Big Mouth (26 page)

I located the pull tab on the gum and ripped the end off.
Three pieces oughta do it.
I didn’t want to wound the coconut taste, I wanted to kill it for good.

After I’d been chewing my gum for a minute or so, Grampy turned down his bongos. “Hey, Shermie? Can you check the clock for an old man?”

I glanced at the digital clock on the stove. “Twelve-thirteen.”

“Twelve-thirteen! Jumpin’ jee! I gotta get down to Scoops. Arthur needs his break.” The lawn chair creaked as Grampy scrambled up and rushed for the steps. “I’ll be there awhile. We’ve got five ice cream cakes to make for a Girl Scout troop meeting. They want Mint Chocolate Chip in the shape of a Girl Scout cookie. Ha! Life’s a hoot, ain’t it?”

I spit my gum into the sink, shredded coconut sticking out of it every which way. How would I survive this brilliant idea? “Yeah, Grampy, it’s a hoot, all right.”

Grampy ducked down the hall to change for work as I gargled tap water to flush out any coconut that might have survived the spearmint wad. At least I was brilliant enough to buy gum. The happy cheeps of birds in the Amazon rain forest lilted in the front window as I straightened up the counter and put the leftovers in the fridge. I leaned my head against the cool door and sighed. Coconut was torture, but the relief of not being dizzy and starving was worth it. And this way, no one else was bossing me around. I was in control. I was tightening my belt on my own, thank you very much, and I didn’t have to wear a single trash bag to do it.

Now, that was the stuff of champions.

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CHAPTER 21

For the first time in my life, I was glad the weekend was over. Sitting in class, listening to lectures, taking notes…it all seemed so
normal.
The rest of my life took a wrong turn from normal weeks ago. But then, my school was a thousand miles left of normal itself.

“Check it out. Ticks feeding off a human head can swell fifty times their normal size. Dang.”

“What? Gimme that.” I examined the cover of the book Tater had just pulled off the school library shelf. Panicked people were fleeing as a giant tick rampaged their city.
Ticked Off! The History of Ticks in America.
“Why is this here?”

“The same reason someone wrote it. People want to read it.”

“Who wants to read a book about ticks?”

Tater shrugged. “People who like ticks?”

I put the book back on the shelf. “Well, it’s not what we’re here for. Max is only giving us this period to research bloodstains and we’re running out of time. I don’t want to be here after school. So quit looking at ticks and start looking for blood.”

“Ticks suck blood.”

“Tater.”

“All right, all right. Books about blood. Sheesh.” He disappeared down the next aisle, his office aide keys jangling faintly in his pocket. “People need to loosen up around here. It’s like sitting on a volcano. Where’d all the fun go, for crying out loud?”

I sighed and walked to the end of the aisle. Tater wasn’t kidding about the tension on campus. If this “volcano” didn’t get some relief soon, the top would blow right off. All over the library, Yellow Shirts were huddled in tight clusters, and they weren’t gossiping about Max’s forensics presentations. There were bigger things afoot at Del Heiny Junior 13 than spatter patterns and cellular decay: Culwicki had launched a counterstrike against the Mustard Taggers.

The change was clear the moment I’d stepped off the bus this morning. Culwicki had a booth set up in the quad offering free red
IN DEL HEINY WE TRUST
T-shirts, and a bunch of off-duty cafeteria ladies were hawking them through bullhorns like carnival barkers. I didn’t see any takers except Leonard, but he’d take anything free, so he didn’t really count. Culwicki also had the wrestling team distributing flyers announcing a semester’s supply of Del Heiny ketchup to anyone with “information leading to the capture of Mustard Movement leaders.” Gardo made some great paper airplanes out of those. One accidentally hit Culwicki in the back of the head, but we ducked before he could spot us. Our principal was such a dink.

Inside the school, things were less like a carnival and more like a police state. Culwicki had deputized the janitors, so now they were patrolling the halls instead of cleaning them. Dressed in the same olive-green uniforms and red armbands that the campus security guy wore, they were officially authorized to terrorize. And they loved it. They kept popping up in the weirdest places around campus, scaring Plums and even pinning the littler ones to walls with brooms trying to get them to talk. One janitor was stationed at the cafeteria entrance during breakfast service, where he searched Yellow Shirts for illegal mustard packets. Even if I’d still been buying my morning doughnuts in there, I wouldn’t have gone in today. The last thing I wanted was some Olive Shirt patting me down.

But even worse than all that was the rumor. I wasn’t sure if I believed it, but it definitely had everyone on edge. Word was, some Yellow Shirts had been hauled off for questioning when they got off their bus this morning and hadn’t been seen since. It was nuts. Now we had to worry about being captured and tortured?

The clusters of Yellow Shirts in the library were starting to break apart and filter into the book rows. I guess they didn’t want to be here after school, either. But the filtering halted when a loud crash spun all heads toward the library door, where Gardo was next to an upturned book cart, trying not to fall all the way over it. A class set of
The Chocolate War
paperbacks had spilled across the floor.

Gardo the Klutz strikes again.
The guy was a mess. This morning during our workout, he tripped on his shoelaces and did a face plant, he walked into a waist-high pole at the top of the bleacher steps and pretty much went soprano, he slipped off the final step at the bottom and landed on his butt, and then he forgot my name. Twice. I swear, dropping to 103 would kill him long before Friday’s weigh-in.

After what seemed like forever with Gardo’s arms flailing in slow motion, he finally got his balance over the spilled cart. Then he noticed everyone’s eyes on him. Scowling, he reached out and slugged Leonard in the shoulder. “Watch where you’re going, man.”

“What? I didn’t touch you.”

“Don’t argue. Just help me pick this up.”

Poor Leonard. He stood there shocked for a moment, trying to figure out what was what. Then I guess he just gave up, because he bent down and started gathering books without any more complaining.

I went back to my book search. I couldn’t watch anymore. Gardo would spontaneously combust before Friday. If he was smart, he’d try the great Thuff Enuff Coconut Eating System. I certainly felt better than I had in weeks. Actually eating something, even coconut, would do that to a guy.

Finally locating the series about crime scene investigation, I grabbed two of the books then headed for the tables. I didn’t get far, though. As soon as I stepped free of the book row, an Olive Shirt blocked my path.

“Hold it, big guy,” he said. “Let me see those.”

“What, the books?”

“Yes,
the books.
Give ’em.” He tried to yank them from my hands but I let them go without a fight. If he thought he needed to approve my library books, more power to him. I was just thankful he was unarmed. I didn’t need a broom across my throat.

He read the yellow spines. “
Blunt Trauma 101. Blood Spatter Velocity Studies,
volume three.” He flung them back at me. “Seem harmless enough.”

“They’re for a science presentation.”

“Al Capone had the same story. Move on. But remember, we’re watching you.” Then he hustled after a girl with a yellow paperback in her hand.

“Join the club,” I mumbled.

Tater stepped free of the neighboring aisle, a book in his hand.

“Jeez,” he said, “can’t a guy check out a book in peace? This is getting out of control.” He stared after the Olive Shirt for a moment, then suddenly tossed me his book and went back into his aisle. “Hold that for me, will you? I need to look for something. It’s about time someone pulled the cork out of this volcano….”

I nearly dropped my books catching Tater’s.
Crime Scene Photography.
At least he was on task. Restacking them in my arms, I carried them to the table where Gardo was now sitting. No, make that lying. He had his head down on the table, buried in the crook of his arm.

“I swear, this place is full of psychos.” I dropped the books onto the table with a bang. Gardo didn’t flinch. “I practically got frisked. Next they’ll be doing strip searches.”

He grunted into the tabletop.

I shoved aside his backpack for more room. “Where are your books? You’re not researching?”

“Screw research.”

“You have to do this assignment. There’s an oral report.
Tomorrow.
”

He waved his hand without lifting the rest of his arm. “Leonard can do it.”

Across the library, Leonard was shoved up against a wall, the Olive Shirt menacing him with the eraser end of a pencil. “Don’t count on it. He’s got his own problems.”

“Huh?” Gardo lifted his head and followed my gaze. “Ah, jeez.”

Max had spotted Leonard, too, and was now streaking across the library like a yellow comet. Lucy jogged the first few steps with her, then stopped. Whether the shock on Lucy’s face was because of Leonard’s imminent death or because Max had left her side was anyone’s guess.

“Hold up. Hold up. Stop!” Max grabbed the pencil over the Olive Shirt’s shoulder. “I said stop.”

He spun in surprise. Leonard used the opening to escape, looking pretty shaken as he scrambled.

Max didn’t look shaken. She looked pissed. Clutching the Olive Shirt by the elbow, she spun him back around and escorted him toward the door. The librarian rushed ahead and opened it, clearly happy to be doing so.

“Hey! What are you doing? I been deputized. I’m on duty!”

“Consider this the neutral zone,” Max replied.

“There ain’t no such thing as neutral zones.”

“There are now. Out.” Max gave him a solid shove out the door, and the librarian slammed it behind him. The effect was kind of dulled, though, since it was one of those slow-closing doors, but still, Yellow Shirts all around the library cheered and clapped.

Max spun on them. “Enough. This is still a library, or can’t you read the sign?”

“Maureen.” The librarian rested her hand on Max’s shoulder and gave her a silencing look. Then she released Max and started shooing the nearest Plums into the book rows. “You heard her. The show’s over. Back to work. C’mon, now.”

Though they grumbled about it, the Plums settled into a low buzz again, eventually melting back into the rows. Max didn’t move, though. She just stood there staring at the closed door, massaging her forehead like she had a migraine.

Gardo snorted weakly. “That would’ve almost been funny, if it wasn’t so pathetic.”

“I know. Culwicki’s getting desperate.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He laid his head back down, his face toward me. His lips were dry and cracked. “The Mustard Tagger can lay low for a while. He can afford to. His rep is solid.”

“He?”

“Them. Whatever.”

“You think there’s only one Mustard Tagger?”

“I don’t think anything. I have no control over my tongue.” He licked his split lips, then winced from the sting.

I licked my own lips. They were fine thanks to coconut milk, the most putrid liquid known to man. “Well, whoever it is, they should quit while they’re ahead. They made Culwicki look bad, let that be enough. Del Heiny will never let Plums eat mustard.”

He lifted his head. “You think this is about mustard?”

“It isn’t?”

“Who cares about mustard except Del Heiny? It’s the movement, that’s what Plums like. Just look around.”

I did, and I immediately saw that Gardo had a point. Every table around us was filled with Yellow Shirts. More stood at the counter checking out books, and still more peppered the book aisles on both sides of the library. Every one of them was whispering or giggling with at least one other Yellow Shirt. Apparently, if you had a yellow shirt, you had a friend.

Gardo laid his head back down on his arm. “They all want to be a part of it. That’s why we’re getting copycat taggers. The movement is what’s fun.”

“Well then they’re up a creek without a paddle,” I said, “because the fun is disappearing fast. Heck,
Plums
are disappearing. And Culwicki’s not about to give up till someone breaks. Maybe Tater’s right, maybe the volcano needs to be decorked.”

“Tater said that? Huh. He might be on to something.” Then he waved his hand dismissively again. “He shouldn’t sweat it, though. I’m sure the Mustard Tagger is already working on the Culwicki problem. The important thing is, a legend was born. Plums will be talking about that forever. Freakin’ brilliant, isn’t it?” He smiled, then winced again and put his hand to his lower lip. When he removed it, there was blood on his fingers.

“Jeez, Gardo, how do you wrestle like this?”

“Just do.” He wiped his fingers on his red T-shirt. “Get over it or get out, right?” Then he rolled his head so that his lips were pressed against the cool tabletop. His breath fogged the table around his mouth.

Please. There was no way Gardo could do a Sugarfoot without falling over. He couldn’t even sit up.
Get over it or get out, my foot. Try get over it or die.
I’d seen dead skunks in the road that looked better than he did. Please tell me this wasn’t what Lucy saw when she ran into me in Grampy’s bathroom.

I reached up and touched my cheek. The skin was soft from the egg yolks. I’d planned to do the face concoction again tonight, it felt that good. But a facial wasn’t what Gardo needed. What Gardo needed was food. Just a little. To get him by. There was no point trying to cut weight if you couldn’t even crawl onto the scale at weigh-in.

I went over to my backpack, dug through it, then returned and sat back down with my hands balled into fists, palms down.
The best way to pull off a Band-Aid is to just yank it off.
“Hey, man, check this out.”

Gardo peeked up. “What?”

I glanced around to make sure no Olive Shirts were lurking, then flashed him a quick look at what was tucked in each of my hands.

“What was that?” he asked.

I braced myself.
Here goes.
“Coconut macaroons.”
Yank!

“Coconut macaroons? You’re not serious?” He stared at me with wide eyes for a moment, then lunged across the table—at the cookies or at my neck, I didn’t know. Totally by reflex, I threw myself backward, nearly dumping my chair over in the process.

He didn’t get me. Or my cookies.

After he missed me, he stood there clutching his forehead with one hand and leaning on the table with the other. “
Gawww
…”

I knew what he was feeling. Been there, done that. “Head rush, huh?”

“Shut up.” He dropped back into his seat. “Don’t change the subject. What are you doing with food? You are not authorized to eat
coconut macaroons.
”

“Yeah, well, I kind of wanted to talk to you about that.” I scooched my chair back a few inches in case he decided to lunge again. When I came up with the coconut plan the other night, I knew it would come to this, sooner or later. “See, I have this theory—”

“No theories, Shermie. You promised, whatever I said. I’m the coach.”

“But look at you. You’re toast. You need something to get you over the hump. Just two macaroons. They’ll get you through.”

“No. And you can’t eat them, either. Trash ’em.”

“Gardo—”

“Now.”

Am I talking to a wall?
“Just listen to me for a minute—”

“Nothing to listen to. The coach does the talking.”