I’m not sure what to say next. Maybe Jayla expects me to give her an answer about the dance right now. But Ellie said I need to answer creatively, so maybe I’m supposed to keep her in suspense. They need a guidebook for these situations.
I change the subject. “How’d you get into my locker, anyway?”
“That was me.” Paris twirls the single blue streak in her dark brown hair, looking like either this is the most boring conversation in the world, or like she only got three hours of sleep. “I looked over your shoulder when you were opening your locker this morning. Wasn’t too hard.”
Jayla tugs on her sleeve. “She even kept watch down the hallway to make sure no one grabbed the note off your locker.”
“Smart.” I try not to wince. Was Paris spying on me when I read the fake “rejection” note? I hope she didn’t see my sappy facial expression.
An awkward silence follows. It’s funny how you can have silence with your friends and it’s no big deal, but have silence when your crush is around and it’s like you’re failing at being a functioning human being.
There’s gotta be a way to address the dance without giving away my answer. After some thought, I say, “Well, I’m excited to answer you.”
“Creatively,” Hunter adds.
“Cool,” Jayla says. The girls exchange a glance, as if telepathically communicating that it’s time to go.
“Uh…see you in English, I guess,” Jayla says, and they leave. Overall, I’d say that wasn’t a complete disaster. Idaho Ben is getting—dare I say it?—smooth?
Once they’re out of earshot, Hunter sighs. “That was a beautiful moment. You guys think Paris likes horses?”
“You’re ridiculous,” Ellie says, not bothering to look up from her book. “Besides, Paris is going to the dance with Duke.”
Hunter frowns at the basketball table. “Well, I can’t compete with him. That guy’s massive.”
Ellie peeps over the top of her book. “I don’t get his appeal. He doesn’t seem very nice. I can’t stand guys who aren’t nice.” She emphasizes the words “aren’t nice” while looking at me. I must’ve gotten on her bad side for insulting what’s-his-elf-face. Maybe I should say something nice about him to even things out, but for some reason, I can’t bring myself to do it.
I check my phone for the time. “Three minutes till the bell.”
Ellie looks up. “Is it already that late?” She snaps her book shut and stuffs it under her arm. “I have to get to orchestra.” She collects her things and hurries away.
My stomach growls. Apparently, the few cubes of cantaloupe weren’t enough either. “Hey, Hunter, you gonna eat that salami?”
“Nah. Take it.” He tosses me the half-foot-long meat stick. His mom always puts the most random stuff in his lunch bag.
I tear off the plastic wrap and take a salty bite. “Did Ellie seem mad to you?”
“Yeah.” He squirms a little. “I think she likes that Cole guy. I don’t know.”
“Weird.”
“Yeah. Weird.”
What does Cole have that interests Ellie anyway? I’ve never even seen him talk to her. What if she asks him to the dance and he says yes? What if he becomes better friends with her than me? And invites her to eat lunch at their table?
I shake off the thought. There’s no point worrying about something that will never happen. I should focus on my own date instead.
I play out the scene in my head:
SETTING: Middle school gymnasium. No bouncy house in sight. Lights are dimmed, and music begins to play.
BEN: (taking Jayla by the hand) Shall we dance?
JAYLA: (a gleam in her eye) We shall, and never stop!
BEN twirls JAYLA, her white skirt flowing around her. He dips her and lifts her back up.
I hope dipping girls is as easy as they make it look in the movies.
I take another bite of salami and head to my next class. Excitement bubbles in my chest like a shaken can of soda. Out of all the guys in the school, Jayla picked me. Walked right up to me in the cafeteria with everyone watching. I feel like I have an aura shining around my head, like I’m the Chosen One in some fantasy novel.
The Chosen One. I got it. I know how I’m gonna answer Jayla.
I have to start working on it right after school if I’m gonna pull it off.
9
The Stomach Pretzel
There’s a NO EATING sign on the wall of my English classroom, so I stuff the rest of the salami in my mouth and head straight to my seat in the back corner. I have the desk right next to the air freshener plug-in, which today happens to smell like cinnamon. I’m thumbing through my notebook and thinking about my answer for Jayla, when a flash of orange catches my eye. It’s Mitch entering the room in his big puffy jacket. He looks straight at me and flashes this goofy smile that seems to say, Hey, secret buddy. LOL. Just like that, with the cheesiness and everything. I grimace back, wondering if this kid will now expect me to publicly befriend him. I almost think he’s gonna walk up to my desk and ask, Did you think about what kind of drone you’d like? But instead he sits in his seat like any other day.
The bell rings and Ms. Wu claps three times, which is her way of getting our attention. Her blue skirt and matching jacket remind me of a flight attendant—one of the really nice ones who gives you extra peanuts.
“All right, everyone,” Ms. Wu says. “Today we’re doing group work. Find a group of two or three. You have sixty seconds.”
Duke points at me and then to his chest. “Partners?”
I nod and can’t help but grin. Duke always used to pair up with Kevin in the third row, but apparently he thinks I’m the coolest kid in the class now.
Duke snakes his way through the rows to reach me in the back corner. He nabs an absent girl’s chair, flips it around, and straddles it like it’s a horse.
The rest of the students mill around the classroom and clump their desks together. Meanwhile, Mitch stays put, his head turning right and left like he’s watching one of his drones fly around the room.
I feel for the guy. The phrase “find a partner” used to send me into a panic attack at my last school. Everyone always paired up so fast, each tick of the clock chipping away at my chances to find someone to work with.
Mitch taps the shoulder of the guy sitting across from him. “Hey, can I join your group?”
“Sorry, we already have three,” the boy says as a girl sweeps in beside him.
I think about calling out, Hey, Mitch, come here, but I can just imagine the weirded-out face Duke would make. Maybe I can point out another group for him to join. I survey the room. Group of three. Group of three. Group of two! No, their third member is just sharpening his pencil.
The only groups of two left in the whole class are me and Duke, and Mikenna and Mikelle—who are not, as their names suggest, twins with cheesy parents, but rather best friends who are so exclusive that I don’t think they’d let Taylor Swift herself join their group.
For Mitch, this must be like choosing between brussels sprouts and dog food, because his options are down to me and Duke, who could snap him in half if he got on his bad side, and the two girls giggling in the corner. I open my mouth, but my voice clings to the back of my throat.
Duke keeps talking to me—something about throwing oranges, I think? I “uh-huh” back without really listening, curious to see how the Mitch-needs-a-partner saga will end.
Mitch slowly stands and makes his way toward us. What is he thinking?
“Here comes Mitch the Snitch,” Duke mutters. “Let’s pretend we have a third partner already. Like an imaginary friend.”
“Ha, okay,” I say, and my stomach immediately twists itself into a pretzel.
Mitch is just a few feet away, and I can tell from his twitchy mouth that he’s just as nervous as I am. This can’t end well. I
avert my eyes to the corner of the room. Turn around, Mitch. Just turn around.
“Hey!” Ms. Wu points at the group by the whiteboard, singling out two boys spitting water at each other through their teeth. “Nuh-uh. You guys are not allowed to be partners anymore.” She looks around. “Peter, go join Mikenna and Mikelle. We’ll have Mitch take your place.”
Close call.
Mitch scoots his desk to join the water spitter and his partner, and a weight lifts off my shoulders. It’s almost like Ms. Wu saw what was going on and stepped in to save the day.
This annoying voice in my head says I’m a jerk and I should’ve asked Mitch to sit with us. But why should I feel obligated? Just because he’s the only person who knows I’m the Spud doesn’t mean we’re BFFs all of a sudden. We talked for like five minutes in the janitor’s closet. Big deal.
Still, I can’t help but feel bad about how it all went down. The nervous face he made walking up to us sticks in my brain, if that makes sense. It also doesn’t help that I end up completing the “group work” all by myself, since Duke doesn’t understand how to make similes. Personally, I find them as easy as pie. (See, there’s one right there.) Duke might understand them too if he put in a little effort. Maybe Mitch would’ve made a better partner after all.
The rest of the school day goes by like ice melting on a cold day. When it ends, I rush to the bike racks to tell Ellie my idea for answering Jayla. She helps me cement the details on our walk home.
The plan is to get a plush version of Hedwig the owl, Harry Potter’s pet and trusty mail carrier. I’ll put a cute little envelope in her beak (that was Ellie’s idea) and stuff her in Jayla’s locker. I’ll write something clever, playing on how Harry was the “Chosen One” in the books, and I’m her “Chosen One” to the dance.
It will be brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.
At home, I scroll through a few stuffed Hedwig options and find the biggest, fluffiest one. I buy it using Mom’s credit card, which I know isn’t the best choice, but in movies, parents always tell their kids they can use the credit card in case of an emergency. Mom and Dad haven’t used those exact words, but I’m sure it’s like an implied thing. And this is definitely an emergency. If I don’t answer Jayla ASAP, she might change her mind.
Besides, Mom would probably let me buy the owl if I asked. I’d just rather not bring it up. If she knew it was for a girl, she’d go full-on interrogation mode: Who’s the girl? What’s she like? You get the picture.
The next day at school, I realize something that makes me want to smack my forehead: I spent so much time looking at stuffed Hedwigs that I didn’t practice my mascot skills for Wednesday’s game. The pressure is starting to get to me. Every time I start daydreaming about dancing with Jayla, I see myself morph into a clumsy, giant potato that knocks her to the floor. I avoid Coach in the halls, afraid he’ll say something in passing like You prepared for the game tomorrow, Hardy? I don’t want to admit that I’m not.
Last Friday, I looked Coach in the eye and promised I’d try my best. But so far, all I’ve done to prepare is watch YouTube videos of stunts that are either too expensive or too dangerous to pull off.
I have just one night to get my game plan down, and this time, I won’t blow it.
10
Buster Almost Blows My Cover
When I get home, I remove my shoes on the front porch, like Mom always insists. I walk through the door and am hit with the sounds of a normal afternoon in the Hardy household: Mom’s in the kitchen, talking to Grandma on the phone about how the renovation is coming along. Dad’s in the living room, hammering a shelf to the wall. Abby’s in the front room, practicing her violin. She’s gotten a lot better since starting fifth grade.
“I’m home,” I call out to Mom before heading upstairs. Now she won’t come check for me. I’m going all out on my mascot training, and I need to be alone.
I lock myself in my room and take a deep breath. Time to buckle down.
I rummage through the books and video games on my desk until I find a pencil and notebook, and then I belly flop onto my bed. I flip to a blank page and brainstorm.
MASCOTTING IDEAS
Moonwalk
Handstand
Start the wave
High-five people
Cooler dance moves
Juggle
This’ll be good to start with.
I pull out my phone and play a fast-paced song—perfect for moonwalking inspiration. I hop off my bed and moonwalk around piles of clothes until I ram my ankle into my skateboard. My feet don’t seem bendy enough. I massage them and persevere. By the end of the song, I figure I’m getting better. Hopefully, the crowds won’t demand moonwalking perfection from the potato. What’s next on the list?
Handstand. I do one against the wall to get a feel for it, and then I try a couple in the center of my room. I position myself in front of the beanbag for a safe landing, which comes in handy. On my third attempt, I time myself at twenty-four seconds. Not too shabby. But I’ll have to practice in the actual costume to see if I can pull it off.
Next, start the wave and high-five people. I’ll keep them in mind, but they require no practice.
Then, cooler dance moves. I really need something besides the Coach Tudy–inspired kick-punch.
I pull up a search for “potato dancing,” hoping to find some moves I can manage while dressed like a spud. Instead I discover that there’s a legit dance called the Mashed Potato that was popular in the 1960s, kinda like the Twist. Apparently, it even inspired a song called “Mashed Potato Time” by Dee Dee Sharp. I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.
A two-minute YouTube video explains how to do it. Heels together. Swing out one leg. Heels together. Swing out the other leg. Sheesh. This is way harder than the Twist.
I check out a couple of other recommended videos. My favorite is a routine led by a giant pink otter from Japan. I don’t understand the captions, but the otter is easy to follow, and she’s a surprisingly good dancer. I guess mascotting is a universal language, like music, or math.
Finally I’m ready for the last item on my list: juggle. Now, there’s something I can brush up on. I search my room for a juggling prop. I need something round…something that can fit in my hands…something like…
Potatoes! That’d be a crowd pleaser. And considering how my mom hoards potatoes like she’s preparing for the zombie apocalypse, a few missing spuds will surely go unnoticed.
I creep downstairs and peek into the kitchen for Mom. She’d be pretty weirded out if she saw me carrying potatoes up to my room, and she would probably assume the worst. I’m not sure what the worst thing is you can do with potatoes, but she’d come up with some strange idea.
Mom’s gone, but probably not for long, since a pot’s boiling on the stove. I slink into the pantry, nab three potatoes, and glide back up the stairs, hoping Abby’s too focused on her violin to notice me.
Halfway up, Buster yelps from behind me, nearly giving me away. He’s muscled his way up to the third step and is struggling to make it to the fourth. His baby corgi legs can only take him so far. Genetics are not on his side.
“Poor little guy.” I scoop him up and cradle him in my arms over the potatoes. I lock my door behind us and set him on my bed. He’ll be my audience.
Buster nestles into my fuzzy blue sheets and watches me juggle, perking up his golden head and barking each time a potato drops to the floor.
My motions are a bit wobbly. I’m out of practice, since we don’t have orange trees in our backyard anymore. Also, perfectly round oranges are easier to juggle than potatoes. But I keep at it, and I’m just starting to find my rhythm when someone knocks on my door.
“Can I come in?” my sister says. “I want to play with Buster!” Classic Abby. She just has to wait until I have Buster before wanting to play with him.
Saying no would be useless. Abby never gives up. I stuff the spuds under my pillow and open the door to shoo out Buster, but he doesn’t waltz out like I planned. Instead he darts around the room, tail wagging and tongue hanging out. Abby squeezes past me and reaches for him with her skinny arms. “Buster!” she squeals.
Buster was our parents’ consolation gift to us when we moved to Idaho. Like, Sorry for uprooting you kids and destroying your childhood stability. Here’s a puppy. I was pretty upset about leaving behind the beach and the sun and the skate parks, but getting Buster definitely helped me cope. A puppy can soften nearly all of life’s problems.
Buster starts to wear himself out, so I put him on my pillow to rest. Abby plunks herself on my bed beside him, causing a potato to roll out from its hiding place.
Nooooooo! I mentally scream. Seriously, what’s wrong with me? I can’t even manage to successfully hide a potato.
Abby lifts my pillow to reveal the other fugitive spuds. She scrunches up her freckly nose like she smells a stinky old sneaker. “Why are there potatoes under your pillow?”
This is bad. This is really bad. If Abby suspects anything, she’ll snoop around until she discovers what’s going on. She’s got a future as a spy, I swear. She figures out what Mom and Dad are going to get her every single Christmas.
“It’s a science experiment,” I say.
“Huh?”
“I’m”—I clear my throat—“you know, studying the effects of sleep deprivation on the human brain. The lumps under the pillow make it hard to sleep.”
She eyes me suspiciously, giving herself a double chin. “Is that really the kind of stuff you do in middle school?”
“What, scientific studies? Of course.” I toss a potato casually in the air.
“Riiight,” she says, in a way that leaves me unsettled. Abby’s a bigger blabbermouth than Hunter. If she ever finds out I’m the Spud, she’ll tell Mom and then her friends. I’ll never hear the end of it.
My Life as a Potato Page 6
