On Saturday night, while others are probably out with friends doing things like playing laser tag or watching movies, I’m stuck in my room, lounging on my beanbag and waiting for the turkey loaf in my stomach to digest. (Yes, turkey loaf. My mom has discovered meat loaf’s evil twin.)
And just to rub it in, I get a text from Hunter: Wanna come over for family game night?
And I do. But I can’t.
Me: Sorry, dude. Still grounded.
I went to Hunter’s family game night last weekend, and it was awesome. His five sisters seem so nice and polite, but give them a deck of cards and they turn into fire-breathing dragons. The six-year-old, Regina, nearly decapitated me with an Uno card. It was the most fun I’d had in a really long time.
If Hunter finds out I’m lying to him, will he ever invite me back?
Mom peeks her head in the door.
“Mom, you gotta knock! I could be changing!”
“Oh, oh, oh!” She steps out and raps three times. “May I come in?”
“You may.”
She reenters, wearing gray sweatpants and her long hair tied up in a bun. She and Dad were painting the front door this afternoon, so her T-shirt has some dark blue speckles. Everyone always says I look like Mom, which is weird because she’s a girl, but I guess we have the same brown hair and thick eyebrows.
“Want to watch a movie with me and Abby?” Mom says. In her arms, our puppy, Buster, sticks his tongue out and gives me a toothy dog smile.
“Which one?”
Mom belts in her horrible opera voice, “The hills are aliiiiiive, with the sound of muuuuusic.”
Despite my bad mood, I can’t help but smile.
“Why don’t you invite Hunter over?” Mom says. “And that nice girl—what’s her name? Ellie? I’ll make popcorn.”
“Nah,” I say. “That movie’s like three hours long.”
She lifts Buster’s paws and speaks in her high-pitched dog voice. “Please, Ben! I like your friends.”
“They’re busy tonight.”
“That’s too bad,” she says, and I can sense worry in her eyes, like she thinks I’m losing my friends or something. She doesn’t know it, but I’m worried too.
“Maybe I’ll come down later,” I say, so she stops looking so sad. “I have some studying I have to do.” Mascot studies, that is.
She eyes me suspiciously, because really, who studies on a Saturday night? “If you’d rather, Dad’s in the basement watching the game.”
“Okay, maybe. Thanks.” Dad used to always watch movies with the rest of the family, but lately he’s seemed more interested in the Lakers. I guess I can’t blame him. They’re his only connection to California now. He probably misses it there too.
After Mom leaves, it’s time to get down to business. Coach is counting on me to do better next time. I am counting on me to do better next time. But where do I even start?
I pull up YouTube on my phone and search “cool mascots.”
Jackpot. Dozens of mascot videos pop up on my screen. I’m bound to find some inspiration here.
I grab a pillow and get comfy on the beanbag. First up, Bango the Buck backflips off the top of a twenty-foot ladder and makes a slam dunk. Perfect execution.
Next, Jazz Bear rides a firework-spewing motorcycle across the court. I’d pay big bucks for a motorcycle like that one day.
Then comes Gnash the Wolf, who drops from the ceiling suspended by a harness and swings across his hockey rink like he’s Tarzan on ice.
The crowds are going wild for these guys. They aren’t dorky. They’re heroes.
Too bad I’m not up for backflipping off a ladder. I don’t have a driver’s license or a motorcycle. And I don’t think the school budget allows for a harness. (I’ll have to ask Coach.)
A video suggestion pops up that says MASCOT FAILS in big capital letters.
Should I? Watching this can’t be good for my morale. But I’ve gotta know what stunts to avoid.
First I watch a hawk front-flip off a springboard. His beak gets caught on the basketball rim, and he flops to the ground. I think he broke a wing.
Next, a dinosaur Rollerblades down the bleachers. He trips and face-plants his blow-up raptor head on the court.
Then a duck leaps over a pit of fire, only to have his tail go up in flames.
No springboards. No Rollerblades. No fire pits. Got it.
I watch another video. Then another. There’s the dancing banana from Florida. The pickle from North Carolina. The fighting okra from Mississippi.
It’s comforting to know I’m not the only one forced to dress up like food out there.
Before I know it, it’s ten o’clock, and even though I’ve found zero stunts that I could pull off in real life, something inside me has changed. Because I, Ben Hardy, am a member of the greater global mascot community. And we never quit.
It seems the key to being a mascot is having no shame. No matter how dorky their costumes, they own it. No matter how bad they fail, they shake it off. And the crowd forgets about it. They really do.
Yeah, the duck got (literally) roasted. But the next game, he’s making trick shots to thunderous applause.
Yeah, dino dude face-flopped. But there are other videos of him doing push-ups and pretending to eat the cheerleaders.
Their failures don’t stick to them forever.
I let that rabbit belly-bump me down. I broke my team’s momentum. But next game I’ll make my mascot comeback. I haven’t figured out how yet. But I will.
8
Don’t Go Bacon My Heart
Something’s seriously off on Monday.
When I walk into first-period math, a strange hush falls over the room. I sit in my seat in the front row and get that heavy feeling like when people stare at you from behind.
In second-period Spanish, the girl behind me whispers into her friend’s ear, and I swear I hear her say my name. I swear.
Then, in computer science, I’m minding my own business, searching for platypus images, when Cole, Duke’s friend who I hardly ever talk to, squeaks his chair next to mine.
“Yo, Ben.” He nods at me, his wavy hair flopping around the top of his head. “Anything interesting happen to you lately?”
He knows.
“Um, no?” I say. Deny, deny, deny.
He tosses his buddy a knowing look and quickly says, “Never mind.”
Seriously, what is going on? If people know I’m the Spud, why don’t they just come out and say it? Why all the secrecy?
The lunch bell rings, and I dash out the door. I need to get to the cafeteria to talk to Ellie. If there’s a rumor going around about me, she’ll know for sure. She overhears a lot of school gossip while she’s reading during class.
I squeeze into a group of students flowing toward the cafeteria like a migrating school of tuna. To my left, I spot a folded piece of paper duct-taped to a locker.
My locker.
The mob pushes me forward, but I reverse direction and fight my way upstream. I have to get to that note! Has someone discovered my secret? Is it a blackmail note? A threat? This must be why everyone’s acting so weird!
I squeeze myself out of the lunch-bound throng and stumble to my locker. I snatch the note and open it so fast the corner rips.
Ben—
I will ask you to the Winter Dance when pigs fly.
—Jayla
My heart stops beating. I review the words to make sure I read correctly.
When pigs fly, aka, never. This cannot seriously be happening.
My ears are on fire. Everyone must know about this, which is why they were acting so weird. I just got dissed by the most popular girl at school. I’ll never, ever, in a million years recover.
It doesn’t even make sense. Why would Jayla assume I expect
ed her to ask me? Is she a secret mind reader? Maybe Hunter said something, the loudmouth. And it probably didn’t help that I stood her up at the game last night.
But still! To send me a note like this is just not fair. I slam my palm against the locker, the fire from my ears creeping down the back of my neck and turning me into a human volcano. Jayla seemed so nice when she talked to me on Friday. Maybe she found out I was the potato. Maybe it was too dorky for her to handle. Maybe it’s time I beg my parents to let us move back to California. I officially hate it here.
The numbers on my combination dial blur together, and it takes me three tries to get the code right. I can’t believe I was dumb enough to believe Jayla liked me in the first place. I’ll never get my hopes up over a girl again. For as long as I live.
I crank open my locker and gasp. Three bright pink helium balloons pop out of the locker and float up to the ceiling. In thick black Sharpie, someone has scribbled pointy ears, googly eyes, and a pig snout onto each balloon.
Ohhhhh. I will ask you to the Winter Dance when pigs fly.
The realization smacks a smile onto my face. This isn’t a dis. This is just one of those creative ways girls ask guys to dances. My whole body sighs in relief, like I just woke from a nightmare to realize I’m safe in bed. No one knows I’m an undercover potato. Everything will be all right.
All right? Better than all right! Jayla Marden asked me to the dance. Me. I’ve heard of people pinching themselves to make sure they’re not dreaming, but I’ve never understood the feeling until today.
I check out the contents of my locker to make sure I didn’t leave anything embarrassing in there, like a stinky pair of gym socks or a half-eaten sandwich. I’m safe this time, but I’ll have to be more careful in the future. How’d Jayla get my locker code anyway?
Who cares? I’m going to the dance with the most beautiful girl at South Fork Middle School.
Looks like Idaho Ben is gonna have to get better at talking to girls.
* * *
I burst through the cafeteria doors in a daze and breathe in the trademark scent of grease, pizza sauce, and sweaty armpits. It’s a wonderful day to be alive!
The pizza line is too long, so I get some chicken nuggets and hurry to my table. I weave around groups of students, dodge a poorly placed trash bin, and pass a few basketball players reaching up the bottom of the vending machine to try to steal some chips.
I hop over the table bench and plop down next to Ellie.
“Somebody looks chipper today,” she says. “Got good news?”
“You could say that.” I tell her and Hunter about Jayla’s note and the pigs, making sure to skip the part, of course, where I mentally accused Hunter of being a loudmouth. Turns out Ellie overheard during her first period that I’d gotten asked. It feels weird but flattering to be the source of other people’s conversations.
After hearing about the balloon pigs, Hunter places his hand over his heart. “That’s adorable. Just adorable. I am touched.”
“I’m happy for you too, Ben.” Ellie pulls a Tupperware out of her lunch bag. “How are you gonna answer her?”
I frown. “Can’t I just say yes?”
“No. You can definitely not just say yes.” She peels the lid off her Tupperware to reveal cubes of cantaloupe. “Jayla asked creatively; you answer creatively. That’s how it works.”
“Oh, I know!” Hunter says. “Do something that has to do with pigs. Like, spell out ‘yes’ in bacon or something. That would be creative. And delicious.”
“Yeah, maybe. I’ll think about it.” It’s not the worst idea. At least I’d get to eat the extra bacon.
“If I got asked,” Hunter says, “that’s how I’d answer, even if they didn’t ask me with pigs. Because bacon is a gift of love.”
Ellie wiggles her eyebrows at him. “Well, you just might get to use that answer. Lucy said some interesting things about you over the weekend.”
I swallow my last chicken nugget. “Who’s Lucy?”
“What’d she say?” Hunter asks at the same time.
Ellie answers me first. “She’s a friend I brought to the game on Friday. We know each other from history class.”
It must have been that girl I saw Hunter flexing at in the stands. “The one with curly hair?”
Ellie tilts her head. “You know her?”
Shoot. I wasn’t supposed to have seen her. “Um, no. I mean, yeah—”
“Tell me! What did she say?” Hunter interrupts, saving me from a forced explanation.
“She said”—Ellie pauses dramatically—“that you were cute.”
“Cute? No!” He slams his fist on the table.
Ellie gives him the side-eye. “Hunter, you’re overreacting.”
“But I hear how my sisters talk! ‘Cute’ is for puppy dogs! And boys you plan on dumping into the friend zone! Ben, am I overreacting?”
“Of course not.” I smirk. “She probably hates you.”
He sighs. “I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”
“Hunter.” Ellie raises her spork. “If Lucy asks you to the dance, and you reject her because she called you cute, I will personally”—she stumbles—“do something very bad. To you.”
“Stab him with your spork?” I suggest.
Hunter laughs and grabs a piece of her cantaloupe. “You know I’m just playing. I’d be stoked if she asked me. Although, there is one thing that makes me nervous.”
“Oh, great,” says Ellie.
“I think she’s a cat person.”
“What’s wrong with being a cat person?” Ellie says. “I like cats.”
“Yes,” he explains, “but you also like dogs. Therefore, I would not classify you as a true cat person. Cat people worship their cats above all else.”
“I had a neighbor who was a cat person.” I point to the scar above my left eyebrow. “Her precious kitty Tater Tot gave me this.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Ellie says. “I’m sure Lucy doesn’t worship cats.”
Hunter bounces on the bench. “Oh yeah? She’s got a picture of her cat in her locker. That’s literally the definition of idol worship if you ask Aunt Susan.”
“Don’t you have a poster of a horse in your room?” Ellie asks.
“That’s different! If Lucy were a horse person, that’d be awesome!”
“That’s so hypocritical!”
“Okay,” I say, hoping to abandon the subject before a full-on fight breaks out. “Let’s say Hunter gets asked to the dance by the cat worshipper. Assuming he doesn’t scare her off by trying to convert her to his horse religion, he’ll go with Lucy. I’m going with Jayla. That leaves you, Ellie.”
“Well, I’m not gonna ask anyone,” Ellie says firmly.
“Why not?” I nab a piece of cantaloupe. Six chicken nuggets were not enough to fill me up.
She shrugs. “There’s no one to ask.”
“There are plenty of fish in the sea!” Hunter sweeps his arm across the room. “Just look at all the fish in this cafeteria! The real problem—and if you search deep, deep down, you know it’s true: You’re. Too. Picky.”
“Am not!” She sees me coming in for her last piece of cantaloupe and pops it in her mouth. “Honestly,” she says after swallowing, “I have no desire to go to this dance. But if I had to ask someone, it would probably be Cole.”
“Cole?” I say. “Really?” Over at the basketball table, Cole from computer science mixes together a smoothie of milk, ketchup, and salad dressing. Those basketball guys are always having all the fun.
“What’s wrong?” Ellie says. “You don’t like him?”
“Huh? I like him.” But something in my stomach doesn’t believe my own words, so I backtrack. “I just don’t think he seems like your type.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t kno
w. I just don’t think you’d mesh.”
Ellie shoots me a dirty look. “What is my type, then, according to you?”
“I don’t know, maybe someone more studious? Like…Eric Daniels.” Eric’s this genius dude who carries around a Rubik’s Cube like it’s his stuffed animal. He always wears dress shirts, which is kind of weird, but he seems like a nice guy.
Now Ellie’s glaring at me. I honestly don’t get what I said wrong.
I glance at Cole again. He pumps his fist as Duke chugs the ketchup smoothie. I notice Cole’s pointy chin, brown loafers, and green sweater vest. “Plus,” I say, “Cole looks like a Christmas elf.”
“You’re such a bully.”
“Am not! Just because I said Cole looks like an elf does not make me a bully. It makes me an acute observer.”
“Whatever.” She grabs her book off the bench and starts reading.
Hunter, who has been strangely quiet throughout this Cole discussion, motions with his chin. “Well, look who it is.”
I spin around.
“Be cool, man. Don’t look.”
“You said look.”
“I didn’t mean look look.”
Jayla and Paris have left their lunch table and are headed our way. The crowds part for them like they have an enchantment over the cafeteria. Jayla wears a soft white turtleneck that looks like it’s just waiting for some kid to fling ketchup at it. Part of me wants to get up and be that shirt’s bodyguard.
“What are you gonna say?” Hunter whispers.
“I don’t know,” I whisper back. Sweat prickles the back of my neck.
The girls stop at our table, and a few of Duke’s buddies eye us curiously.
“Hey, Ben. Hey, Hunter,” Jayla says. She glances at Ellie reading, and then back at me. “You got my note?”
“Yeah, that was awesome!” I say loud enough so the basketball table can hear. “I loved the pigs.”
“It was adorable!” Hunter agrees. Jayla flashes a smile, but I can’t tell by her expression if she thinks he’s funny or dorky. As awful as it sounds, I can’t help but wonder if she’d be more impressed if I were sitting at Duke’s table, mixing concoctions of condiments and laughing with the guys.
My Life as a Potato Page 5
