Deborah Halverson - Big Mouth

In our district, every school had the same sponsor: Del Heiny Ketchup Company. It had been that way for years, ever since the district’s budgets got slashed. They needed cash from somewhere, so like cities do with sports stadiums, the school board decided to get a sponsor. The soda companies were out of the running, though, since the state’s Department of Cafeteria Nutrition started cracking down on campus soda sales. Which sucked, by the way. How did the D.Caf.Nuts expect us to wash down our hamburgers? With milk, for crying out loud? Anyway, Del Heiny Ketchup Company stepped in and saved the day by offering to sponsor the entire district. All the school board had to do was agree to name every school after Del Heiny and turn their mascots into tomatoes. That arrangement passed muster with the D.Caf.Nuts, with ketchup being a vegetable and all. So in one swoop, Del Heiny got an image boost, the district got its money, and I got stuck here, in glorious Del Heiny Junior High #13, home of the oh-so-fierce Plum Tomatoes.

“No, no, no. You’re doing it all wrong, Linus. Didn’t you pay attention to the instructions?” Mad Max didn’t like the consistency of our butyric acid gel mixture.

I didn’t like the smell of it. For the sake of science, though, I leaned in for a closer examination — holding my breath, of course. The mixture looked fine to me, like cherry Jell-O. Rubbery and red. Which, like an idiot, is what I said to Max.

“Is this experiment about making cherry Jell-O, Sherman?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Is it about Jell-O at all?”

“No, but—”

“Then the point of your comparison is?”

“I don’t know, I just—”

“That’s what I thought. Now discard this gel and follow the steps written on your handout. Come on class, let’s pick up the pace here! We’re running out of time.” She clapped her hands and zipped away to terrorize another lab group.

Jeez. I’d almost rather be hanging out with Arthur.

Tater flared his big nostrils and exhaled like a rhino. “Thanks, Thuff. For a minute there I thought she’d assign me after-school cleanup again. I hate cleaning up after lab days. Her experiments always reek by sixth period.”

It wasn’t like I’d really done anything, but hey, he thought I did. “No problem, man. I got your back.” I clapped him solidly on the shoulder, then scooped up the gel tray.

“Wait.” He stopped me before I could walk away with it. Pulling out his cell phone, he snapped a quick picture of it. “My brother’s not gonna believe this one. I just wish this picture was scratch ’n’ sniff.”

“He’ll be glad it isn’t.” I left him pulling out his lucky green marker to fill out our worksheet.

When I passed Lucy’s desk, she caught my hand and whispered, “Hey, Shermie. Big news. I know how you can get down thirteen dogs instead of eleven.”

We both looked around quickly. Max was browbeating the troops on the other side of the room, and everyone else was working on their experiments. I knelt down next to Lucy. “Spill it.”

“Wet buns.”

“Excuse me?” I instinctively covered my rear with my hands, spilling my gel blob onto the floor. It oozed under the table behind us. I made a funny face to make the girls at the table giggle. When they went back to their experiment, I quickly shoveled the red gel back onto my tray with my foot.

“Wet buns,” Lucy repeated when I knelt down next to her again. “That’s what the pros do. They dunk their hot dog buns in water before they eat them, separate from the wieners. Wet buns go down easier and quicker than dry buns.”

Wet buns, of course! I swear, taking Lucy on as my coach was a stroke of genius. I’d just do whatever she told me, and then the fame and money would come rolling in. Thirteen-Dog Tuesday, here I come! Next stop, the Nathan’s Famous Fourth of July International Hot Dog — Eating Contest, the Super Bowl of competitive eating. Fame will be mine!

Lucy nudged me away suddenly. “She’s coming. Go. Hurry. ” She turned back to her goo, which was bright yellow, and tried to look studious. “Man, this stuff stinks.”

Of course it stank. It was butyric acid. Vomit. Puke. Throw-up. Blood of the evil Porcelain God. And, with thirteen wet HDBs staring me down, probably my new best friend.

Aaaagggh!

Bulging eyeballs. Tears like water rockets. Puffy, blood-bloated sockets.

Aaaagggh!

Thirteen dogs plus thirteen cold, waterlogged buns equaled one toilet bowl of butyric acid.

Aaaagggh!

At least I’d fasted since lunch yesterday. I’d learned from my mistake and made it to thirteen HDBs this time.

Aaaa…

Nothing.

Wait, Shermie, wait….

Still nothing.

I hung out a few minutes more while the dry heaves subsided, then stood and flushed. Not bad for a second attempt. Lucy didn’t need to know how it ended.

Smiling, I lifted up my white T-shirt and patted my empty belly. Thump, thump. Next time, fourteen HDBs, I just knew it.

According to the clock on my cell phone, it was 7:26 when my bus finally putt-putted up to Del Heiny Junior 13. Eleven minutes behind schedule. Swell. Air brakes popped and hissed as the oxidized orange clunker lurched to a stop, then settled.

I lodged a complaint with the tooth-challenged driver on my way out.

“Calm down, big guy,” he said. “I can’t control the traffic, you know. Maybe your watch is wrong.”

My cell phone was regulated by satellite. Satellites were never wrong. Riding the bus sucked.

Because she had an early dentist appointment, Lucy wasn’t with me as I stepped off the bus in front of our three-story circular school building, which was the dark red of a plum tomato from top to bottom. I sighed. It was like walking into a solid blob of ketchup. The only windows were on the bottom floor, where the principal and his staff had their offices. Ringing the top of the red blob was a crown of white flags, each sporting a plump tomato in its center like the red sun on a Japanese flag. Across the middle of the blob, strung like a big Band-Aid over the double-doored entrance, was a long white banner with GO, PLUMS! in blocky red letters. I swear, I could have kissed the very ground in gratefulness that we weren’t assigned the extra-plump Burpee tomato as our mascot. Del Heiny High #4 got that one. The huge GO, BIG BURPEES! sign over their door was the stuff of nightmares. Life was hard enough without being a Big Burpee.

With just five minutes left to get to Mad Max’s class way up on the third floor, I beelined for the double doors. Even with my shortcut through the waist-high hedge, the other bus-riding Plums left me in the dust fast. They and the few stragglers rushing from the bike racks looked like muted aliens in a low-budget sci-fi flick. The morning sun was painting their faces a mucky Dijon-mustard color, and the dry wind had their hair poking out from their heads like porcupine quills. It was like the opening scene of Galactic Warriors’ most popular episode, “Captain Quixote’s Glory.” In that episode, the aliens really did have quills.

I raced through the doors and past the broken elevator, skidding to a stop just steps beyond. I did an about-face. The elevator doors had GO, MUSTARD! scribbled on them in big, loopy letters with thickly squeezed mustard. I couldn’t help it, I busted up. The Mustard Taggers strike again! That made five times in two weeks. Principal Culwicki was probably having a seizure that very second, the big Del Heiny butt kisser.

That happy thought launched me up the stairs at full gallop. Go, Mustard!