculous. He wears tights. He’s always worn tights. Do you understand?”
This is clearly one issue on which he won’t budge. “Fine,” I grumble. “I’ll bring my own.”
He relaxes. “Now, I want you to understand your importance to the team. The word ‘mascot’ is French for ‘lucky charm.’ You bring luck to the team, but only if your heart’s in it.”
“You really believe that?”
“ ’Course I do. Seen it myself. The mascot lifts morale. Energy in the crowd brings energy to the team. Basketball is a game of momentum.”
“Momentum? Isn’t that what cheerleaders are for?”
“Cheerleaders help, but without the mascot, they’re missing half the magic.”
It’ll be easier to agree with everything he says so I can get out of this potato prison as soon as humanly possible. “You know, Coach, come to think of it, you’re totally right.”
“ ’Course I am. Now step into the hall and let’s see you dance.”
Seriously?
I back out of the closet. The bottom edge of the suit hangs a few inches above my knees, making it hard to move. I wiggle my arms and sway back and forth.
“Pathetic,” Coach barks, like he thinks he’s a judge on one of those television talent shows.
I clench my teeth and wiggle my arms faster, even throwing in spirit fingers for kicks.
“Do it like this.” He punches his arms rhythmically and kicks his legs out to the sides.
I snort. “What, were you like a mascot or something?”
He frowns. “Laugh all you want, boy. There’s no shame in being a mascot.”
Hold up. This is too good. “Coach, were you seriously a mascot? Didn’t you play sports? You’re the coach.”
“ ’Course I played sports. But I was the mascot in my off-seasons. The crowds loved me.”
“I bet they did!” Oh, how I’d love to go back in time to see that.
“So, tonight your job is to pump up the crowd during time-outs. Let’s stick with dancing for now. At halftime, we might call you up to shoot some hoops.” He rubs his chin. “You any good at that?”
“My layup stinks, but my free throw’s all right.”
“Can you juggle?”
“It’s been a while.” In California, Dad and I would juggle with the oranges that fell off the trees in our backyard. It’s too cold for orange trees here.
“What about handstands?”
“I think I can do one against the wall.”
He shakes his head. “I’m gonna need you to practice. Come up with your own routines if you want. I hear the Google is chock-full of mascot ideas these days.”
“The Google. I think I’ve heard of it. I’ll look it up.”
“Good. Now, you wanna go practice shooting hoops?”
“It’s okay. I think I can manage.” I really should practice, but if I get home too late, Mom wi
ll want to know where I was.
“If you’re sure.” He tosses me a set of keys that jingle as they fly through the air. “Come in any time after school to practice. Can I trust you to be responsible with those keys?”
“Yes, Coach.” I’m surprised he trusts me at all after I injured his star mascot. I’ll have to be really careful not to lose these keys.
I take off the headpiece, which feels like exiting a sauna. I reenter the closet and hang it on its hook.
“Any last questions?” Coach asks.
“Just one.” I’m dying to know. “What kind of mascot were you?”
He folds his arms and stares me down as if daring me to laugh. “Winchester the Chipmunk.”
I channel all my inner energy to keep a straight face. I raise my eyebrows, and in my most sincere voice I say, “I bet you were a wonderful mascot.”
Coach’s eyes cloud over, and across his face spreads the closest thing to a smile I’ve ever seen him wear. “I remember the state championships in 1979. I had the crowd roaring.” He chuckles softly. “I learned how to do a back handspring. My signature move was nibbling on the other team’s mascot.”
He snaps out of cheery-chipmunk land and back to the dingy closet. “Okay, Hardy, be ready to perform at the next four games. We play tonight, next Wednesday, the following Tuesday, and that Friday.”
“Wednesday, Tuesday, Friday,” I repeat.
“Be here early to change. And remember, you’re gonna have to put your heart into this. Even if our team falls behind, you never quit. Bring out the positive energy. You’re our lucky charm.”
I have the strongest urge to roll my eyes all the way to the back of my head, but I hold it together. “I won’t let you down, Coach. I’ll be the best Spud I can be.”
5
My Grand Debut
Operation: Mascot Transformation
Time: 5:00 p.m. sharp
*Cue Mission: Impossible theme*
I arrive at school a good hour before the game. My parents think I’m here early to help prepare the concession food. Dad would sometimes volunteer at the concession stand at my old school, which is where I got the idea. He offered to come help tonight, but Mom needed him home since they’re sanding down the kitchen cabinets. They bought a fixer-upper and have been working on some project or other since we moved in.
A fresh layer of snow blankets the campus, with no tracks in sight. Good. Fewer witnesses. If anyone sees me lurking around, they’ll know I’m not grounded. They might piece it all together. They might spread the word.
No one can be trusted.
I pull up my hood and speed-walk toward the gym. Suddenly a group of girls exits the building to my right. They wear matching red sweatpants and jackets with the Spud logo on them.
Oh no. The cheerleaders.
I duck behind the nearest tree and pretend to text. Please let no one see me, I silently pray. Please.
Not a minute later, Jayla pops up to my right. “Hey, Ben.”
I drop my phone in the snow. So much for the prayer.
With shaky hands, I dig the phone out of the snow and wipe it on my jeans.
“Oops,” Jayla says. She turns around and waves her friends on. “If it got wet, I heard it helps to put it in a bowl of rice.”
“Do you have any rice?” I ask. Dumbest question ever. Why would she have rice?
She laughs, so I guess she thought I was joking. “Why are you at school so late?”
She’s already onto me. “I’m…homeworking.” I inwardly cringe.
“Like, you stayed to do homework with a teacher?”
At least she’s giving me material to work with. “Yeah. That.”
She plays with the zipper on her jacket. “The team and I were making a banner for the game tonight.”
“That’s awesome.”
She shows off her red fingertips. “We got to use finger paints.”
“That’s awesome. I bet it’ll look super awesome.” Ugh. I must be stunning her with my awesome vocabulary.
I examine my phone, tapping on the different apps. Instagram, check. CloudGerbil, check. Everything seems to be working fine.
Jayla’s still here. Why is she still here?
She circles her toe in the snow. “Duke said you haven’t been asked to the dance yet. You dance?”
No, I think. But instead I say, “Yes.” I really need to work on my brain-to-mouth connection.
“Cool.” She smiles, and light bounces off her lip gloss like a million tiny diamonds. “Well, I have to run home and eat before the game. You going?”
“Yeah,” I say. It’s true. I’ll be the one in the potato suit.
“You should come say hi to me during warm-ups.”
“Yeah, yeah. Of course.”
What am I thinking? I can’t say hi to her before the game! But before I can correct myself, she’s walking away, her long ponytail swinging behind her.
What was that all about? And why can’t I act normal?
I shove the thoughts out of my head. There’s no time to think about it. I have to get to the gym before people start showing up.
I jog the rest of the way, watching the area for more witnesses. Once I safely reach the janitor’s closet, it’s time for the second phase of the operation: get dressed.
I replace my jeans with the brown leggings I dug out of my little sister Abby’s dresser while she was downstairs making a smoothie. She’s half a foot shorter than me, but the fabric stretches surprisingly far. Not uncomfortable, either, I’ve gotta admit.
Time to face my worst nightmare. The potato suit hangs in the corner, mocking me with its googly eyes. I tug it off its hook, and it knocks over a broom, which whacks me on the back of the head. Figures. The suit has it in for me, I swear. After all, it is a potato—aka the starchy root of all evil. I sense hatred in its eyes and glare back to assure it the feeling is mutual.
I pull the suit up to my chest, slip my arms through the armholes, and buckle on the head. Showtime.
A question hits me as I scuffle down the hall: What should I do if anyone tries talking to me? Disguise my voice? Yes. I can make my voice go pretty deep. Throw in an accent? No. Too risky. And if they ask my name?
After some thought, I settle on the name Doug. Yes, Doug is a nice, safe name. A name quite suitable for a potato, if you think about it. Plus, I don’t know anyone named Doug.
I waddle down the court to the wooden bench on the sideline. It creaks when I sit, and I almost topple backward. Sitting in a potato suit isn’t easy. It’s like trying to balance with a beach ball strapped to your butt.
About fifteen minutes later, fans start trickling into the gym, filling the stands with specks of red and black. I stay seated like a lump, reliving the awkwardness of being alone at a lunch table on my first day of school, something I never want to experience again.
Now that there’s time to think, I replay the conversation with Jayla over in my head. “You dance?” she said. Is there a chance—even the teeniest sliver of a chance—that she’s thinking of asking me? That’s kind of what it sounded like.
What is it with today? First I go to the principal’s office. Then Duke acts like we’re buddies. Then Jayla goes out of her way to talk to me. Throw in the fact that I’m currently in a potato suit, and I’d say today is hands-down the weirdest day of my life. I imagine sparkly clovers falling out of my own locker—or something cooler, like splat balls—and the funny thing is, I’m not hyperventilating thinking about it. I’m actually kind of excited. Maybe California Ben couldn’t handle going to a dance. But Idaho Ben just might.
Soon the gym is full. The happy chatter of the crowd echoes off the walls, and the band belts an energetic tune. “Eye of the Tiger”? It’s hard to tell since they aren’t very good.
The song ends and the cheer squad leads a chant
:
SPUDS, NOT DUDS! SOUR CREAM OF THE CROP!
WE MASH THE COMPETITION AND WE NEVER STOP!
Jayla smiles at the front of the line, her ponytail shining under the bright lights. She scans the crowd from left to right like she’s searching for someone. Could it be me?
The butterflies in my stomach need to chill out. I’m reading too much into things. Even if she is looking for me, I am a total jerk for standing her up. If she was ever planning to ask me to the dance, she’s probably not anymore.
Ellie, Hunter, and a couple of other girls sit in the section to the right. Hunter’s obviously trying to impress Ellie’s curly-haired friend. He keeps folding his arms while flexing to show off his muscles. Oldest trick in the book.
On the opposite side of the gym, the Hamilton Jackrabbits have a decent crowd of their own, which isn’t surprising. The Jackrabbits are known for being super competitive. I bet their basketball players are like mini celebrities.
A furry white figure hops up and down their bleachers. I squint. It can’t be.
And yet it is. The Jackrabbits brought along their mascot. And he’s not a cute, cuddly bunny, but rather a creepy Easter rabbit, with red eyes shining out of his foam head. He points right at me and pounds his fists together. Is that a threat? I shudder.
The rabbit bounces around giving high fives like he’s the Energizer Bunny turned to the dark side. With all his school spirit, he’s totally making me look bad. I almost get up to high-five fans too, but I remember how most of the Spud’s high fives went unreceived at the cafeteria rally, and I stay glued to the bench.
“So, you’re the new Spud, huh?” A kid with crutches stands next to my bench. His hair is braided into cornrows, and every other row is dyed red. Who could this be?
Oh, wait. Crutches…
“I’m Wyatt,” he says.
My Life as a Potato Page 3
