Big Mouth (8 page)

I followed him to our table, working to get the stiff-elbow thing timed just right.

I’d just reached the table when someone came up behind me and clapped me solidly on the back.
Ow!
I arched from the stinging impact.
Jeez!
Why did guys have to hit each other all the time? I turned to find Kenny Goodman dressed as a Del Heiny Junior 13 janitor.

“Hey, Thuff. I’m with you, man,” Kenny said. Then he climbed onto the bench right where I was going to sit. “You just lead the way. I’m with you.”

Swell. Now there’s nowhere for me to sit.
“Think you could be with me a few inches to the left? Shove over.”

“Oh, right. Sorry, man.”

Even after he scooched left, there still wasn’t much room for me to sit. When did my table get so crowded? Leonard, Kenny, William, Truman, Tucker, Brit, Jeff, Tommy…they were all sitting there giving me thumbs-up signs between bites. They’d never sat at my table before.

Slowly, I grinned. The Thuff Enuff legend was already working its magic.
Dang, I’m gonna listen to Gardo more often!
I kicked my leg up over the bench and squeezed in between Kenny and Gardo. Fans like rubbing elbows with their heroes, so Kenny probably felt privileged.

Most of the guys at my table were in costume, as were most of the Plums in the cafeteria. It was quite a sight. The sun above us was shining down through the sunroof on strange creatures, famous people, and mythical wonders who were dunking corn dogs in ketchup, chugging milk from brown and white cartons, and blowing straw wrappers into neighbors’ ears. At one of the pea-greener tables, Babe Ruth was using a baseball bat to test the strength of a knight’s armor. Two tables to their left, Jabba the Hutt threw a Tater Tot at Mark Twain, knocking Mark’s mustache into the Pillsbury Doughboy’s ketchup bowl. At the cash register, a towering Count Dracula gnawed the neck of a squealing French maid. The cafeteria lady didn’t even notice the bloodsucking; she just sat there with her eyes glazed and her hand out, waiting for the vampire’s money like a human vending machine.

Despite the Halloween festivities and my newfound fame, I was starting to get nervous. The cafeteria was Shane’s turf; sooner or later he’d show up. He probably knew I was becoming famous at his expense and wanted to knock me back into place. I couldn’t guess how he’d do it, but the smart money was on pain and humiliation.

I started looking around, wondering how I could make a smooth exit if things went bad. Maybe I shouldn’t have been in there today. After all, it was one thing to act ballsy off the cuff like I did yesterday—well, like they thought I did yesterday—but today I had time to premeditate. And premeditation was where the big mind game happened. That’s when you knew whether you had big enough cojones to actually do the thing you were premeditating. And right then, my cojones felt about the size of M&M’s. The kind without nuts.

“Here, I got extra ketchup today.” Gardo tossed a handful of packets across the table to me. He had two hamburgers on his tray and a large plate of fries. I had three corn dogs and some Tots. Our ketchup requirements were high.

I picked up a packet that had landed on top of the ASB pumpkin centerpiece, which now sported a yellow mustache. The Mustard Taggers certainly had an eye for detail.
Go, Mustard.

“I am
so hungry,
man.” Gardo jammed a handful of ketchupless fries into his mouth.

“Do tell,” I said. Lipstick smeared his upper lip. “You have the table etiquette of a gorilla, Ms. Monroe.”

“Wrestlers don’t need manners,” he said through the fries. “But I need food. This Friday’s practice meet against the Del Heiny Junior nine was just canceled.”

“The Beefsteaks?”

“None other. Our fine janitors left a hose running outside the wrestling room, and the water leaked in and ruined all the mats. We can’t use the Beefsteaks’ gym, either. It’s being renovated. Which means I get one more week of not worrying about making weight. I swear, I could
eat
a wrestling mat.”

I felt another tap on my shoulder and turned to find Tater standing there with Tweedle dee and Tweedle dum behind him. Both Tweedles wore yellow hats and yellow wristbands with their costumes, and all three guys had loaded food trays.

“Mind if we sit here, Thuff?” Tater asked.

“Here? Yeah. I mean, no, I don’t mind. If you can make room.”

“We can make room.” Tater waved up the Tweedles and they all scrunched and scooted and squeezed until they’d worked themselves onto the bench on Gardo’s side. Elbows banged as they ripped at their ketchup packets. Tater took his beloved green marker out of his back pocket and stuck it over his ear. Maybe it was poking him in the rear.

My lab partner introduced the Tweedles as his friends Roshon and Runji. They were cousins. I’d seen them in the halls but had never met them.

“Hey, Thuff,” Tater said. “Rumor has it you’re the next hopeful for speed-eating champion or something like that. Why didn’t you tell me? Is it true that you speed-ate five gallons of ice cream in three minutes yesterday?”

“Five gallons in three minutes?”
Is he nuts?
“Are you crazy?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“Well you heard wrong—”

“It was
twelve
minutes,” Gardo interrupted. “That’s a regulation heat. And he didn’t even bat an eye.”

I shot Gardo a look, like,
What are you talking about?

He shot back a look:
Shut up and let me handle this.
“Shermie’s training to take on Tsunami,” he announced. “That’s the fastest hot dog eater in the world. Seventy hot dogs in twelve minutes.”

Seventy?

“Seventy?” Tater exclaimed. “Gimme a break. Nobody can eat that many hot dogs. And not in twelve minutes.”

“Tsunami can,” Gardo assured him. “He’s a medical marvel. The guy’s stomach expands like a popcorn bag in a microwave. But Shermie’s going to beat him. He’s got the Mustard Yellow International Belt of Hot Dog–Eating in the bag.”

“Wow.”

The guys were impressed. I wasn’t. Gardo was lying through his teeth. Tsunami’s record was fifty-three and three-quarters HDBs. And that was pretty near inhuman. Seventy wasn’t possible, at least not without some kind of alien stomach transplant.

But Gardo was still running at the mouth. “Ice cream is part of Shermie’s cross-training. He’s already an expert at it. Five gallons in twelve minutes is nothing. He’ll beat that before the week’s out.”

“See, I told you Chad doesn’t lie,” Tater told Tweedle Dee, AKA Runji.

Who’s Chad? Does everyone know about the ice cream? Oh no—Lucy!

Runji was intrigued. “So Thuff—”

“Thuff
Enuff,
” Gardo corrected.

“Sorry. So Thuff
Enuff,
even if you can eat that many hot dogs—”

“Oh, he can.”

Shut up, Gardo!

“—how can you eat them that fast?”

All eyes were on me, even Gardo’s. He could spin the hype, but he didn’t have a clue when it came to actual techniques. Luckily, Lucy had explained those to me already.

“Well…” I said, trying to remember them all, “there are several techniques. I haven’t settled on one yet.”

“Like?”

“Well, like the Chunk ’n’ Dunk. That’s when you dunk the whole HDB—that’s the hot dog and the bun to us eaters—you dunk the whole HDB, then eat it, then dunk it, then eat it.”

“What do you dunk it in?”

“Water.” I shrugged. “Nothing fancy. Or you can eat the HDB regular, just like anybody who eats a hot dog. That’s the Traditional Style. Then there’s the Japanese Method. In that one, you pull the dog out of the bun, then you eat just the hot dog, followed by just the dunked bun.”

“Is that how Tsunami does it?” Gardo was just as fascinated as the others. See, there were things I knew better than him.

“No,” I answered, warming up to the spotlight. “He uses the Solomon Method. He pulls the dogs out of the buns, then breaks them in half and eats both halves at the same time. It’s pretty cool to watch, actually.” My mind replayed the online footage Lucy showed me of Tsunami winning one of his six Nathan’s Famous contest titles. It was like watching a ballet dancer or something. He had grit and timing and didn’t falter a single bite. “He chomps the halves side by side in three real fast bites. That’s it, three. Then he breaks the bun in half, dunks it, and chomps it down the same way. I don’t think the guy even swallows. The food just disappears.”

As I explained this, I monitored the room. No sign of Shane or the Finns.

“Well, Thuff
Enuff,
” Tater said, “I take my hat off to you. I had no idea that this whole semester I’ve been sitting next to a world champion hot dog eater in the making. And a fearless anti-Shaner, too. Walk silently but carry a big stick, eh? I like that in a Plum. Someday that robe of yours will be hanging on Culwicki’s Wall of Fame with the other Del Heiny Junior 13 sports greats.”

Gardo grinned wide, clearly pleased with himself for making me wear the boxing robe. I had to admit, he was right about that. I grinned back at him. I was lucky to have him as a friend.

“Gardo’s singlet will be up there, too,” I said. “You’ll see, he’s going to wrestle right to the top.”

“If the janitors don’t burn down the wrestling gym first,” Gardo muttered.

“That’s so messed up,” William said. “Can’t they move the meet to the main gym?”

“No. That’s already reserved for the girls’ JV prep badminton team.” Gardo stuffed several fries into his mouth at once.

Tater looked like he had an opinion of badminton—and it wouldn’t be a flattering one—when Lucy came up, interrupting him. Ignoring me, she set a white plastic grocery bag on the table and motioned to Gardo with her hand. “Do you mind?”

He dutifully scooted over, which made Tucker, William, and Tommy have to scoot over, too. William was hanging so far off the end of his bench that I could only figure he was holding on by a single butt cheek.

“Thank you.” Lucy settled in without acknowledging my presence. She caught a glimpse of Tater as she settled onto the bench. “Nice earring,” she told him.

He scowled, then took his lucky green marker from behind his ear and stuffed it back in his pocket, elbowing people in the process.

Lucy reached into her plastic bag and pulled out a container of salad with a clear plastic lid, a small cup of brothy soup, and another small cup of lumpy white stuff that better be cottage cheese.
What did she do, steal Max’s lunch?

I tried to work on my own lunch, but it was just too weird to be sitting two feet from Lucy’s face and not talking to her. She was making such a production of opening all her containers and unwrapping her spork…I bet she
wanted
me to notice. Well, I wasn’t going to.

I ate a French fry doused in ketchup and watched the ceiling. For a minute. Then I just couldn’t help it, my eyes slid back to Lucy. She was prodding her fluffy pile of green, purple, and red leaves with her spork like it was some strange Mad Max experiment. There were some stringy orange things in the salad, and a few black things, too. Definitely not anything I’d want in my mouth. But even more disturbing was that there wasn’t a single tomato as far as I could see. What was Lucy thinking?

“You’re gonna get suspended,” I blurted before I could stop myself. She didn’t look up. Leonard and Tater did.
Shoot. Now I’m committed.
I pointed at her lunch. “You can’t have that here. None of that is ketchup-dunkable.”

She reached into the bag again. “Neither is what’s between your legs.”

The guys exploded with laughter. I quickly raised my soda can for them to see. Lucy was no dummy; she knew where I stashed my soda every day.

She had a sly smile on her lips as she pulled out napkins and blotted the corners of her mouth. She probably thought that was a good shot.

Well, she could take all the potshots she wanted, but an illegal soda between my legs wasn’t a plate of illegal food on the table for all the world to see. She was just asking for trouble. Culwicki had drilled and drilled and drilled us that first week of school:
All cafeteria food must be ketchup-dippable.
He’d lectured everyone about it in the daily bulletin for a week, and we’d received special mailings at home about it. He was probably afraid of losing precious funding if we ticked off Del Heiny. All the mustard graffiti around campus must’ve had him crapping bricks already. And it was only escalating. Just minutes after lunch started today they’d found the ketchup packet bin filled with mustard packets. I swear, I’d never seen the cafeteria ladies move so fast. They had the bin refilled to the brim with red packets within minutes.

It was no joke. With a lunch of salad, soup, and white gunk, Lucy was definitely walking on thin ice.

“There’s not even a tomato in that salad,” I warned her. “I’m telling you, if one of those janitors sees you with that, you’ll get suspended.”

“How can I get suspended for eating healthy?”

“This is healthy.” I pointed to each item on my tray. “Protein in the burgers, grains in the buns, veggies in the French fries and the pickles. And it’s all dippable in ketchup—yet
another
vegetable.” I raised my milk carton in a toast. “Plus, I’m washing it all down with a nice, cold box of milk. It does a body good.” Gardo and I bumped our cartons together. “Cheers!”

The other guys bumped their cartons, too. “Hear! Hear!”

Lucy observed this scene quietly for a moment. “What about mustard?”

“What about it?” I wiped off my milk mustache with my sleeve.

“You like your burgers with mustard. Last week at McDonald’s, I had to go back and ask for a bunch of mustard packets for you.”

“So what?” I said. “They don’t have mustard here.”

“Oh yes they do.” Kenny and William laughed and flashed mustard packets hidden in their fists. They must’ve swiped them before the cafeteria ladies swooped in. Like Tater, Kenny and William were hard-core Yellow Shirts, sticking with their yellow gear today instead of wearing a Halloween costume.

Lucy poked her salad with her spork. “My point is, they’ve outlawed mustard.”

I shrugged. “Yeah. So?”

“So, you’re going to be the hot dog–eating champ, aren’t you? Where’s the big eat-off held every year?”