Do they, though? Because it still feels like no one knows who I really am. Not even Ellie.
I’m not the salami king. I’m the dork behind the potato mask.
We walk in silence as we pass three blobby snow figures sitting in a neighbor’s front yard. It hasn’t warmed up enough for them to melt completely, but just enough for them to morph into stumpy little Jabba the Hutts.
“Before I forget,” Ellie says as we approach her house, “starting next week, I can’t walk home on Wednesdays and Fridays anymore. I signed up to be a peer tutor.”
I nudge her shoulder. “Perfect Miss Ellie.”
She nudges me back. “What? It’ll be fun. You should do it too.”
“I don’t know….” I trail off. “I’m not great at math.”
“People bring in all kinds of assignments. Remember how you helped me write my thesis statement? You’d be really helpful in English.”
I smile. “Thanks. I guess I wouldn’t mind helping people write papers and stuff.”
The final basketball game’s a week from today. I’ll need to use my time after school to practice my tricks. “I can’t start until next week is over, though.”
Ellie frowns. “Why? You have something else going on?”
“I’m grounded till next Friday, remember?” Smooth as butter.
“Your mom wouldn’t even let you tutor?”
“Nope.” I rub my hands together to heat them up. “She takes grounding very seriously. She’s like a prison warden.”
“Come on,” Ellie says. “Your mom’s super nice. She’s probably like my favorite non-relative adult.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“She gave me her basil plant, remember? That was so cool.”
I laugh. That happened a couple of weeks ago. After walking home, I invited Ellie inside to meet Buster really quick. Mom had been in the kitchen making pasta, and Ellie was admiring her mini herb garden on the windowsill. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone get so excited over plants.
“What do you do with basil anyway?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I cook with it sometimes. Or I smell it and feel pure joy.”
I smirk. “Pure joy?”
“The purest of joys! Haven’t you ever smelled fresh basil?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“It’s a sad life you lead.”
We stop in front of her house, the only yellow one on the street. Icicle lights dangle from the roof, left over from Christmas. Ellie’s family has a tradition to keep their decorations up until February first. Even the blue Mini Cooper in their driveway still sports reindeer antlers and a poofy red nose.
Ellie steps a few times on a crunchy pile of snow. “So I was going to invite you and Hunter to my cello recital tomorrow. I know you’re grounded, but I thought I’d ask anyway. But if your mom won’t even let you tutor—”
“Oh well, you never know,” I cut in. “I can try to convince her. If she says no, I’ll just sneak out or something.”
She perks up. “You’d really do that?”
She looks impressed, so my dumb mouth keeps spewing out words. “Well, yeah. I’ve always wanted to hear you play. Sneaking out shouldn’t be too hard. I’ll pretend I’m taking a nap, do the whole pillows-under-the-covers thing, climb out the window and down the tree. It’s not like this is my first rodeo.” Actually, this would be my first rodeo if I did have to sneak out.
Ellie tells me how to get to the recital venue—an old church building a few blocks away. I save the directions in my phone while expressing my deep appreciation for the cello and how it’s my favorite instrument. I’ve never really thought about what my favorite instrument was until just now, but it might as well be the cello. It’s in a couple of music videos I like.
Ellie walks up the concrete pathway to her door. I watch at the gate, prepared to rescue her if she slips on ice again. Once she makes it inside, I walk home with a bounce in my step. This weekend I have no homework, no basketball games, and Ellie’s recital to attend. What could go wrong?
14
Doug Comes Back to Haunt Me
On Saturday, I wake to the worst commercial jingle ever invented.
I’M A JIGGLY JELL-O MAN
YOU’RE A JIGGLY JELL-O FAN
JIGGLY JIGGLY JELL-O IN YOUR TUM
I smack my phone off my nightstand and moan. “Ugh, Hunter.”
One of Hunter’s favorite hobbies is stealing my phone and changing my text alerts to annoying songs. Somehow he always manages to find a song that’s more annoying than the last. It started with “Call Me Maybe.” Then “Barbie Girl.” Last week, “Who Let the Dogs Out” went off during math. It turned out okay, because the whole class joined in. They sang so loud, Ms. Meyers never found out it was my phone. One of my top-ten moments of the year.
I rub my eyes and open the text message from Jayla Marden: Hey Ben!
My heart skips in my chest. I answer right away.
Me: Hey! What’s up?
Jayla Marden: Nothing much. I’m bored. Kind of feeling like ice cream.
I stare at the message, baffled. She wants ice cream at 9:32 in the morning? Does she want me to go get her some? Or is she just stating a random fact?
It’d be best to respond with something safe. A foolproof answer.
Me: Me too.
Jayla Marden: Haha
Why is she laughing? Girls are so confusing.
Jayla Marden: Wanna meet up later today? How about Sammy’s on Tate St?
I can’t believe it. She wants to see me outside school. My heart pounds like I just ran the mile. The idea sounds great on the surface, but it can only end in disaster. Need I recall the mistakes of my past? I’m a nonsense-spewing, water-spilling, phone-dropping fool around girls I like. The whole fantasy I’ve built up in my head could come crashing down the moment I say something dumb.
But Idaho Ben is not afraid of girls.
Me: Sure.
I don’t want to look too eager, after all.
We decide to meet up at one-thirty p.m., which is perfect since Ellie’s recital starts at noon. I can bike straight from the recital to Sammy’s.
After breakfast and a shower, I put on my nicest button-down shirt and dark jeans. I have some time to kill, so I do a few handstands. Maybe I’ll be brave enough to attempt one at the next game.
Before I know it, it’s time to leave. On my way out the door, I realize I forgot something important. I dash back to my room and dig some bills out of the envelope on my dresser—leftover Christmas money from Grandma Hardy. I can’t believe I almost forgot to bring money. Jayla would’ve had to pay for me. Disaster averted.
Luckily, last night’s snow has melted off the sidewalks, so I’m able to ride my bike without breaking any bones. The church is a few blocks farther than I planned for. I slip into the recital room two minutes late with sore legs from having pedaled so fast.
Ellie, first on the program, faces an audience of thirty or so. Her hair is curled, which is unusual for her, but it looks really pretty. She smooths the fabric of her dark green dress and grasps the neck of her cello as I sneak into the back row. Then she begins to play.
The first note is loud. It slices through the air and hangs there for a bit. Next comes the melody. It’s soft at first, so soft you have to lean forward to hear. But then it gets louder and pulls back, louder and pulls back, kind of like an ocean wave that drowns out all your other thoughts. Ellie’s bow floats across the strings, and her fingers do that cool shaking thing to make the music sound like an opera lady’s voice. It’s beautiful. Even the little kids climbing on the stacked chairs in the back of the room stop to listen.
A few violinists follow, and then a giant cello thing called a bass, and then a viola, which is basically just a violin without the “in” at the end. T
hey’re all right, but only Ellie’s playing could actually raise the hairs on your arms.
The final performer hits his last note, and everyone applauds. I hurry to congratulate Ellie, but she’s surrounded by a group of people who apparently also want to tell her how talented she is. “Thank you, Tía,” I hear her say to a woman in a purple sweater. “I’m glad you could make it.”
I don’t want to interrupt Ellie’s time with family, so I wait by the cookie table at the back of the room. There are homemade brownies, sugar cookies, and snickerdoodles galore. I bite into a gooey brownie, and it’s like an explosion of sugary awesomeness. I fight the urge to stash ten of them in my jacket.
Hunter is stuck having a conversation in the front row with an old guy carrying a cane—probably a relative, since I know Hunter and Ellie have like a billion family members who live in town. The man rattles on as Hunter steals longing glances at the cookie table.
“Ben!” Ellie attacks me with a hug, and I stiffen with surprise. We’ve never really been hugging friends, not that I’m opposed to it.
“You were incredible!” I say. My hand rests on her arm a few seconds longer than is probably normal. “I literally got chills.”
“Thanks.” She shakes her curls out of her face. “Did you have to sneak out?”
I pull my hand back and cover my mouth to cough. “Yeah, my mom went to the mall, and she always spends like a billion hours there, so…”
For some reason, I feel extra bad about lying after having listened to classical music, like it activated the conscience center in my brain.
Hunter finally escapes the conversation with the senior-citizen-slash-possible-relative. He grabs one cookie from each of the set-out plates and balances the stack in his hand. “Ellie! That was angelic. Just angelic. Aren’t you glad talent runs in the family?” He takes a cookie off the top of his stack and bites into it. “Do you guys want to do something tonight? We should watch a movie or something.”
“Yeah,” Ellie and I say simultaneously. She looks at me and frowns. “Oh, but you’re still grounded.”
My face falls. “Right.” Great. All I want to do is relax and watch a movie with my friends, and the only person stopping me is myself. Being fake grounded is worse than being real grounded.
Hunter mumbles through a mouthful of snickerdoodle. “How long till you’re off the hook, man?”
“Next Saturday.” The third game is Tuesday, and the fourth and final game is Friday. Six more days of this madness, and I’ll never have to lie again.
“I’m excited for it to finally be over,” Ellie says.
“Not as excited as I am,” I say. “Trust me.”
I check my phone: 1:25. Jayla will be at Sammy’s any minute.
“Speaking of being grounded,” I say, “my mom’s gonna be back from the mall soon. I should probably go.”
“Yeah,” says Ellie. “I hope you get back in time! I’d feel bad if you got in trouble because of this. Text me and let me know.”
“Will do,” I say as I walk out the door. “It was so good to see you play, Ellie.”
And it really was. She’s actually kind of amazing.
* * *
I mount my bike, which luckily hasn’t been stolen from the side of the church. It would’ve vanished in two seconds if I’d left it outside in Los Angeles.
After pedaling the short distance to the diner, I hide my bike by the dumpster behind the building, just in case.
The large store window is covered in food decals—cartoon hamburgers, ice cream, french fries. I enter, and little bells attached to the door ring above my head. The place has a fifties vibe—records on the wall, black-and-white tiled floors, jukebox in the corner, the whole deal. I nod to the girl behind the counter and sit at one of the tables.
Not three minutes later, Jayla walks in wearing this amazing red turtleneck that you could see from fifty miles away. I give her an awkward side hug, and we order ice cream at the counter—me chocolate and her vanilla. The worker wobbles as she scoops it out, thanks to the fifties roller skates strapped to her feet. I pay for both our ice creams, which I guess makes this my first official date in Idaho, and maybe even my first date ever, if you don’t count the time Missy Talbot held my hand during our first-grade field trip to the zoo.
I follow Jayla past a few full booths to one by the window. The red vinyl cushions squeak when we sit.
After a brief silence, I notice a tiny silver megaphone on her charm bracelet. “How’s cheer going?”
“Good.” She swirls her ice cream, creating a milkshake in her cup. “Nothing too interesting.”
“Nothing at all?” You’d think getting knocked down by a human bowling ball would qualify as interesting.
She purses her lips. “Well, there was this one kinda funny thing. You know the school mascot, the potato?”
I freeze for a second, the ice cream stopping on its way to my mouth. “No. I mean, yeah. Like, I don’t know him know him, but I know of the guy, like the concept.”
The corners of her mouth tighten like she’s smothering a laugh. Apparently, my blabbering is amusing.
“So, get this. Last game, he rammed right into our cheer pyramid. It was awful. We all fell down and everything.”
The verb “rammed” implies it was intentional. She should have more accurately said “tripped and rolled.” Still, I raise my eyebrows with concern. “I hope you didn’t get hurt!”
“Nah, I’m fine. Paris kind of did. Not bad, just a bruise. Either way, that potato’s a moron.”
My lips twitch. “Maybe it was an accident.”
“Accident or not, we’re gonna get back at him.”
I choke on my ice cream. “Oh yeah? How?”
“I don’t know.” She licks her spoon. “Duke’ll figure something out.”
“Duke?”
“Yeah, he’s mad about the whole thing because he’s, like, totally in love with Paris. They’re going to the dance together, you know? He texts her all the time.”
I don’t care so much about this Duke gossip. I care about how, exactly, Duke is planning to “get back” at me. I heard the last guy that got on his bad side ended up with a snowball to the face. In the middle of the school hallway. Not fatal, but still, he got a black eye.
I try to look casual by leaning back in the booth. “Paris told Duke to beat up the Spud, then?”
“Nah, not that intense. Duke can’t afford another suspension. Plus, we don’t even know who the guy is yet. Apparently, his name is Doug.”
Doug? Why would she think—ohhhhh. I told Wyatt my name was Doug, and it must’ve gotten out.
“What’s wrong?” Jayla asks. “Do you know him?”
My face must be giving me away. I try to relax. “Me? No. I’ve never met anyone named Doug in my life. Except for this one kid in kindergarten who bit everyone.”
Jayla giggles. “Well, it seems like no one knows who he is, but that’s his name for sure.”
“How do you know?”
“Paris got it out of the old mascot.” She leans in. “Get this—she told him she needed the new Spud’s name on behalf of the student council. Said they were planning to make him a monogrammed shirt.”
“Like a shirt with his name on it?”
“Yeah. I don’t know how she even thinks of these things. She’s like an evil genius.”
“No kidding.” A Slytherin indeed. If she’s so sneaky, what if she’s able to find out that “Doug” is me? This can’t be good.
On the other side of the window, a blue Mini Cooper pulls up to the curb.
A reindeer Mini Cooper.
Ellie’s mom’s car!
I drop my spoon. They came to get food? Why here? Why now? Weren’t there enough cookies at the church? Ellie thinks I’m at home, grounded. I need to escape.
A neon exit sign glows above the back door just a couple of tables away. I’d better make a run for it.
I slide out of the booth. “Hey, I should get going.”
Jayla looks surprised. “You’re not even done with your ice cream.”
“Yeah, I feel a little sick.”
“Well, okay.” Jayla’s face falls as she scrapes at her bowl, and I actually do start to feel sick.
Ellie’s mom opens the driver’s side of the Mini Cooper. I’ve only met her once, but I recognize her immediately. A tall, thin Latina woman with Ellie’s wavy hair.
“Let’s come back here another time,” I say as I shove my arms into my jacket sleeves.
The passenger door of the blue car swings open.
I take a few steps backward and ram my thigh into the corner of a table. “I’m…ouch…I’m really sorry to run out on you like this. You can have the rest of my ice cream if you want.”
“I don’t like chocolate.”
She doesn’t like chocolate?
There’s no time to ask questions.
“I’m really sorry,” I repeat. “I’ll see you at school on Monday, okay?” I slip out the back of the diner just as Ellie and her yellow scarf pop out of the car.
I loiter by the smelly dumpster until I think the coast is clear. Then I peek around the corner to make sure Ellie and her mom aren’t still hanging around outside. The blue reindeer car seems to laugh at me. You got yourself into this mess, it says. It’s right. The way I left Jayla was totally rude. What if she never talks to me again?
I hop on my bike and pedal as fast as my feet will take me. The cold air stings my face and dries out my eyes.
I’m ninety-six percent sure I escaped unseen. And since Ellie and Jayla never talk, Ellie will most likely never find out I was there.
I should feel relieved. Instead I feel worse than ever.
And the question remains: What do Duke and Paris have in store for me?
15
The Spelling-Bee Queen
In English on Monday, I run through some of Duke’s possible payback methods: Trip me. Slash my suit. Pour hot gravy through my screen. I bet Paris will think up the idea, and Duke will deliver. They make the perfect evil duo.
My Life as a Potato Page 9
