Big Mouth (17 page)

I took another sip. My stomach felt droopy over my sides, like maybe it had done some good stretching. Lucy would’ve been proud of me. Slightly less than two mugs to go and I’d be able to mark off the water graph’s square for this session. I took a deep breath and tilted the mug again.
I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…

I stopped to breathe after drinking only a third of the water in the mug. I didn’t feel so good. There was a nasty, warm, clenching sensation in the back of my throat.
Breathe, Shermie, breathe.
I leaned back a minute while the clenching subsided. Who would’ve thought water would be so tough to handle?

When I’d staved off the gag reflex, I turned to the magazine for distraction.

“Staying trim for the summer is not about deprivation, it’s about moderation. Eat well all week, then eat whatever you want on Saturday—in reasonable portions. The goal is not to make yourself sick, but to enjoy the food.—Samantha Ordin, RDN, LCN, NNN.” Now
that
was an interesting idea. I liked to enjoy food, and I hated feeling sick, and I certainly liked to eat whatever I wanted. That tip could work for me. When I lost my belt, I’d try this Whatever-On-Saturday rule. After all, I’d need to stay trim and beltless for my showdown with Tsunami.
Look out, little man, Thuff Enuff is gunning for you!
I flexed my biceps—
ow!
Now why did that hurt? I didn’t jog with my arm.

Maybe I’d start the Whatever-On-Saturday thing now. It would be nice to enjoy food again, even if it was only one day a week. The bad thing about training was that eating had become all about increasing speed, or building capacity, or improving jaw strength. Where was the savoring? Where was the lip smacking and the finger licking? Where was the joy of eating? I missed the joy of eating.

Well, maybe I didn’t miss the joy of eating right then. Right then, I’d have happily missed the joy of drinking water. The pressure on my stomach was hideous. I couldn’t stand it, I’d have to do something about it.

Carefully clenching my tender abs and twisting ever…so…slightly, I worked out a huge burp. Then I breathed for a moment and assessed the pressure. It had gone down some, though not as much as I’d hoped.

“To make your skin luminescent in the summer sun, give yourself this home facial. Mix together one tablespoon honey, one egg yolk, one-half teaspoon almond oil, and one tablespoon yogurt. Apply to skin and rub gently. Let set overnight. Rinse and pat dry in the morning. Honey stimulates and smoothes, egg and almond oil penetrate and moisturize, and yogurt refines and tightens pores.—Sylvia Bukowski, RB, CF.” Yeah, that’s what I wanted to do, slather honey and egg yolk on my face…and on my pillow, and on my sheets, and in my hair. Girls were crazy.

Finally I came to the end of the list. “As you get in shape for this summer’s teeny-weeny, yellow polka-dot bikini, remember this: The key to successful dieting is balance. A slim, healthy figure is not about extremes. Bingeing and purging is extreme. Refusing to eat is extreme. Don’t try to do it all at once. One to two pounds a week is healthy weight loss.—Edna Flougherty, MD.” One to two pounds a week? At that rate, I’d be ready for a bikini in 2050! I was
so
glad I wasn’t a girl. It was ridiculous, the things they had to do to impress people. They should become athletes, like me and Gardo. That was the way to cut weight.

I checked the clock. Twenty minutes had passed, which meant I only had five minutes left to drink the rest of my water. But I still had one and maybe two-thirds mugs left.
One and two-thirds!
How was I supposed to drink that? Just finishing the third mug was going to kill me, a whole mug after that would never happen. Never.

What was I going to do? Lucy would think I was a loser if she found out I hadn’t checked off all the squares on the water graph. Good thing I fired her.

I closed the magazine and laid it on the bed next to me. Focusing every ounce of willpower I had, I put the mug to my lips and downed the remaining water—two-thirds of the mug. Then I shoved the pillow out from behind me and lay flat on the bed, bobbing on the sloshing mattress. There was no sloshing inside my stomach, though, because there wasn’t a sliver of space for the water to slosh around in. But there was pain. Oh, was there pain!

“No pain, no gain,” Gardo had said. Clearly he’d never water trained. This was a nightmare. I hadn’t even finished the gallon and I was in agony. Either my stomach was going to stretch a few feet bigger right that second, or it was going to explode.

As if on cue, the back of my throat clenched involuntarily, and the sick taste of acidy saliva rolled up onto the back of my tongue.
No!
I desperately tried to roll to my side and off the bed to dash down the hall, but I barely had time to turn my head before the water sprayed out of my mouth, all over my bed. Then another burst. Then another! The stench of butyric acid overpowered me as the watery reversal ran down the mattress and soaked into my clothes.

No, no, no…
All I wanted was to get up out of the disgusting soup, but all I could do with my stiff and sore body was lie in the muck like a pathetic loser. I could’ve been stuck in Shane’s trash can all over again.

Tears stung my eyes. I swear, if the training didn’t kill me, I would die from humiliation. Nobody, and I mean
nobody,
would ever ever ever hear about this. Ever.

I stared at the ceiling and tried to will the tears to dry up, but they just keep pooling until my whole room was a wet blur. I couldn’t believe competitive eaters went through this. Is this how Tsunami lived, in constant pain, with constant reversals, with no enjoyment of food at all? No way, it wasn’t possible. No one would live like this all the time.

Maybe after Gardo helped me lose my belt things would be better. Yeah, that had to be it, or why else would the professional eaters keep at this? Lucy said some eaters even went out to dinner together after competitions. That couldn’t all be an act; there’s no way you could fake feeling good enough to eat when you felt this bad. They must have trained their stomachs, that’s all there was to it. Someday my stomach would be able to expand fully so I’d be able to fit in all the water and HDBs I wanted—and go out to dinner afterward! Then I’d be on the road to hot dog–eating victory.

I wiped my sleeve across my eyes, my nose, my mouth, my whole wet face.

I just had to get through this tough phase, that was all. I could do that. I was a Thuff, and everyone knew that when the going got tough, Thuffs got Thuffer. Just ask Grampy, it was in my genes. I was Sherman “Thuff Enuff” Thuff, athlete and future champion.
Are YOU Thuff Enuff? I am!

I rubbed my hand through my pukey hair.
Ugh. I gotta get to a shower.
I wouldn’t even try to peel off my disgusting sweats, I’d just step into the shower, clothes and all. Might as well be wet on purpose, and in
clean
water.

Man, the lengths an athlete would go for his sport.

CHAPTER 14

“You stood me up, you bum.”

Gardo wasn’t happy with me. But I wasn’t happy with him, either. Even if I hadn’t slept through my alarm this morning, I couldn’t have gotten up to meet him for a jog around the track. My body felt like I’d gone ten rounds with Rocky himself.

Last night was rough. I woke up at least eight times to pee, and that was after whizzing my way through the afternoon. It didn’t make sense. Hadn’t I reversed all the water in my bed? And each time I woke up, I was stiffer and sorer than the last. Whoever said exercise makes you feel good was a dirty liar. I’d had to twist and toss myself out of my bed just to get to the john. I was up pretty much the whole stupid night. At one point I almost woke up Grampy to have him call me in sick to school, but I didn’t because then I’d miss Max’s test this morning, and she didn’t do make-ups. How stupid was it to have a test on a Monday?

“I didn’t stand you up,” I said. “I slept through my alarm. There’s a difference.”

“Not on the track, there isn’t. You’re either there or you’re not. You’re not taking this seriously.”

“I am, too.
I slept through my alarm.
Gimme a break. It won’t happen again.”

He studied me a moment.

Please don’t make me do punishment laps. Please don’t.

Finally he spoke. “Well, I guess I did sleep through my own alarm on Saturday. Cutting weight makes you sleep hard.” He pointed a finger in my face. “I want you to buy a second clock tonight as a backup, got it?”

“Got it.”
Phew. No punishment laps.
“Can we get to class now? We’ll be late for the test.”

“Yeah, we can go.” He fell in behind me and delivered hurry-up nudges as I waddled toward the stairwell.

I stopped when I caught sight of Shane through the crowd. His bright red
GO, PLUM WRESTLING!
shirt stood out like a beacon in the sea of yellow hats and shirts. He was being pushed in a wheelchair by an annoyed-looking Finn, the other Finn twin nowhere in sight.

“Shane’s in a wheelchair? I thought you said he pulled a groin muscle.”

Gardo followed my gaze. “I know. Isn’t it sick?”

“Just a little.”
Get over it or get out, Shane. Jeez.

“Just think if he broke a toenail. His whole body would be in traction.”

Then Lucy crossed in front of Shane and I nearly choked. Talk about traction. If she saw me this morning, she’d probably go all Rocky on me. She probably hated my guts. She totally skipped the bus this morning just to avoid me.

I tried to hurry up the stairwell before she could reach it. I was already starting to sweat in the undershirt and hoodie that Gardo ordered me to wear with my Scoops shirt. At least I didn’t have to wear the long johns unless we were working out.

Gardo started nudging me again. “Hustle it up there, penguin boy. At your pace, we won’t get to science until tomorrow.”

“Hey, you’re the one who sent me up that hill.”

“Just wait till you see what I’ve got planned for you later.” He laughed evilly and slapped me on the shoulder. “That belt is going to fall right off you, buddy. I swear, you are one lucky hombre to know me.”

Great. He’ll probably have me climbing a mountain with a boulder on my back. And long johns on.

We merged into the crowded stairwell and made our way up to the third floor. Thanks to the bottleneck of Plums, even with my waddling pace we easily left Lucy far behind.

By “later,” Gardo meant lunchtime. I figured that out when he plopped my lunch down in front of me at our table. When he’d agreed to be my coach, he’d demanded menu control, and of course I gave it to him. His first special delivery meal came in a white plastic container with a Gardo Glass of water and a spork.

When I lifted the container’s lid and revealed a pile of chopped lettuce and four lemon slices, Tater laughed so hard that a Tot from his lunch trick shot out of his nose.

“What is this, a joke?” I shoved the container away like it was a plate of chocolate-covered cowpies.

“It’s no joke, my friend.” Gardo set a second lettuce-filled container next to mine and sat down. “I have a meet on Friday, and Coach wants me wrestling at one twelve. I need to drop five pounds by Friday afternoon. That’s a pound a day. You and me will be eating the same things all week.”

“This isn’t eating, it’s grazing.”

“This is what
your coach
prepared for you. You will eat it.”

It was Leonard’s turn to laugh. “You sound like my mom, Gardo.”

“He looks like her, too,” Tater said.

Leonard slapped him in the back of the head, sending the other Tot flying. “Shut up, man!”

Gardo hadn’t taken his eyes off me. “Eat. That’s an order.”

I stared down at my pale lettuce, which looked like it’d been run through a paper shredder with a dull blade. It was as mouthwatering as a garden of weeds. But what was I going to do, refuse to eat it? Gardo was my coach, and I was serious about my training. And now that I’d been up for a few hours without breakfast, I was freakin’ hungry.

I picked up a lemon wedge and squeezed it over the lettuce. “Someone gimme a stupid napkin.”

“That’s my boy.” Gardo tackled his own lemons and lettuce. “The trick is to chew for a long time so it lasts. Your stomach will think you’re eating an eight-course meal.”

My stomach isn’t that dumb.

While I was chewing my lemony cud and trying to push away memories of Lemon Pledging the Scoops floor, I scanned the cafeteria. As always, it was packed and noisy. Girls were screeching and giggling, guys were hollering and whooping, and the janitors were sniping at each other about who had to clean up which section. That is, two of the janitors were sniping about clean up. The third janitor, who was scrubbing a swirly
HAIL, MUSTARD!
off the wall, wasn’t sniping; he was cussing like a sailor.

How did the Mustard Taggers do it? They were striking almost every night now, yet no one ever saw a thing. Maybe they did crawl in through the pipes, like Culwicki said. Or maybe they were like Spider-Man and scaled the side of the school to the roof. There was a door up there. We’d used it for the Newton experiment, when Max had us compare the falling speed of balloons filled with mustard versus whipped cream or just air. Or maybe the Mustard Taggers had keys and just walked in, easy as that. One campus security officer couldn’t cover the whole school at the same time, after all. The video cameras they’d installed over the weekend wouldn’t be much help; the lenses were found globbed up with mustard this morning, and would probably be that way every day. The Mustard Taggers were pros at keeping their identities secret. The rumor mill had been in high gear since they’d squirted that first yellow mustache on Culwicki’s portrait, but no one had a solid lead yet. Not even Tater, and he knew every rumor before it started. He was the one who broke the news about the mustache. Apparently Culwicki had found the doctored portrait before anyone else and tried to hide it in his office. But Tater had eyes like a hawk, and he used them for the Powers of Good during his office aide period. He’d told everybody, and then the Mustard Revolution was on. Funny how Culwicki didn’t think a prank was so funny when it was aimed at him.
Go, Mustard.

A girl walked through my line of sight, blocking my view of the janitor for a moment. She was carrying a tray with a heaping plate of French fries doused in ketchup.
Man, that looks good.
The fries, I meant, not the girl.
Aw, jeez. Stupid belt theory. It has me checking out food over females. Pathetic.

My table was just as bustling as the cafeteria. Today there were even more guys I didn’t know squeezed onto the benches. They kept trying to talk to me, but as sore and hungry and thirsty and cranky as I was, I didn’t bother to answer or find out who they were. If anyone else wanted to sit here, we’d have to drag over another table.

I stab, stab, stabbed at my lettuce, trying for another sporkful. Whoever invented the spork was an idiot. I looked longingly at my Gardo Glass. There was practically nothing in it, but practically nothing was better than totally nothing. I’d save it until after I was done with my lettuce so I could wash down the lemon residue.
There!
Finally a leaf stuck to the tines of my spork. It was an especially juicy piece. Good. Just like with wet hot dog buns, the more lubrication on a piece of lettuce, the better. I stuck it in my mouth and chewed it as long as I could, like Gardo said. I felt like a rabbit.

“Is that lettuce hitting the spot, Thuff Enuff?” Tommy asked. “Can I get you some rice cakes for dessert? Or maybe some wheatgrass?”

“Are you kidding? This is the best lettuce I ever ate. Doesn’t it look appetizing?” I opened my mouth wide and showed him.

“Gross!” He bounced a balled-up napkin off my face.

That’s what you get, Mr. I’m So Funny.
Picking up the napkin, I wiped my chin then stab, stab, stabbed another sporkful. Stuck with being Bugs Bunny, I tried to distract myself by making a game of seeing how many mustard-packet handoffs I could spot around the cafeteria. It was like watching drug deals go down. I’d heard of the black market before, but never a yellow one.

When Lucy walked into the cafeteria, I stopped chewing. She was wearing a yellow polo shirt instead of her normal Chocolat du Monde brown.
Yet another Plum goes yellow.
She stood there for a long minute, at the edge of the circle of tables, looking around like she was lost.

My heart skipped a beat. Without my table, Lucy had nowhere to sit.

She caught me watching her. I instinctively blocked her view of my lettuce. After the grief I gave her about non-ketchup-dunkable soup and salad, I couldn’t let her see my pathetic lunch. But my worry was wasted. Straightening up and holding her head up high, she turned and walked out of the cafeteria.

The humiliation.

Tater hit me in the leg. “Hey, was that Lucy I just saw leaving? What’s wrong, Thuff Enuff, trouble with the ladies?”

“Shut up.”

“Where’s she gonna eat? The library?”

Lunch alone in the library. I’d kill myself.
“Who cares.”

Gardo reached around me and jabbed Tater in the shoulder. “Eat your Tots, man.” Then he leaned close to me and said, real quietly, “You okay?”

“Fine.” I leaned over for a better angle at the hall Lucy just disappeared into. There was no sign of her.

Gardo nudged my shoulder with his. “Buck up, bud. You’re doing fine. You don’t need any more graphs. You got me!” When I didn’t say anything, he tapped his plastic spork on my lettuce bowl. “Finish up. I’ve got a surprise. Well, two surprises.”

I mechanically stabbed the lettuce with my spork and lifted it to my mouth, stabbed and lifted. There was a slight crunch with each twangy plastic stab, so I knew that the iceberg lettuce was fresh. That wilty stuff Lucy had for lunch last week was downright sad. She was right about the lemon, though. It gave the salad a citrusy, tarty bite that I wouldn’t call appetizing, but it helped the bland leaves slide down my throat. Man, I was about as far from the joy of food as I was from eating fifty-four HDBs in twelve minuets.

All the time I chewed, I watched the door where Lucy left. Maybe she’d come back.

A red-aproned cafeteria lady pushed the French Fry Express cart across the doorway. Steam rose from the paper trays of freshly fried potatoes. I wouldn’t have minded a piece of that action.

“Done?”

“What?” I focused back on my table.

Gardo had an impish grin on his face. “I said, are you done?”

I swallowed my last scrap of lettuce. “Done.”

“Good. Here.” He removed a clear sandwich bag from his pocket and opened it to reveal four long, skinny green wedges. “Surprise!”

Are you kidding me?
“They’re pickles.”

“You didn’t think I’d only let you eat lettuce and lemons, did you?”

I rubbed my face with my hand and sighed. “I stopped thinking anything after that first spork of lettuce.” The room tilted a bit, and the pickles looked blurry around the edges.

Gardo pointed at his treat proudly with his spork. “These are not just pickles, Thuff Enuff, these are
dill.
”

“Oooh,
dillll,
” Kenny sang. The guys busted up.

“Shut your yap, Kenny,” Gardo snapped. Kenny didn’t know what a crank Gardo could be when he was hungry. But if Gardo hadn’t said it, I would’ve. I was starting to feel like a bigger, crankier crank.

“Have any of
you
ever tried to make weight?” Gardo asked. He focused on Kenny again. “Yeah, I’m talking to you, muscle man. That’s right, cram that burger in your mouth and be quiet.”

I took two of the pathetic pickles and started eating. Food was food when you were starving.

“Thanks for my surprises,” I mumbled. The guy was trying to keep this making-weight thing fun. I appreciated the effort, at least.

“Actually, the pickles only count as one surprise,” he said. “The other is outside. Come with me.”

“But I haven’t finished my pickles.”

“Take ’em on the road. We’re running out of time.”

“Okay, but I gotta hit the john first.” It’d been almost twenty-four hours since my water training yesterday, and I was still peeing like a racehorse. I would never understand why reversing the water hadn’t gotten it all out.