Big Mouth (21 page)

“And what observation is that, Einstein?”

“That we’re idiots.”

Gardo sighed, but he didn’t argue my point. “Just a few hours more, Shermie, then we feast. I’ll supply a meal that’ll make your wig spin. C’mon, we got this far, we just have to tread water a little while longer. We’re athletes, remember.”

It was my turn to sigh. My lips felt like the desert. “Being an athlete sucks.”

“Sometimes.”

Runji interrupted us from the far end of the table. “Hey, Thuff Enuff, settle a bet. Roshon says you could put away twenty-five of these corn dogs in ten minutes.”

He waved a corn dog in front of his face like a tiny flag at a parade. The gently browned breading extended almost an inch down on the stick, the perfect length for tearing free with your teeth as an appetizer before chomping into the corn dog proper. Like the chips before a Mexican dinner, it was enough to get the juices flowing for the main course. The tip was yellow with smuggled mustard. Boy, did I miss corn dogs.

“I say no way,” he continued, “
twenty
corn dogs, at best. How many do you think you can do?”

I didn’t even hesitate. “Sixty-two.”

“Sixty-two? No way, you’re pulling my leg.”

“Of course I am. Are you retarded?”
Jeez, does he think before he opens his mouth?

“That is not how to make friends and influence people,” Gardo mumbled. He picked up his cup and spit into it.

“Bite me.” I slid off the end of the bench and stalked away from the table, my head woozing with each stomp. Where I was stomping to, I didn’t know. But I’d had enough of their Ring Dings and golden-breaded corn dogs and peppermint spit.

“No can do, Thuff Enuff,” Gardo called out after me. “I’m not eating today, remember?”

I flashed him the bird over my shoulder and headed for the john. This morning he’d ordered me to pee every hour, get out as much of the residual water as possible. He’d wanted me to spit in a cup, too, but I finally drew the line. I would not carry a bag of spit around in my pocket. Period. Since it had been an hour since my last pee attempt, I figured I might as well stomp over that way and see if the well was truly dry.

And who knew, splashing a little cold water on my face might make me feel better. Heck, it certainly couldn’t hurt anything at this point. And maybe if I timed things right, a few drops of that water might
accidentally
slip between my lips. Hey, no one was perfect. Water will do what water will do.

Gardo hadn’t shown up in the football stands yet. We were supposed to meet here half an hour ago. I was worried that his being late meant he hadn’t made weight—

No. No way. Not with how hard he was working. Not possible.

I straddled a front-row bench at the fifty-yard line. Sprinklers doused the field next to me, slowly washing away the yellow chalk mustaches that had appeared this morning on the Del Heiny end zone logos. Tater was convinced that the mustaches were the work of a copycat tagger, insisting that the Mustard Taggers would only use mustard, never chalk. Like he was some kind of Mustard Tagger expert.

On the other side of the field, way up at the top of the visitors’ bleachers, Culwicki was gesturing angrily at the janitors, who were lined up like a row of pickle spears in front of a wall of mustard. The campus security guy was there, too, in his olive-green uniform with red armbands. There was also some guy in a suit with a green tie. He could’ve been Culwicki’s clone, so I figured he was Del Heiny High 3’s principal. This was half his field, too, after all.

The line-up looked like a firing squad. They were too far away for me to hear what Culwicki was shouting, but it was definitely aimed at the janitors. Why was everyone always turning on them? I almost felt sorry for the big jerks.

I checked out the gate at the top of my stairs again.
There!
Gardo was running down the steps toward me, his red shirt bright against the gray cement. He carried a bulging brown grocery bag. That had to be a good sign. A brown bag feast meant the famine had worked, right?

“Shermie!” he shouted. “Shermie, I did it!”

“Yes!” I knew it! When Gardo wanted to make something happen, he made it happen.
Bring on the energy building!

“Sorry it took so long,” he said when he reached me, “the 7-Eleven on North Hill was closed. I’m so hungry, I thought I’d die when I saw the sign on the door about a power outage. I had to run two extra blocks to the 7-Eleven on South Hill.”

He’d brought quite a haul. A footlong sub, super-sized Doritos, Chips Ahoy!, a bag of powdered doughnuts, and four cans of Pepsi.

“None of these packages are open,” I said. “You didn’t eat anything yet?”

“Nope. I meant what I said; we did this together, we celebrate together.” Man, the guy had willpower. “I have to be suited up in half an hour, though, so rip off half that sub for me already, will ya?”

Eyeballing the mid-line, I tore the sub in two. Some ham and pepperoni slices slipped to the ground, but there was more than enough still on the bread. We timed it so that we both chomped into our halves at exactly the same moment.

“Oh,
gawd,
this is good.” Bits of bun sprayed out of my mouth, but neither of us cared.

I closed my eyes in ecstasy and relief. The bread was soft and fresh, the lettuce barely soggy with its zesty Italian dressing, its tangy yellow mustard, its lightly spread herb mayo, and its thick dill pickle rounds. You never knew what you’d get in a 7-Eleven prewrapped sandwich, but this had to be the best sandwich of my life.
The joy of eating is back!

I popped open a Pepsi and chugged it. My thick, dry tongue nearly stood up and saluted. The fizzies bit the back of my throat, but the sweet, syrupy liquid quenched my screaming thirst perfectly. Gardo was cramming chocolate chip cookies into his mouth almost as fast as he’d jammed in those mini Three Musketeers on Halloween.

I paused. I hadn’t thought of Halloween for a few days now, not since I’d stopped speed training. I’d been focusing on capacity ever since Gardo…well, since he choked.

I swallowed my bite. “Slow down, buddy. You’re not racing anyone.”

He pointed to his watch and spoke through a wad of cookie. “Racing the clock.” He swallowed and wiped his crumbly lips with his forearm. “If I’m late, Coach will have my hide. I’m on his good side right now. He liked that I cut that last four pounds so quickly. All I can say is, I’m just glad I spit out all that water weight. A good clean-out is the key.” He shoved in another cookie. “Patrick Walter didn’t make weight for the 103s, so Coach wants me to cut down to that weight class next week. He said that to do that, I have to wear the plastic bag the entire week before the meet, even when I sleep. He says when I wake up, I should be swimming in my sheets.”

“No way.”

He shrugged and finished the cookie. “It’s more comfortable than that stupid plastic wrap was. So get ready, Plastic Man, we’re doing the bag every day next week, even when we sleep.”

The thought of another week of this made me wilt. I couldn’t wait until I was as small as Tsunami; then I could get back to normal life. At least I didn’t have to cut to a weight class. My mission was about how big my belt was, not how much it weighed. And since my Galactic Warriors shirt fit already, I knew that in just a few weeks I wouldn’t have to ever think about the Belt of F…the Belt Theory anymore. Poor Gardo had to do it this whole season, then next season, then three more seasons at Del Heiny High 3. What an awful life. I swear, I’d quit the team if that were me. A big red “3” on a high school letterman jacket wasn’t worth it.

I chomped into the sloppy sandwich, reveling in its flavors. Empty silver benches stretched around us, lying in metallic lines, end to end, row upon row. Except for me and Gardo, the stadium was empty tonight. Even Culwicki and his crew were gone. I almost hollered out,
“Hellooooooo!”
just to hear the echo. I stopped myself, though, because the dead quiet was actually pretty nice. Peaceful, relaxing. There was no pressure to be “on,” no feeling like everyone was checking me out, waiting for me to punch somebody out, to eat ten thousand gallons of ice cream, or whatever. No pressure from anyone for anything. It was weird, though. I’d always figured myself a full-stadium kind of guy, but there I was, enjoying the solitude.

Another messy bite of my sandwich dribbled Italian dressing down my chin. “This is
so
good. I’m sick of lettuce and hot dogs—” I froze mid-chew. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“I just remembered, I have to eat twenty HDBs tonight for capacity training. Wait, no, I’m speed-eating this session because Lucy’s coming, so make that twenty HDBs
in twelve minutes.
” Twenty in twelve? What had I been thinking, telling Lucy I was speed-eating that many? How was I going to pull
that
off?

I set the last half of my sandwich down on the bench. It was almost too heartbreaking to bear, but I knew I couldn’t eat any more. I shouldn’t have eaten any at all. I’d just filled precious stomach space.

“Lucy’s coming over?” Gardo asked.

“Maybe.”

“You think she’ll be happy with your training progress?”

I shrugged and rewrapped the crumpled plastic around the sandwich. “Dunno. She doesn’t understand the athlete stuff. But she should like the HDB progress. I’ve been serious about it, just like she said.”

“You have. I can vouch for you. Not that my opinion matters for much with Lucy.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know.” He grabbed a powdered doughnut. “It means what it means. Forget I said it.” He bit into the doughnut, showering his jeans with white powder.

“No, tell me, what are you talking about?”

“I’m not talking about anything.”

“Gardo.” I stopped wrapping my sandwich and waited for him to go on.

Finally he couldn’t stand the silence any longer. “I’m just saying I’m hardly Lucy’s favorite person, that’s all. We kind of annoy each other, actually. C’mon, you never noticed that? We only hang out together because we’re hanging out with you.”

“Please.” I resumed wrapping. “I think starvation is shriveling your brain.”

“Oh really? Name something she and I have in common.”

“Who cares about
in common
? You don’t need
in common
to be friends. Lucy and I just like hanging out together. We don’t care what we do or when we do it. What do you and I have in common?”

“For one thing, we’re training together. Or didn’t you notice?”

“Besides that.”

He thought a moment. “We like to watch wrestling together. And
Galactic Warriors.
”

“Oh really?” I crossed my arms. “And what is Captain Quixote’s call sign?”

He stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it. “Excuse me? I didn’t hear that. What?”

“You heard me just fine. Quit stalling.”

He toed his sneaker into a drop of mustard below the bench, dragging it into a thin yellow line then swirling it up with a flourish at the end. “Fine. I don’t actually
watch
the show when we watch it. It’s nothing personal, Shermie, but…I don’t know, I don’t really care that much about it, I guess. I just like hanging out with you and throwing things at the aliens.”

“That’s all I do with Lucy. It’s not some secret thing, we just come up with stuff that makes each other laugh, that’s all. You can do that with her, too.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He consulted his watch. “Whoa, I’ve only got three minutes.”

He started chucking things into the bag. I snatched a Chips Ahoy! before he grabbed the package. One more cookie wouldn’t make a difference to my training tonight, not after the damage I’d already done.

“Are you coming over after the meet?” I asked.

“Can’t. Coach is ordering pizza for the team. He says if we plan a victory celebration, we’ll have a victory to celebrate.” Coach Hunt might’ve been one nasty midget of a guy, but he had a good head for sports training. Me and Gardo were lucky to have him. “After that, all I want to do is sleep. Listen, Shermie, don’t stay up late just because it’s a Friday. I’ll be over at five-thirty tomorrow morning, same as usual. Get yourself psyched up, because we start jogging again, and we’ll get your sit-up routine going. You’re losing your belt, now we have to tighten it. You think you feel good now, wait until tomorrow night!”

He took off up the stairs with his grocery bag. The sugar from the Pepsi and cookies must’ve been kicking in, because he took the steps at a full run.

Me, on the other hand, I just sat there like a deflated lump.
Who says I’m feeling good right now? Hungry and thirsty is what I am.
The thought of not eating or drinking for another three or four hours—and worse,
jogging
again—sucked out whatever wind was left in my sails. Walking was so much better than jogging. I almost looked forward to walking. But
jogging
…
ugh.
I would’ve skipped eating for another
five
hours if it meant I didn’t have to jog.

I’d had it right before, being an athlete
does
suck. Big time.

CHAMPION EATER SAYS SECRET TO GUSTATORY SUCCESS IS IN THE FEET