I'm Going to Be Famous (2 page)

“Yeah, you know, like when Uncle Cecil bet Aunt Maude she couldn't stop smoking.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember,” she says with a grin. “And he caught her smoking in the basement, and she had to clean out the garage and paint the bathroom. Sure, I'll bet.”

I've got her now … hee hee. I'll make the bet a good one.

“OK, here's the bet, Kerry. If I can break the record after … let's see … after three weeks of training, then you have to clean up my room and do all the lawn mowing for me. I don't have to do any at all. And if I can't break the record, then I'll do all that work for one year. You don't have to do your share.”

“It's a bet, Arlo. Let's shake on it.”

It's official. We're shaking on it. There's no backing out for Kerry now. I'll show her I can be famous. I'll prove it to her and anybody else who says I can't.
I'm
going to be in the
Guinness Book of World Records,
and that's a fact.

CHAPTER 4

“Done, done-done, or done-done-done?”

—“D
AD
” M
OORE

One Saturday afternoon when Kerry was three years old, she decided she was going to help Dad remodel the kitchen. He was fixing the cabinet drawer by the refrigerator. So Kerry “borrowed” his hammer and “fixed” the kitchen table.

That's why we have an orange plastic tablecloth on the kitchen table now. It covers up the big dents Kerry made with Dad's hammer before he got it away from her.

Saturday night is my night to set the table. I put the plates, glasses, and silverware on that orange tablecloth. It's not such a bad job. I think of it as if I'm playing a game of Monopoly: you've got to get the playing board set up right before you grab everything you can get your hands on.

I can never remember whether the fork goes on the right or the left side of the plate. There's a correct way to do it. Some lady named Emily Post made up the rules for the “Supper Table Game.” She figured it makes a difference on how you get your food from your plate to your mouth. She sure never visited our house. Here, you get it from your plate to your mouth very fast if it's something you like and you want seconds. And you get it to your mouth very slow if it's something you don't like. Whether you put the fork on the right or the left of the plate has nothing to do with it.

Still, Mom says we should know the “right” way to set the table and eat. This is so we won't act like idiots when we go out. Personally, I never act like an idiot. She must be thinking about Kerry or John.

We always have hamburgers on Saturday night. It's a family tradition. Dad cooks them. He covers his balding head with a chef's hat that Mom gave him and an apron that says “Come and get it!” in rubber letters across the front. He pretends he's a short-order cook at the Seagrove Cafe. I can imagine him doing that—all six feet, three inches of him standing over the grill, cooking and telling jokes. He says if he ever gets sick of selling car tires, he's going to “slop burgers at the Greasy Spoon.” I think if the people who run the Seagrove Cafe knew Dad called their restaurant the “Greasy Spoon,” they'd throw
him
on the grill instead of a hamburger.

“Arlo! Step right up here, young man,” Dad says. “What'll you have? How about a deluxe burger custom-cooked for you at Pa Moore's Greasy Spoon?”

“Sure, Dad.”

“How would you like it,” he asks, “done, done-done, or done-done-done?”

Dad always grins and points at the sizzling burgers in the pan when he asks me that question. They're always good no matter how I answer him.

“Just done will be OK, Dad.”

“One done hamburger, coming right up!” he says as he flips them over and adjusts the heat.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, what, Arlo?”

“Did you ever want to be famous?”

He looks at me for a second. “Sure.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a famous explorer. I was going to discover hidden mountain ranges in the jungles of Africa, or uncharted islands, or a huge cave that led to the center of the Earth. Your burger is ready, Arlo. One sizzling sandwich straight from the Greasy Spoon, the best hamburger joint on the Oregon coast.”

He sure can cook. Boy, that looks good.

“When did you decide not to be famous?” I ask, trying not to be too pushy.

“I don't know,” he says, giving me another look. “I guess that's something I just grew out of. I haven't really thought about it for a long, long time. Come and get it, everybody, dinner is served!”

We are all here now: Mom, Dad, John, Kerry, and me. I sit at the far end of the table. That's because I'm left-handed. If I sit with a right-handed person to my left, we bump elbows. Four years ago, I did that to my aunt Roberta. She had a forkful of spaghetti almost to her mouth. It never made it. She didn't say a thing. She just got up and left. Mom said that the white dress Aunt Roberta had on was brand-new and cost a lot of money. I felt guilty. John thought it was funny. So now I always sit where I can't knock spaghetti or anything else into somebody's lap.

“Arlo, why were you asking me about being famous?” Dad asks. He always wants to know why us kids ask the questions we do.

“No particular reason,” I reply. “I was just curious.”

“Tell him about our bet,” Kerry says with a mouthful of hamburger.

“Quiet, Kerry.” I'm giving her my shut-up-or-I'll-get-you look.

“Arlo thinks he's going to be famous, Dad,” she continues.

“I said
quiet,
Kerry.” My shut-up-or-I'll-get-you look doesn't work on Kerry anymore. Why am I tormented by having such a motor-mouth for a sister?

“What's this bet all about, Arlo?” Dad wants to know.

Thanks a lot, Kerry. I'll help myself to some more potato salad and try to act unconcerned.

“Oh, it's just a little bet Kerry and I made, that's all.”

“What kind of bet?” he asks firmly. “You know your mother and I don't approve of gambling.

“It's not a money bet, Dad. It's just … well … uh …”

“Yes, Arlo?” Mom asks.

Mom sometimes seems to know what I'm thinking. She sits there quietly and in her gentle way reads me like a book. That's how well she knows me. I think this is one of those times. I guess I might as well tell the whole story.

“Well, it's just a little bet on how fast I can eat bananas. I'm going to break the world record by eating seventeen bananas in less than two minutes. I've got three weeks to get ready. I think that's September twenty-fourth.”

Everyone has stopped eating and is looking at me. Big brother John, the hotshot senior in high school, is grinning like he's in a toothpaste commercial. A little piece of onion is on his chin.

“You're gonna eat
what
real fast, Arlo?” he asks.

John is going to give me a hard time about this, I can tell.

“Bananas, John, bananas.”

“And how fast are you going to eat them?”

I didn't like his tone of voice. It makes me mad. I can feel myself getting hot in the face again.

“Fast enough for a world record,” I answer, trying to stay calm. “I'm going to eat seventeen bananas in less than two minutes. That will put my name in the
Guinness Book of World Records.
And Kerry will then have to clean my room and do all the lawn mowing for one full year. That's the bet.”

John laughs. “Seventeen bananas in less than two minutes?
C'mon,
Arlo.”

I knew he'd give me a hard time. No one has any faith in me. I must set John straight.

“That's right. I can do it. I'm going to be famous!”

“You can't do it, Arlo,” John says.

There it is again, that word
can't.

“You want to bet, John?” I ask angrily.

He puts down his hamburger, wipes his chin, and grins. “Sure, why not. I'll bet you all the firewood splitting for this winter—four cords of wood.”

“It's a bet. Shake on it,” I say as I stand and begin to move around the table to shake John's hand.

“Hold it a minute, kids,” Dad interrupts.

He probably wants to bet, too. Well, great. I'll bet
anybody.

“This is getting out of hand. I want these bets called off.”

“Dad!
Why?
” I almost scream in his ear.

“For two reasons, Arlo,” he says. “First, your jobs around the house are your chores, not something to win or lose in a bet. Your mother and I expect you to do them as part of your responsibility to the family. Second, I think eating bananas that fast could be dangerous. I don't want you hurting yourself because of stubborn pride over a bet.”

I look at Mom. A soft smile crosses her lips. She nods in agreement with Dad.

“But—”

“That's it, Arlo,” Dad says. “The bets are off. I don't want to discuss it anymore.”

“But—”

“I said, that's
it,
Arlo. The end. No more. Finish your hamburger.”

I'm
mad.
I sit back down. I'll show them. I'll break the world record, bets or no bets. I'll be famous.
I'll
be the fastest banana-eater alive.

CHAPTER 5

“I think I'm in love.”

—J
OHN
M
OORE

“Psst … hey, Arlo.”

“Huh? What do you want, John?”

“Come in here, I want to talk to you.”

John is leaning out of the bathroom door.

“You mean come into the bathroom?” I ask. “No, thanks. The last time I did that, you put shaving cream in my ear.”

“I won't bother you, Arlo,” John promises. “I want to talk to you about our bet.”

“You heard Dad,” I say. “He said the bet is off.”

“Yeah, I know, I know. I'm talking about another bet. Come on in here so we can talk privately.”

Should I trust John? That is the big question.

“C'mon, Arlo,” he pleads. “I've got to get ready for my date with Michelle. I don't have much time.”

Well, I guess I might as well see what he has up his sleeve. Besides, this should be interesting. It's worth the risk. Watching John get ready for a date is like watching Porkchop scratch fleas—there's a lot of action, but nothing seems to get done.

John is shaving. I'm not quite sure why he does this. He only has about twenty hairs on his face, and they're all blond. You can hardly see them. The way he puts that shaving cream on, you'd think he has a beard like Santa Claus.

“OK, John, what about the bet?” I ask, keeping my distance. John is getting too big, too fast. Those long arms can reach out and grab me like a frog does a fly. I
hate
being picked on and always losing our wrestling matches.

“Well … Dad said no betting our chores around the house, right?”

“Right,” I answer.

“But he didn't say we couldn't bet something else, right?” John asks.

I can tell this is leading somewhere I probably shouldn't go.

John continues. “So let's just bet something else—OW!”

He's just cut himself again. He'd save himself a lot of blood and pain if he'd just shave without a razor blade. No one would know the difference.

“What do you want to bet, John?” I ask.

“Well … how about an extra-large supreme pizza from Papa Dietro's?”

“An extra-large pizza? Aren't those really expensive? I don't have that much in my piggy bank.”

John now has three pieces of toilet paper stuck on his face to soak up the blood from razor nicks.

“I knew you'd back out, Arlo. You can't eat seventeen bananas in less than two minutes. You're all talk and no action.”

“You want to bet?” I quickly ask. I'm getting mad again.

“Of course I do, dummy,” he says. “That's what I've been talking about. Hand me that towel, will you? I've got to get myself beautiful for tonight. I think I'm in love.”

John turned seventeen last week. Mom and Dad must have given him a head the size of a watermelon for his birthday. He thinks he's so handsome that Michelle Angier must believe he hung the moon in the sky. Someday, I'm going to ask her what she sees in him. Besides, that is, his two new pimples.

“OK, John, it's a bet,” I say. “An extra-large supreme pizza for you if I lose, and one for me if I win. Let's shake on it.”

He grins. “It's a bet, little brother. You've got three weeks to get ready. I'll mark September twenty-fourth on my calendar.”

September 24. I can taste that pizza now.

“Hey, you guys, open up! I need some water for my goldfish bowl. Louise and Lionel are swimming around in Dad's coffee cup.”

It's Kerry, our wonderful sister.

“Beat it, Kerry,” John says. “Arlo and I are having a man-to-man talk.”

“Pig feathers, John. You've been talking about the bet.”

“How did you know, Kerry?” I ask. “You been spying again?”

Leave it to Kerry to spy on a private conversation. She must be hiding superbionic ears underneath all that frizzy red hair of hers.

She giggles. “Well, I couldn't help but hear. This door is awfully thin. They don't make bathroom doors like they used to, you know.”

“They don't make sisters like they used to either, do they, Arlo?” John asks.

For once he's right.

“Aw … c'mon, you guys,” she begs, “let me in. Louise and Lionel might die if they don't get fresh water. Besides, I need to talk about our bet, too. I thought you might want to bet a few banana splits, Arlo.”

Banana splits.
Now she's talking. I
love
banana splits.

“How many, Kerry?” I ask.

“I don't know. How about six?”