My Life as a Potato

by Arianne Costner

  I search the audience. Ellie sits front and center in the section behind the band. Her smile lights up her whole face, and I can’t help but feel proud I was the one who put it there. Beside her stands Mitch, who apparently recorded the whole thing, since he’s holding his phone out in front of him. I’ll have to ask him to send me the video later. Duke is up and hollering too. No way he’ll want to get revenge on me now.

  I sit on my bench, and the game starts on a positive note. Duke makes the first basket—a perfect layup—and we keep a steady lead throughout the first quarter. Cole attempts a few shots and misses horribly. We still keep the lead, just no thanks to Cole.

  By the end of the second quarter, the Billy Goats have caught up. Our momentum could only last so long—after all, we’re playing the great Burrows Middle School. Their star athlete, Ammon Hall, is making pretty much every three-pointer he attempts. Their mascot bleats loudly and leads their crowd in the wave. Unlike me, he doesn’t trip and roll.

  I do a double take at the scoreboard. I need to grab my potatoes before halftime. Coach told me earlier I only had to fill a few minutes, since the cheerleaders would be the main act, and I’m up first.

  I sneak out to grab the potatoes I stored in the janitor’s closet all week and return just in time. I carry the three large spuds to the center of the court and begin to juggle, keeping my moves basic. I can’t track the potatoes with my eyes, so I rely a lot on muscle memory.

  The cheers aren’t as loud as they were for the skateboarding routine, but once I finish, almost everyone wears a well, isn’t that cute smile. I don’t know why, because if you think about it, it’s actually quite messed up that I would toss my tater babies up in the air. That’s child endangerment. I search for Ellie’s smile again. Yep, there it is.

  My potato babies and I return to our wobbly wooden bench as the cheerleaders line up in V formation. Jayla stands at the front of the V, hands on hips.

  During the routine, I can’t stop glancing back at Ellie and Mitch to spy on their interactions. Creepy, yes, but being in a mascot costume is probably the closest I’ll ever get to being invisible while in plain sight, and I have to take advantage. Ellie and Mitch lean toward each other like they’re in the middle of a serious conversation. What could they be talking about? Hopefully, nothing about me.

  The whistle signals the start of the second half. The Spuds play at the top of their game, but it’s barely enough to keep us competitive. The teams take turns nabbing the lead from each other, the outcome of the game impossible to predict.

  At the end of the fourth quarter, the Billy Goats lead by one point, with ten seconds left on the clock. A quiet tension fills the air as everyone holds their breath. The ref’s shrill whistle cuts through the silence.

  Cole inbounds the ball to Seth Lopez, one of our most solid players. His eyes dart left and right, looking to pass to someone in a good position to score.

  There’s five seconds to go. I lean forward on my bench and press my fists to the Spud’s mouth.

  But the bench is too rickety. The wooden slab tilts forward under my weight. The potatoes beside me tumble several feet onto the court, right as Seth passes the ball to Duke. I cry out and scramble to grab them, but only manage to capture two.

  Duke runs while dribbling the ball, about to make the winning shot. As if in slow motion, his left foot lands on baby spud number three. His legs buckle and he crashes to the floor, rolling onto his back like a dead beetle.

  Duke’s eyes scour the floor for the offending object until he finds the potato, which has skidded a few yards away as if running from the scene of the crime. Then he snaps his head toward me.

  His face turns as red as his hair, and sweat drips from his forehead like he’s literally melting from anger. His eyes burn with such a fury that I think I’m going to disintegrate, or at least turn into a french fry.

  Coach paces the sidelines, pressing his hands to the sides of his head like he’s juicing himself. Meanwhile, the crowd’s booing is out of control. Their jeers hit me like bullets, and I resist the urge to duck and cover.

  The ref calls interference and puts five seconds back on the clock, allowing us to repeat the play. Cole passes to Seth again, but this time around, the Goats make sure to guard him so he can’t get in a good pass. He attempts the shot himself and misses, the final buzzer sounding with a score of 71–70, Billy Goats.

  I don’t turn to face the fans. I don’t dare. My cheeks are about ten degrees from bursting into flames, and I feel heavy enough to sink through the floor—which would be great. I’d do anything to disappear.

  Coach Tudy orders the team back to the locker room. When Duke passes my bench, he checks to make sure Coach isn’t looking and then shoves me so hard I nearly fall backward.

  “Watch your back, Spudboy,” he hisses as he walks away. So much for avoiding Duke’s revenge plot.

  Coach rounds up a couple of players who are arguing with the ref and ushers them out the door. I don’t even want to think about what they’re saying about me in the locker room.

  I sit frozen on the bench as that achy, about-to-cry sensation creeps up my throat. I give up. No way in heck will I wear this costume ever again. Forget the fact that I shook on it with Coach in the principal’s office. I’m done.

  The crowds disperse, leaving just three straggling fans in the back row. I wish they’d hurry up and leave already so I can writhe my way out of this cursed suit and go curl up in my bed. Could things possibly get any worse?

  Behind me, a high-pitched voice rings out from the stands.

  “Get him!”

  17

  Attack of the Rabid Fans

  The little Lost Boy look-alike rushes down the bleachers, his fierce eyes shining behind streaked war paint. His two older friends follow behind, leaping over the benches instead of taking the stairs. The taller of the two has arms so skinny I could probably roll over on them and they’d snap. The other boy, however, is basically a human pit bull. He growls through his teeth like I’m a juicy steak.

  I snatch the skateboard from under the bench, my only hope for a quick escape. I press the board to my stomach, sprint a couple of steps, and belly flop onto the court. I sail toward the far doors like a penguin gliding down an iceberg as the boys chase me like leopard seals on the hunt.

  I barrel-roll off my board just before it rams into the wall. Channeling all my ab strength, I wriggle onto my feet, only to feel a sharp kick in the meat of my calf.

  The little monster sneers at me. “I’ve been in karate since I was six.”

  “Oh yeah?” I shoot back. “Well, I’ve been mashing potatoes since I was five!” I lurch at him as a threat. My foot yearns to deliver payback, but my brain stops me. I will not resort to kicking children. I will not.

  A pair of sneakers squeaks behind me and I bolt. If either of the eighth graders catches me, who knows what they’ll do? I zigzag around the gym, feeling like I’m playing a virtual-reality game where I can only see the screen in front of me as I’m chased from behind by killer zombies. Except the zombies are replaced by rabid sports fans, which are actually just as terrifying.

  Pretty soon I can only manage a floppy jog. If I can just make it to the janitor’s closet, I’ll lock myself in until these guys are forced to leave out of starvation.

  But I’m too slow. With only a few more strides till I reach the exit, the pit bull jumps on me and I crumple to the floor. “Hold his arms down!” he orders his friend while turning me onto my back.

  The skinny boy pins my wrists, and the Lost Boy jabs my plushy stomach with his little fists. It feels like being kicked in the stomach by a baby marshmallow.

  I lie limp as a noodle, too tired to fight back. It’s over.

  The pit bull tugs my head. “It. Won’t. Come. Off,” he grunts.

  “There’s a metal thing!” the skinny boy says.
<
br />   “Huh?”

  “You know, the clicky metal thing.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That thing on the side of the head! Look!”

  Click! One of the boys—I can’t see which—unsnaps the suit’s side latches. They’re gonna tell everyone about this at school. I close my eyes and brace for the big reveal.

  “JARED AND DALLIN! OVER HERE. NOW.” A voice explodes from the doorway, echoing its way around the gym. Coach Tudy has returned, and just in time.

  The older boys freeze, and the little one lets out a sharp gasp.

  “I said, NOW.”

  The boys shuffle toward the coach.

  My ears burn like hot coals as I stare at the ceiling. This is not a position I’m proud to have found myself in. Literally and figuratively.

  “Do you know what kind of racket you boys are causing?” Coach roars. “We can hear it from the locker room!”

  I can’t see the boys’ faces, but I can imagine how they must look—all lined up, shoulders hunched, and eyes staring at the floor like puppies caught peeing on the carpet.

  “Sorry, Uncle Gordon,” the pit bull and the Lost Boy mutter in unison.

  Uncle Gordon? I guess those two do look somewhat like miniature versions of Coach. If I weren’t so miserable, I’d probably crack up. But even my lip muscles are too tired to move.

  Coach speaks through clenched teeth. “Your father will be hearing about this, boys. Get out. And your friend too.”

  Three pairs of feet scuttle out the door, leaving just Coach Tudy and me in tense silence. This would be the perfect opportunity for him to murder me since he just banished the only available witnesses.

  My throat swells and sweat stings my eyes. “Thanks,” I manage.

  He lets out a deep rumbling grunt. “One more game, Hardy. Student council will be in charge of halftime, so we’ll just need you on the sidelines.” He tromps over to the exit. “And don’t bring back the potatoes.” The door echoes as it slams behind him.

  Left alone in the gym, I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths to slow down my pounding chest. In…out…in…out.

  I heave myself to my feet and try my best not to collapse back onto the floor. I can’t believe Coach tried pulling the whole “one more game” thing. Yeah, right! If I weren’t sure before, I am now: No way am I coming back. I’ll take my suspension. I’ll miss the dance.

  But that decision doesn’t feel right either. Nothing does.

  Coach Tudy could have let those guys pull off my mask and ruin my life. It would’ve been perfect payback for me screwing up the game, and possibly his chance at retirement. Instead he rescued me. If I bailed on him now, it’d be spitting in his face. Never give up, he said. No matter how bad things get. Surely he didn’t know things would get this bad.

  I square my shoulders and tell myself it’ll be okay. Sometimes the easiest person to lie to is yourself.

  I pick up my board and head out the door. One more game. I can survive one more game. I just have to stay near Coach for protection and avoid getting fancy with my tricks. What happened tonight will smooth itself out soon enough. I mean, it’s middle school; we all have short attention spans.

  Everyone will forget about this by tomorrow. Right?

  18

  South Fork’s Most Wanted

  As I exit my first period the next morning, a flyer in the hall stops me in my tracks. A cartoon Mr. Potato Head stares me in the face. Above his head the word WANTED screams in a large, bold font.

  Down the hall, several of the flyers hang slightly askew, each stuck to the wall with a piece of masking tape. These weren’t up before school, were they? I rip one off and read it:

  “Pretty dumb, huh?”

  I whirl around. Jayla flinches and lets out a short burst of laughter. “Wow, someone’s jumpy today.”

  I fake a laugh, but not very well.

  She brushes my arm with her fingertips. “Calm down. I’m not that scary.”

  My arm tingles with goose bumps. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

  Jayla nods at the flyer in my hand. “So, what do you think?”

  “What? Oh, this? Yeah, I just. I thought it was. Like, why a potato? And so I grabbed it.”

  She smirks. “Yeah, Duke made that, so of course he had to use the word ‘poop.’ ” She rolls her eyes, and her eyelids shimmer with gold. “It’s just, like, weird, you know. I swear I know everyone at this school, but I’ve never heard of a Doug.”

  I hesitate before my next question, afraid of the answer. I lift the flyer. “Are you helping with this?”

  She glances down, and I almost sense some embarrassment. “Duke and Paris are more into it than I am. They snuck out of first period together to hang up the flyers.” She looks back up and any hint of shame is gone. “I hope they catch him, though.”

  “Yeah, me too.” Ugh.

  She shifts her binder to her other arm. “So, did you hear that Seth got asked to the dance?”

  I try to look interested. “No way!”

  Jayla keeps telling me about who’s going to the dance with who. I try to pay attention, but her words all blur together, and the only thing I can think about is the flyer in my hand. I read over it again, the question bubbling up inside: What in the world are these people going to do to me? But I missed my opportunity to ask. The conversation has veered so far away from the mascot subject that it’d be weird if I went back to it. If I look too interested in the fate of “Doug,” Jayla might get suspicious.

  The bell rings right before I reach my Spanish classroom. I groan out loud. This is just what I need today. A tardy. Hopefully, it’s one of Ms. Hart’s good days. Sometimes she gets super upset when people are late, and other times it’s like she forgets she cares. I walk through the door feeling like I’m on some game show: And what’s behiiiiiind door number two?

  Luckily, a few girls are chatting with Ms. Hart by her desk, so I’m able to slip in unnoticed. Even better, almost everyone’s out of their seats. I nod to Ellie on the far side of the room and head her way, knowing I can’t get in trouble if class hasn’t really started yet. The desk in front of her is empty, so I sit in it and turn around.

  “Whatcha reading?” I ask.

  She looks up. “Goblet of Fire.” She holds up the cover. “Aka the best Harry Potter book.”

  I smack my hand over my heart and pretend to look offended. “I mean, it’s good, but definitely not as good as Prisoner of Azkaban.”

  “Not even!” She scoffs playfully. “Does Harry fight a dragon in that one? I think not.”

  “But he saves a hippogriff. And hippogriffs are cooler than dragons.”

  She slams her book down. “All right, now it’s personal.”

  I laugh. We probably sound super nerdy to the people sitting behind us. I glance back to see if they’re listening and catch a bit of their conversation.

  “Did you see Duke’s face after he fell?” says this girl named Tanna who glues boy-band pictures to all her binders. “He looked like he was going to start shooting lava out of his head.”

  “I don’t blame him!” says the kid sitting next to her. “It was all the Spud’s fault.”

  “Yeah,” says a grumpy-faced dude from the row over. “We had that game in the bag!”

  The voices talk over each other, all swirling together and making my brain ache:

  “He started out cool with the skateboard thing, and then he just failed.”

  “It was pretty pathetic, right?”

  “Think they’ll find him?”

  “I’ve never heard of a Doug.”

  Ellie turns around in her seat to join the mascot conversation.

  “Why is everyone hating so much on the Spud?” she says. My eyebrows jerk in surprise. It’s a total Ellie thing to say—but
not in front of people she’s not close with.

  “I saw what happened,” she says. “It was an accident.”

  “An accident that cost us the game,” the grumpy dude says.

  “Come on,” Ellie says. “You don’t know Duke would’ve made that shot anyway.”

  “Of course he woulda! Back me up, Ben.”

  My jaw drops a little, releasing this stupid “uhhhhh” sound. Then I remember I don’t have to pick a side; I have the perfect cop-out: “I wasn’t there. I can’t say.”

  “Well, I just think everyone needs to let it go.” Ellie grips the top of her chair. “Whoever put those flyers up is an idiot.”

  “It was Duke,” I say.

  “Case in point.” Her eyes widen, and I can tell that she didn’t mean to say that last bit out loud. I smother a laugh. She’s probably all racked with guilt now.

  “Okay, everyone, to your seats. ¡Siéntense!” Ms. Hart swings her hands at us like she’s conducting a choir.

  Throughout the period, my eyes keep glancing at Ellie as she twirls her pencil at her desk. Why didn’t I agree with her during the conversation? Why was she quicker to defend me than I was to defend myself? And why am I so convinced it’d look fishy for me to speak out for Doug? Is it really that out of character for me to defend someone?

  I mentally replay what might have happened earlier if I weren’t such a wimp:

  GRUMPY DUDE: Back me up, Ben.

  BEN: I can’t. Ellie’s right. I didn’t see what happened, but everyone should show a little more mercy.

  ELLIE: (smiling at Ben) I knew there was a reason I liked you.

  I clench my eyes shut. I blew it. I glance at Ellie again. She’s finished her worksheet early and is back to the book, her eyes widening and narrowing as she reads.

  Suddenly my stomach churns. Today’s the day. The day she’s going to ask Cole to the dance.

  * * *

  Something funky’s going on with my taste buds. I usually love graham crackers, but today at lunch they taste like the wood shavings at the bottom of a hamster cage. Ellie’s mom checked her out of lunch to get wings for Cole, so at the table it’s just me, Hunter, and Lucy—his curly-haired, Jenga-playing, almost girlfriend. Usually, Lucy goes home after third period, but I guess she was so impressed with Hunter’s bacon answer last night that she couldn’t get enough of him. (Side note: Hunter’s mom forced him to lay the bacon out on tinfoil, so no staining of concrete ever occurred. Huzzah.)