The Battle of the Red Hot Pepper Weenies (5 page)

I
t was the Battle
of the Alamo all over again.

Let me back up a bit. This is about two kids in our school—Dallas Mitchell and Alonso Viejez. Dallas, as you might guess from his name, was born in Texas. He'd moved here from San Antonio last month. Alonso is from Mexico. He'd come here from Jalisco late last year.

Since they're both from the same hot and sunny part of the continent, and since they're living up here in cold, crisp Vermont, you might think they'd hang out together. But they pretty much ignored each other. Until last Tuesday at lunch.

Alonso was at our table, with me, Vin, Naveen, Dylan, and the rest of the guys. Dallas was right behind me at the next table, between Len and T.J. As Dallas was unwrapping his lunch, Len asked, “What are those?”

“Jalapeño slices,” Dallas said. “But we pepper lovers call 'em Texas pickles. Try one.”

I turned around and watched as Dallas slid a small container over to Len. Len took a slice of pepper and chewed
on it. For about six seconds, nothing happened. Then Len's eyes opened wide. His mouth opened wider. His nostrils flared. I think his tonsils might have tried to leap from his throat. He screamed and raced for the water fountain down the hall by the boys' room.

“Bad move,” Alonso said. “Water just makes it worse.” Another scream from down the hall proved his point.

“Those must be pretty hot,” I said. I like the sweet peppers they put on sandwiches, or the weird pale green ones I find in a salad once in a while, but I haven't had too much experience with jalapeños or other really hot stuff.

“They aren't hot if you're used to them,” Alonso said.

I guess Dallas heard Alonso. He grinned, held up the container, and said, “Help yourself.”

I figured Alonso would pick out a slice, like Len did. Instead, he took the container, tilted his head back, then dumped all the jalapeños into his mouth. He grinned, stared at Dallas, and slowly chewed the mouthful of green fire.

“Man, those guys are real pepper heads,” Dylan said.

“More like Pepper Weenies,” Naveen said. “You shouldn't mess with that stuff.”

I waited. Six seconds passed. My own tongue burned in sympathy, but there was no sign Alonso was feeling anything. Finally, he opened his mouth again, not to scream or shoot flames, but to say, “Very mild Texas pickles,
amigo
. Maybe they'd be better with a dash of hot sauce?”

I guess there's nothing kids won't compete about—especially when it involves pain and suffering. On Wednesday, Alonso brought a couple of small bright orange peppers to lunch.

“I'm afraid to ask what those are,” I said.

“Serranos,” Alonso said. “Much hotter than jalapeños. Nobody will call these
pickles.
” He said the last part loud enough to make sure Dallas heard him.

“Let me have one,” Dallas said.

“Help yourself.” Alonso tossed him a pepper.

Dallas bit into the serrano. From five feet away, I could feel my eyes burning. But Dallas just chewed, swallowed, and said, “Must be mild serranos.” I think one drop of sweat might have rolled down his temple, but it was hard to see anything clearly at the moment.

On Thursday, Dallas held up a pepper and said, “Have a habañero, unless you think it's too hot for you.”

“My pleasure.” Alonso munched the pepper without flinching.

His eyes seemed to get moist, like my mom's do when she's cutting onions. I watched for tears, but all Alonso did was blink once.

Friday, it was Alonso's turn. “Red savinas,” he said as he offered Dallas a handful of peppers. “They're like habañeros, but hotter.”

“Good. I need something hot after that mild serrano of yours.” Dallas ate the peppers like they were chocolate marshmallows.

Kids on either side of him started crying from the fumes. I noticed Dallas kept his mouth clamped tight after he finished chewing. His neck and jaw muscles trembled. I thought I heard a crack, like he broke a tooth. But his expression never changed.

“That's got to be the end of it,” I said to Naveen after lunch. We'd had nearly a week of madness. “There can't be many kinds of pepper left.”

“Maybe not from here,” Naveen said. “But it's a big world out there. There's a pepper from India that's fifty times hotter than a jalapeño.”

“Well, let's hope those guys don't find that out.”

But on Monday, Dallas and Alonso both showed up at lunch with big grins and paper sacks stuffed full of peppers. They stood and faced each other. At the same time, they both thrust out their sacks and said,
“Bhut jolokia!”

I glanced over at Naveen. “You didn't have anything to do with this, did you?”

He smiled and shrugged. “You think I'd tell those guys there's something out there that's too hot for them to handle?”

“I think you'd do exactly that,” I said. “Have you ever eaten one of those?”

“Not a whole one. I might love peppers, but I'm not crazy. Those things would bring an elephant to its knees.”

I turned my attention back to the battle. Dallas and Alonso stared at each other for a moment, like two gun-fighters ready for a showdown. Then each grabbed the other's bag and popped a pepper.

“Stop,” I said. “This is crazy.” My eyes were burning, and my nose started running. I wiped my nose on my sleeve and saw scorch marks on my shirt.

They didn't pay any attention to me. They each ate a second pepper, and a third. Their faces got redder and redder. Their eyes filled with tears. Sweat streamed down their foreheads and washed over their cheeks. Their noses were dripping like tapped maple trees. I expected their teeth to melt and flow from their mouths. But they kept going. Neither of them would back down. Neither would stop chewing and swallowing.

I guess your tongue can get used to anything. But that's only the start of the trip the pepper has to make. Just as Dallas and Alonso were eating the last peppers, their bodies jerked like they'd suddenly realized they had something better—or, at least, more urgent—to do.

They turned and raced from the cafeteria. They ran right past the water fountain. I'm not sure, but I think I saw flames shooting out of the backs of their pants. Alonso was slightly ahead of Dallas, but they both got where they were going really quickly. They burst through the door of the boys' room and disappeared inside. I heard two stall doors slamming shut. I flinched as screams echoed down the hall. A smell that I can only describe as a sewer plant on fire drifted down the hall. Kids all around the cafeteria tossed away their lunches. Some tossed their cookies, too.

“Well, lunch should be more peaceful for a while,” Naveen said.

He was right. The Pepper Weenies were out of school for a couple days. The next time I saw Alonso and Dallas, they each brought another paper sack to the cafeteria. Only, this time, the sacks contained cream cheese sandwiches on white bread.

T
hanks. It's very
nice,” Deb said as she lifted the skirt from the box. She tried to sound pleased. It wasn't all that bad a skirt, but it was the sort of style she'd stopped wearing several years ago. Maybe she could exchange it for something she liked.

“You'll look so cute in it,” her mom said. She pointed at the pile of empty boxes and smiled. “A present seems to be missing.”

“Really?” Deb asked. That was more like it. Each birthday, she got one very special gift from her mom. So far, there'd been no sign of it.

“Stay right here. I've been saving the best for last.” Her smile turned into a grin as she rushed out of the living room.

Deb wondered whether her mother had gotten her the portable DVD player she'd asked for. Or maybe it was her own television for her bedroom. Either would be great. She knew it would be unreasonable to hope for both.

A moment later, her mom returned with a package that
was about twice the size of a shoe box. Deb's hopes slowly deflated as she took the gift.

“Thanks.” She shook it. Something solid clunked against the sides of the box. It didn't feel heavy enough for a DVD player, and it was too small to be a television.

“Careful,” her mom said. “You'll hurt her.”

Her?
Deb removed the paper. Since this was the last present, she didn't want to rush. Once the presents were opened, she felt that the rest of the birthday was pretty much just like any other day.

Beneath the wrapping paper, she found a pink cardboard box. Curly white letters on the lid read,
JUST LIKE ME
.

Puzzled, Deb lifted the lid. Then she pulled aside the pink tissue paper that covered the contents. “Oh my…”

She found herself staring at her own face—smaller, hard, and unmoving, but still her own face, right down to the dark-brown bangs that covered her forehead and the light-brown freckles that dusted her cheeks.
Bangs?
Not anymore. Deb put a hand to her head. She'd changed her hairstyle nearly a year ago.

“Like it?” her mom asked.

Deb nodded, though she wasn't sure how she felt. She was too old for dolls. She'd packed all of hers away the last time she'd cleaned her room. Looking more closely, she realized the doll appeared sort of young.

“There's a man up in Glenville who makes them,” her mom said. “He uses a photograph.”

“Which picture did you send?” Deb asked.

“That wonderful shot from the summer before last. I think he did a fabulous job. It looks just like you.”

“It's great, Mom.” Deb picked up the doll, but she didn't
hold it too close. She felt strangely uncomfortable when she looked into the small version of her own face. It was like last year, when she'd been in the school play. The first time she'd seen her face in a mirror wearing stage makeup, the sight had made her feel weird. Everything was familiar, but also slightly odd.

“I knew you'd be thrilled,” her mom said. “I couldn't wait to give her to you.”

Deb carried the doll up to her room and looked for a place to put it. She couldn't bring herself to give the thing a name. What could she call it? Little Deb? Deb the Second? Young Deb? No. For now, the doll was an
it.
But she needed a place for it. Deb knew her mom would be hurt if she stuck the doll in a closet. Or in the trash. She settled for putting it on the shelf that ran along the wall above her headboard. That way, at least, she wouldn't see the doll when she was lying in bed.

Before she went to sleep, she checked online. The company that made the doll had a Web site. To her horror, she discovered the doll cost more than a DVD player and a TV put together.
What a waste,
she thought as she got in bed.

When Deb woke up the next morning, she felt something hard next to her head. She reached out, her eyes still closed, and touched cold plastic. Wiry hair brushed against her fingertips. Deb sat up fast, letting out a gasp.

The doll was in bed with her.
It must have fallen,
Deb thought as she scooted away from it. But that wouldn't explain how the doll had ended up tucked under the blanket next to her. Deb didn't want to think about that. She put the doll back on the shelf and went down for breakfast.

“Could you get the paper?” her mom asked when Deb walked into the kitchen.

“Sure.” Deb threw on her coat and went out to the front lawn.

When she got back to the kitchen, she nearly dropped the paper. The doll was sitting at the kitchen table, perched in a chair, boosted by a stack of books.

“I thought she should join us,” Deb's mom said.

Deb nodded and took a seat. She noticed her mom had set a place for the doll.

“So,” her mom said, “have you given her a name yet?”

“No,” Deb said. “I'm still thinking about it.”

“How about Anne?”

“But…,” Deb said.
Anne
was her own middle name. Her dad had come up with Deb. Her mom had come up with Anne. So they'd named her Deborah Anne.

Her mom stroked the doll's hair. “Yes. Anne. I like that. Don't you?”

“Sure, Mom,” Deb said. “Anne is a great name.” She glanced up at the clock. “I'd better get going.” She grabbed her backpack and hurried down the hall toward the front door. As she looked over her shoulder, she saw Anne sitting at the table, staring with eyes that never moved, waiting patiently for someone to pick her up or stroke her hair and tell her what a good girl she was.

When Deb got home from school, she found Anne on the couch. Deb always sat on the left corner of the couch to do her homework. Her mom had put Anne in her spot. Deb carried the doll to the other side of the room and dropped her onto the large leather chair her dad had loved to lounge in—the chair he'd always sat in before he'd left last year.

Deb sat on the couch and started her homework. A few minutes later, she heard her mom coming down the hall.
She realized her mom would want to know why she'd moved Anne. Deb ran over and brought Anne back to the couch, placing her on the middle cushion.

“Oh, don't the two of you look cute,” Deb's mom said. She walked over to the couch and gave Deb a hug. Then she reached down and patted Anne. “What an adorable pair.” She raised her other hand, which held a brush, and started brushing Anne's hair.

“We're not a pair,” Deb muttered. Her own scalp tingled as she spoke. She turned away from the doll and continued working on her homework, trying to ignore the tuneless drone of her mother's humming.

Anne joined the family for dinner that night. Once again, Deb's mom set a plate for the doll.
At least she didn't give her any food,
Deb thought as she ate her meal.

That evening, after the three of them watched television, Deb's mom stood up and said, “Bedtime, Deborah Anne.”

Deb was about to answer when she realized that her mom was talking to the doll.
Deborah Anne?
Deb thought. It must have been a slip. A stupid slip. “Fine,” she muttered as she went upstairs to get ready for bed. “If that's what she wants. Just fine. They can have each other.”

She stomped down the hall to the bathroom. When she finished brushing her teeth, she walked into her room.

Anne was sitting on her bed. Deb froze in the doorway. Down the hall, she could hear her mom in her own bedroom. “I'll be there in a minute to say good night,” her mom called.

Deb sat at the foot of the bed, far from Anne. Her mother came in and said good night to them, looking straight at the doll the whole time. As soon as her mom left, Deb tossed
Anne up onto her shelf. Hard. She smiled at the sound of the doll's head smacking against the wall.

Sleep tight,
Deb thought as she crawled under the covers.

Deb woke in the middle of the night with a headache. She knew, without checking, that Anne was tucked in next to her again. Deb closed her eyes, curled up with her back to the doll, and tried to sleep.

The next day, after school, Deb had an idea. She'd fix things so Anne didn't look like her anymore. Then her mother would snap out of this weirdness. “Shock her right out of it,” Deb said as she went to the kitchen and grabbed a knife.

“Plastic surgery,” she muttered. “A little off the nose. A little off the cheeks. A whole new face.” She was halfway to the couch when her mom's scream locked her in her tracks.

“What are you doing?” her mom asked, pointing at the knife.

Deb shrugged and spat out the first lie that came to mind. “Nothing. I was just going to trim her hair. The bangs are too long.”

“With that? Have you lost her mind?” Her mom snatched the doll from the couch and wrapped her arms tightly around it, cradling the doll against her chest. “There, there,” she crooned. “It's all right.”

Deb turned away and went back to the kitchen. Her chest felt so tight, she could hardly breathe. She put the knife back in the drawer, then sat at the table.

A while later, she heard steps.

“Deborah Anne forgives you,” her mom said. “She's very understanding. Everyone says she's a perfect doll.”

Deb nodded, but didn't look up at them. She heard her
mom put the doll on a chair. Her own breath came more easily now.

“I don't want her in my room tonight,” Deb said.

“Sure you do,” her mother said. “Besides—it's her room, too.”

“No, it isn't!” Deb shot up from the chair and leaned toward her mom. “It's my room. She's a doll! She isn't real!”

Her mom reached out and placed her hands over the doll's ears. “Ssshhhhh. I don't know what's come over you.”

Deb stormed out of the house. She walked aimlessly for blocks, dreaming of how she was going to destroy the doll. The house was dark when she got home. Her mother had gone to bed.
She didn't even wait up for me,
Deb thought.

Upstairs, in her room, the doll waited for her. It was on her bed, tucked under the blanket. Deb's favorite bracelet was fastened around the doll's neck. Her mom must have put it there.

“Enough!” Deb said. She raced across the room and grabbed the doll. She fumbled with the catch on the bracelet, then stopped. She was afraid that she'd break the chain. There was an easier way to get it off. A much more satisfying way. She twisted the doll's head, eager to rip it right off the body. In her mind, she saw herself throwing the head through her window. In her mind, she saw herself screaming at her mother, telling her how wrong all of this was. In her mind, she saw the world returning to the way it once had been.

In her neck, she felt a slash of tearing pain that hurt beyond anything she could imagine.

The doll dropped from her fingers and fell to the bed. Deb staggered back, grabbing her injured throat. She crashed into the wall, then sank to the floor. A weak gasp came from her
lips. She couldn't raise her voice above a whisper, or turn her head to the front. On the bed, she saw the doll, its head twisted at an unnatural angle.

“Deb!” her mother cried, racing into the room.

Deb reached out a hand and mouthed the word “Neck.”

Her mother sped past her. She grabbed the doll and cradled it in her arms. “Yes, your poor neck. How awful. Oh, dear. Don't worry, I'll get you taken care of. You'll be fine. You'll be just fine, Deborah Anne. I promise.”

She rushed from the room, still talking to the doll. “Don't worry. I know someone who can fix you. She lives right across town.”

Deb, struggling to swallow, watched her go. A half hour later, as she sat on the floor in a corner of her room, her neck suddenly felt better. She knew the doll had been repaired.

Her mom would be back soon. Her mom and Deborah Anne. Perfect Deborah Anne who never disobeyed. Who never sulked or pouted. Who never grew older. “No,” she said aloud. “I'm Deb. She's just a doll. I'm Deb. Not her. Me.”

But even to her own ears, her voice sounded flat and empty. Not human, really. Not very much alive at all.