“ ’Sup. I’m Doug.” Thank goodness I planned an alias.
“I’m the usual mascot,” Wyatt says. He flashes me a smile. The red and black rubber bands on his braces match his cornrows. “Thanks for covering for me. Being the Spud is pretty fun. I think you’ll like it.”
This dude clearly has a warped sense of fun. At least he doesn’t seem to be too bummed out about his ankle being hurt. Which is kind of, sort of, totally my fault.
He taps my bench with one of his crutches. “You get a courtside seat. You get to dance around, pump everyone up.” His smile stays plastered on his face. Seriously, who brainwashed this kid?
“Watch out for these guys, though.” He nods at the Jackrabbit fans. “Once, they showered me with potato peels.”
Well, that explains the suit’s moldy potato smell.
I keep my voice deep. “I’ll keep an eye out. Thanks, man.”
“Good luck, Doug.” Wyatt hobbles off to join his friends. One of them waves a sign that says WE’RE SPUD-TACULAR! and another WE BUTTER WIN! I gotta admit, that one’s pretty good. I have a weakness for puns.
On the guest side, the signs are less…positive. One sign shouts BOIL ’EM, MASH ’EM, STICK ’EM IN A STEW! Another says PREPARE TO GET FRENCH FRIED!!!
The starting five gather at center court for the jump ball, and a shrill whistle cuts through the air. Duke, being a good three inches taller than the Jackrabbits’ center, easily tips the ball to our side. It’s game on.
Player thirteen, Cole Evans, makes the first shot—a three-pointer—to thunderous applause. But neither team keeps the lead for long. Ellie was right about the Jackrabbit games being intense. Too intense. During the first quarter, one of their players swings his elbow into a Spuds player’s stomach, sending him doubling over. The ref calls a flagrant foul and kicks him out of the game.
During the first time-out, I face the crowd and pump my arms to the music. Whoomp, there it is. Whoomp, there it is. I always thought this song was mildly annoying, but now I know I’ll hate it forever.
I feel like an idiot, but no one seems to be paying attention to me anyway. Coach was wrong—I’m not influencing the game at all. I could disappear and no one would notice. I could probably even burst into flames and no one would notice. For once in my life, it feels wonderful to be completely ignored.
At halftime, the announcer—an eighth-grade kid with a radio-worthy voice—calls me onto the court.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he yells into the mic. “We have selected one lucky fan to challenge Steve the Spud in a free-throw shoot-out!”
An administrator leads out this stocky little kid, maybe six years old, wearing an oversized baseball hat. I waddle up to him and reach out to shake his hand.
“Good luck,” I say.
“You’re goin’ down,” he sneers.
Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be, then?
The kid shoots first. He misses with a total airball. Ha! The announcer tosses me the ball next. I dribble it a couple of times and step onto the free-throw line, ready to show this punk up.
Then something hits the back of my suit. I hear it on the padding—a little clop. It clops again. Then again. Is someone hitting me with small pellets?
Please, not rabbit poop. Please, please, please. I brace myself for the worst and slowly turn around.
6
Bunny vs. Potato: The Ultimate Showdown
I’m face to face with the Jackrabbit mascot, who’s holding a carton of Tater Tots in his furry paws. Where did he even get those? This guy really came prepared. Prepared to torture me, that is. I step back and feel one of the tots squish under my tennis shoes. At least it’s not rabbit poop.
The Jackrabbit jogs backward a few paces. He wiggles his shoulders as if to say, I’m only getting warmed up. He scrapes the ground with his feet like a bull, and then charges. Before I can dodge, he belly-bumps me. I topple over and hit the court with a muted thud.
The Jackrabbit somersaults away as I kick my legs in the air like a flipped-over turtle. The guest section bursts into laughter while the home fans gasp and boo—though I’m pretty sure I hear snickers coming from the home crowd too.
All right, floor. Feel free to swallow me whole. Anytime now.
The ref chases the Jackrabbit around the gym, and all I can do is lie here, helpless. What would Jayla think if she could see through my costume? Probably that I’m a dorky klutz. In my defense, it’s hard to keep your balance when you have the waist size of an adult manatee.
Finally the ref catches the demon bunny by the fur of his neck and ejects him from the game with a sharp blow of the whistle. The Jackrabbit cartwheels out the open doorway like some kind of hero.
The ref grabs my hand and helps me to my feet. My head reels. I waddle back to my bench in shame, and a few nice people clap to make me feel better.
It doesn’t work.
Everyone’s ready to move on, and the game resumes—Spuds 42, Jackrabbits 40.
Our team quickly falls behind when a lanky Hamilton player shoots a three-pointer in the first minute of the second half. His teammate steals the ball and scores again. The Spuds miss their next shot, and the Jackrabbits bring it back for another shot. Our team is now down by five.
Coach Tudy looks absolutely bewildered as the guest section pounds their fists in the air. De-fense! they chant. De-fense!
Coach calls a time-out.
After my tumbling-over act, the last thing I want to do is dance. But what choice do I have, unless I want to look like a poor sport? I try to punch and kick, but my limbs feel like wet spaghetti.
“All right, boys,” I overhear Coach say to the huddle. “We have to break their momentum.”
Momentum. It suddenly becomes obvious I have broken ours.
After a short pep talk, our team returns to the court, ready to make their run. We manage a few two-pointers, but the Jackrabbits are rocking it. They shoot three-pointer after three-pointer as their fans holler and stomp. We’re getting pummeled. Destroyed. Annihilated.
With twenty seconds left, the score is 71–48, Jackrabbits. The looks on our players’ faces seem to say, Why bother trying? Their energy has been vacuum-sucked out of them. They run like they’re wading through water. I know how they feel. I can’t even muster the energy to get up off my bench.
The final buzzer sounds with a score of 73–48. A Jackrabbit victory.
The home bleachers are silent. Meanwhile the guest section stomps and yells, creating a thunderstorm on the other side of the gym. I wish they’d stomp hard enough that those rickety bleachers would collapse under their obnoxious little feet.
Our fans don’t stick around much longer. Ellie and Hunter look pretty bummed as they shuffle out the door. I’d like to get out of here too, but if I stand, someone might push me over again. The home fans probably hate me, and to be honest, I don’t blame them. Our team was playing great until my major fail.
Coach Tudy orders the players to the locker room and then remains standing at the team bench with both hands behind his bald head like he’s holding it in place. I can’t read his expression. Anger? Disappointment? Acceptance? Once the gym empties, he turns his head toward me so slowly I can almost hear his neck creak, like one of those creepy dolls in the horror movies. I’m not confused by his expression anymore. Anger. Definitely anger.
He marches toward me, plunks down on the bench, and speaks firmly. “Son. We need to talk about your mascotting.”
He’s using a “disappointed father” tone of voice, which is good, because I was expecting something more along the lines of “raging Hulk.” My shoulders relax a little.
Coach stares into my eyes, or rather into the mesh screen covering my eyes. “I’m not blaming you for our loss, but I think tonight was a good example of how a mascot can really sway a game. Did you see the energy of tho
se Jackrabbits?”
I roll my safely concealed eyes. “Yeah, but that was just because their stupid bunny knocked me over. And I’m pretty sure potato harassment is illegal in the state of Idaho.”
Coach huffs. “That kid’s a jerk. I’m not saying to do what he did. But at the beginning of the game, where were you?”
“On the bench.” I lower my foam-encapsulated head.
“Their mascot was interacting with the fans, hopping, cartwheeling—”
“Well, his suit lets him actually move. In case you forgot, I’m Steve the Spud. If I tried a cartwheel, I’d fall on the floor and just lie there. Like a speed bump.”
We sit in silence for a while. “You know,” Coach says. “It’s not an easy job you got. When I was Winchester the Chipmunk, sometimes the other mascots would tug on my tail.” He shakes his head like he still holds a grudge. “I tugged them right back on their ears, every time.”
I squint. “So you’re saying to use physical violence when necessary?”
He chuckles and claps me on the back. “I’m saying you should never give up. No matter how bad things get. Winners never quit, and quitters never win.”
“You stole that saying from your T-shirt.”
“The T-shirt makers stole that saying from me.”
I smile a little. “Can’t argue with that.”
“Look,” Coach says. “Our team hasn’t taken state since my first year of coaching. That’s twenty-two years. They told me I could retire this year—you know what I said? I’m not quitting till I see us take state again. If I’m here till I’m ninety-two, so be it.”
I can totally see it: Coach hobbling down the sidelines, ordering players around with his cane and cheering so loud his dentures fall out.
He stands. “There’s three games left. We need to win at least two to make playoffs. If you wanna call off the deal, I won’t stop you. But I really think you can help us win. You just gotta put in some effort.”
“How can I help us win if the whole school thinks I’m a dork? I heard the crowd. They were laughing at me.”
“By next game they won’t even remember. You’ll win ’em back.”
I look up. “You really think so?
“I know so. You set your mind on something, and nothing can get in your way. Not even a jerk-faced rabbit.”
I hesitate. Part of me wants to quit, but I don’t want to let Coach down, especially now that he’s being so nice to me. Besides, if I call off our deal, suspension will be calling my name.
I square my shoulders. “Okay. I’ll practice for next time, Coach.”
And I honestly intend to.
* * *
Back in the janitor’s closet, I unlatch the headpiece and set it on a trash bag filled with rags. I draw in a breath of fresh air. Man, it feels good to be out of that potato helmet.
Everyone’s left the gym, and the building has gone to sleep, lights dimmed and doors locked. It’s spooky to be at school so late, like the ghosts of teachers past might be roaming the halls.
I’ll have to explain to Mom and Dad why I took so long getting home. I can’t use the concession-stand excuse. If they thought I was still packing it up, they’d assume we were shorthanded and insist on helping out next time. How about I stopped by the gas station to get Slurpees with Hunter and Ellie? Believable enough.
I hate lying, but my parents can’t know I’m the mascot. Especially Mom. She takes being supportive way too far. Once, she got banned from my Little League games for arguing with the coach to let me bat. If she knew I was the mascot, she’d arrive early for a front-row seat and wave around a homemade sign that said WE LOVE STEVE THE SPUD! She’d probably even draw little hearts all over the poster, as if I needed more embarrassment. Someone might recognize her, and my secret would be out. Any chance I had of ever being cool would be totally and completely shot. I think of one of the words on my vocabulary list this week. “Pariah.” An outcast.
I’m kneeling down to untie my shoes when the light bulb above my head starts flickering on and off. This is the definition of creepy. Last thing I want is to finish changing in the dark.
Squeak. Pause. Squeak. Pause. Squeak.
The sound comes from the outside hall. Footsteps. I could’ve sworn everyone was out of the building. Am I being stalked? Was I right about dead teachers’ ghosts haunting the school at night?
I twist the metal doorknob to make sure it’s locked. It is. I’ll be safe from a stalker. Not so much from a ghost.
Squeak. Pause. Squeak. Pause. Squeak.
I stay still as a mannequin, not wanting to knock over a mop or ram into the shelf of cleaning supplies behind me. The footsteps squeak closer and closer, louder and louder, and then, suddenly, they stop. Right outside the door.
Clink, clink.
Keys jangle as the mystery person prepares to enter my sanctuary. I have to find a hiding spot. But I’m in this bulky suit. Hiding is impossible. Unless…
With lightning speed, I lie down in the corner, snatch the bag of rags, and empty it over my legs and face. I wiggle my arms into the suit and cross them over my chest. Now I’ll look like an empty costume in the corner. Nothing to see here.
I take a deep breath as the lock clicks, the handle turns, and the door creaks open.
7
This Is Why I Hate Surprises
I hold my breath under the rag pile as the footsteps squeak their way inside. The intruder walks past me and rummages through the shelf of cleaning supplies. It must be the janitor.
As he searches the shelf for way longer than seems necessary, I realize I can’t hold my breath forever. Carefully, I breathe through my nose. Bleh. The rags smell like dog puke.
The janitor swishes open a garbage bag and begins to stuff it with rags—starting with the pile right above my face.
The load above me lightens as he scoops it up. He reaches for a third fistful of rags but grabs my chin, which is when, I assume, he realizes he’s touching human flesh.
“AGHHHHHHHHH!” The rags in his arms shoot up in the air and rain down. He probably thinks he’s discovered a dead body that someone stuffed in the closet for safekeeping. Not a bad place to hide a corpse, if you ask me.
I shake the remaining rags off my head and sit up. I’m shocked to see not a janitor, but a boy my own age. “Wait. Mitch?”
Mitch the Snitch from English class gapes at me like I literally rose from the dead. What’s he doing here?
“Ben?” He pants like a scared Chihuahua and runs a hand through his short hair. “Why are you on the floor?”
“I was sleeping.” With dirty rags over my face. Obviously.
“Sleeping?” His breath steadies and his lips tighten. “Why didn’t you turn off the light, then?”
“I’m afraid of the dark.”
“Why are you in the potato suit?”
“It keeps me warm.”
“Why—”
“Okay, no more questions. I should be the one asking, Why are you here?”
He whispers, “Don’t tell anyone, but this closet is actually a portal to another dimension.”
I slump into the corner. “Is that a joke?”
“Just trying to give an answer that’s as believable as yours.” He looks proud of his little comeback. I’m not in the mood for this.
“Rub it in, why don’t you?” I motion to my plushy belly. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m the mascot. I was hiding. Happy?”
His face softens. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Forget it.” I kick a mop bucket. “And it’s your fault, too. Duke told me how you ratted me out to Ms. Jones.”
“Oh man.” He stares at the floor, his reaction alone proving his guilt. “I’m so sorry. It’s just, Ms. Jones…she was all up in my face, and I have the hardest time lying, and…”
&
nbsp; Is he seriously going to cry? I refuse to feel pity. Not when I’m the one in a potato suit. “What’s done is done,” I say. Anything to stop the blubbering. “Just please don’t tell anybody about this. So, why are you here?”
He sniffs. “I’m cleaning up after the game.”
“What, like a janitor?”
“Yeah. My dad is Larry, the head janitor.” He perks up a little. “You know, the one with the cool beard.”
Yeah, I know Larry. He confiscated my Mountain Dew in the cafeteria last week. Soda is banned at South Fork Middle School for reasons I’ll never understand. They should ban something actually harmful, like the freakishly bouncy hot dogs that may or may not include radioactive material.
Mitch shrugs. “He lets me help out for my allowance. I’m saving up to buy a quadcopter drone. You heard of that?”
“Uh. No.”
Then he goes on for way too long about all the drones he wants and their colors and their features and…you get the picture. I guess they’re like really expensive remote-control helicopters with cameras. It’s weird he’s so chatty, seeing as I’ve never heard him talk much before. Honestly, the whole conversation kind of blurs together, and I just nod and hum in agreement while thinking about how I really want to get home to take a much-needed shower.
I finish taking off the suit and then cut in. “That’s really cool, Mitch. Hey, I gotta get home. My mom’ll be worried.”
He grabs a broom. “Yeah, okay. Maybe I’ll see you in here again next game. It’s next Wednesday, right?”
“Yeah.”
He reaches for the doorknob.
“Hey, Mitch.” I stare him down. “You seriously can’t tell anyone about this, okay? It’s really important that no one finds out.”
He nods solemnly. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
A shiver runs down my spine. My fate rests in the hands of Mitch the Snitch.
* * *
Being fake grounded stinks.
My Life as a Potato Page 4
