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.
CHAPTER 3
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.
CHAPTER 4
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
“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.
CHAPTER 3
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.
CHAPTER 4
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
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