Food Fight, page 10
“Well, you seemed to know him pretty well right before the election meeting last week.”
I shake my head. This can’t be happening.
“And you never seemed very serious about the election anyway. You didn’t even know what the vice president does.”
My mouth is open, but no words are coming out.
I want to know why she’s attacking me instead of that slime bucket, Albert, but I’m pretty sure asking would be a big mistake. I glance at her friends. They all have an identical smirk on their faces and are inching closer to us in a protective pack. I need to keep my cool. I had planned to save my best idea for the end of our conversation, but since things are going so badly, I decide to go for it now.
“What I wanted to talk to you about is getting your peer tutoring idea started.”
“Are you kidding me?” she yells. “Now you want to take over my idea? Because you don’t have any ideas of your own?”
Mr. Butler peeks his head out into the hall. “Everything all right out here?” he asks.
And as if this isn’t bad enough, Darren suddenly appears out of nowhere, hovering at Lauren’s side and looking concerned.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
She doesn’t answer him. Instead she glares at me, and it’s pretty clear she hates my guts. “I don’t think you really care about being vice president.”
Lauren stomps into class, and all I know is that she’s absolutely right. But not for the reasons she thinks.
I’m even more alarmed later in the afternoon when I bump into Albert himself. He high fives me and says, “I’m going to insist my teachers call me Mr. President.”
I don’t bother to ask if he’s joking. I say, “I think you and I should get together before the first student council meeting.”
He looks at me blankly.
“To make a plan. You know, for a class project.”
His laughter is shameless and loud. “You’re kidding, right? Nobody expects us to actually do anything. We’re in sixth grade.”
As he walks away, all I can think about is how it will feel to stand in front of the school board and the cable news cameras with absolutely nothing to say.
After school I track down the other two members of our newly elected class board. I’m hoping they might have some ideas for class projects or school improvements. Treasurer Savanna Simmons tells me right away that she’s a little over-committed but happy to attend our meetings and keep track of whatever money we make through fundraisers. And our secretary, Bridget Kane, suggests we do an anti-bullying campaign. Nodding in fake agreement, I try not to think about how much fun Darren would have with that.
I drag myself home and hide out in my bedroom, too discouraged to even look at my homework. I keep thinking about the way Darren acted in the hall. That kid’s got a knack for showing up whenever I don’t want to see him—like a roach.
I know I can deal with him, even at his worst. But every time I remember the anger in Lauren’s eyes, I feel like I’m drowning. None of this has gone the way I planned, and now I’m stuck having to make good on my commitment. My motives about running for vice president were all wrong, and I can’t blame Lauren for thinking I’m a self-serving jerk.
I have to prove that I’m not.
I just don’t know how.
Salt in the Wound
The election results were only announced yesterday, but it feels like a hundred years ago. All the energy I used to spend trying to find Lauren at school is now spent trying to avoid her. It’s exhausting.
And Darren’s eating it up. At lunch he’s relentless in his retelling of what went down between Lauren and me in the hall. And he’s even more excited to describe the hours-long text session he had with her last night.
Then for kicks he snatches my pretzels and eats a few, calling it a trade as he tosses a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos from his lunch in my direction. I slide the Doritos over and grab back my pretzels, but they’re totally unappetizing after Darren’s dirty paws have contaminated the bag. No matter what he does, he gets a lot of laughs—even from Josh and Nick, who never seem bothered by the fact that I’m the butt of every single one of his stupid jokes.
Sitting in science class, I’m waiting to see what Darren has up his sleeve next. He and Lauren arrive together, deep in conversation, but he calls out Hey, longlegs to be sure I’ve noticed them. If I could crawl into the snake cage behind me, I would. Even Olivia notices my dark mood. A few times she asks me, with genuine concern in her voice, if I’m okay. But I don’t answer, and eventually she gives up and focuses on taking meticulous notes about erosion.
I zone out for the rest of the afternoon, dragging myself from class to class with a heaviness that makes me feel like I’m wearing Dad’s winter coat.
Finally I slink into the house after school, hoping to escape to my room undetected. But Mom is at the kitchen table waiting for me.
“Have a seat, Mr. VP,” she says, smiling.
Hearing those initials spoken aloud again makes me furious.
She’s prepared a snack for me like I’m in kindergarten. I reach for a few slices of apple, sure this is some sort of trap but hungry enough not to care. She’s sizing me up in that motherly way, trying to decide if I’m sick or if there’s something else going on.
“How was your day?” she asks cautiously.
I shrug, knowing there’s no way I would ever tell her what’s really going on or how I’m feeling. No mom wants all the gory details about what a loser her kid is.
But she tries anyway.
“Anything you want to talk about?”
“Nope,” I say, swiping the rest of the apples off the plate and standing up.
“I’m wondering if you’ve reconsidered my ideas about what you can do to manage your eating while you’re at Abner Farms?”
I stare at her, incredulous. I can’t believe she’s bringing this up right now. She’s been on my case for a solid week, begging me to let her call school and request special meals for me. She’s convinced that if she doesn’t take some action, I’m going to starve to death and the staff will have to orchestrate some sort of colonial funeral in my honor. If Mom had her way, she’d write “Please feed Ben a plain bagel every four hours” across my forehead before I leave for the trip.
If I leave for the trip. With the way things are going this week, it seems unlikely.
No matter what I say, she doesn’t get it. In sixth grade, mother-ordered special treatment generates a loser status that can never be reversed. This is why I don’t want anyone to know anything about me and food. And it’s why every time she brings it up, I say the same thing: “I’ve got it under control.”
But I don’t.
And she knows it. A few days ago she started a new campaign to send me to Abner Farms with a few granola bars in my bag, even though every single page of instructions says NO OUTSIDE FOOD OR DRINKS. I wonder which one of us would get in more trouble if I got caught. Or if Dad found out. And if that isn’t bad enough, she keeps bringing up the idea of sending me to a therapist.
Thinking back on my day reminds me of watching news coverage of a natural disaster. I’m too wiped out to add Mom’s anxiety to my load, so I decide to negotiate before we’re both sucked too far into her nervous vortex.
“Here’s the deal,” I say. “I’ll go see a therapist. But you have to back off on your other ideas about calling school and sending me with contraband snacks.”
I figure this is the least risky option if I’m trying to protect myself from the social repercussions of motherly interference. I try not to think about the possibility of having no social status to protect.
She considers it for a second.
“Okay. Three sessions.”
“Two.”
“Deal,” she says, holding back a smile. “This feels like a good compromise.”
I need to get out of here. I shove the last two apple slices in my mouth and head upstairs before I totally lose it. That was no compromise. It was a maternal version of the erosion we’re learning about in science. She wore me down like a raging river cutting through the Grand Canyon.
Tough Nut to Crack
Moms can work pretty fast once they get their way—which is why I am sitting across from a complete stranger less than twenty-four hours after I agreed to her plan.
His office is actually kind of cool. A big picture of a volcano spewing chunky lava straight into the sky hangs on one wall, and a picture of a hundred hot air balloons hovering over a mist-covered field is on another.
He sees me looking at them and says, “Pretty awesome, right?”
I’m thinking he’s awfully impressed with himself, but I don’t respond.
“So, Ben,” he starts, and for some reason I want to yell, Hey—don’t call me that. But it doesn’t even make sense. It’s my name. I just don’t like him saying it. Like we’re friends.
“How are you doing today?”
I consider looking him straight in the eye, real confident, and saying, “Well, Rob, I’m doing just fine, thank you.” I mean, he did introduce himself in the waiting room as Rob. But really, I’ve never called adults by their first names. Even my uncle Pat I call Uncle, not just Pat.
And besides, it’s a stupid question. Obviously things are not so great if my mother has dragged me here to talk about what I eat—and mostly to talk about what I don’t eat.
I don’t answer. Nothing. It’s like we’re frozen. I’m still staring at the balloon picture, and he’s staring at me, and I wonder how long we can stay like this. I can’t wait to tell my mom she brought me to a worthless therapist who can’t even get me to talk.
But it’s weird, all this quiet. The air conditioning kicks on and startles me. I glance away from the balloons and look right at Rob, who’s kicked back in his chair like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He looks like he could stay in that position forever.
I say, “I’m sure my mom already told you everything you need to know.” That should shut him up. But it doesn’t.
He laughs a little and sits up straighter. “Yeah, your mom told me a little bit about you. But here’s the thing: sometimes moms don’t get it right when they tell me stuff. So I’m asking you.”
I think for a second and decide maybe I’ll give this joker a chance. But I’m not going to let him interrogate me. I’ve got to play some offense.
“Is there any kind of food you don’t eat?” I ask Rob. I’m sure me asking him questions is somehow against the rules.
But he answers right away. “Sure, lots of stuff.”
“Like what?” I need this guy to understand I’m not going be the one doing all the talking in here.
“Well, for starters, I don’t eat meat.”
I nod. “Vegetarian? Or vegan?”
“Vegetarian.” He’s nodding too, like we’re in agreement. Which we’re not.
“Do you not like meat, or you just don’t want to eat it?”
“Great question.” His enthusiasm is getting on my nerves, but I’m a little curious about his answer.
“Actually, I love meat,” he says. “Pretty much any kind of meat. How ’bout you?”
“Nope, I don’t eat meat.”
And then he does another annoying thing. He asks me my own question. “Do you not like it, or you just don’t want to eat it?”
“Both.”
Rob nods, like he totally understands what I’m saying when it’s obvious he doesn’t.
“Anything besides meat you don’t eat?” I ask.
Rob frowns. I can’t tell if he’s thinking or trying to outsmart me. Just when I’m sure he’s not going to answer, he says, “Brussels sprouts. Eggs sunny-side up. Green jellybeans. Oysters. Olives. Bourbon. And beef jerky. That’s what I come up with off the top of my head.”
I’m fairly impressed with his list. They all sound disgusting, so I go with the worst one.
“Oysters?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he laughs. “Absolutely sickening. Have you ever watched anybody eat an oyster?”
I laugh a little too. He’s smart enough not to ask if I’ve ever eaten an oyster.
I tell him, “Once my grandfather ordered oysters in a fancy restaurant on his birthday. Looked like huge snot balls.”
What I don’t tell him is that I had to go sit in the car because I was pretty sure I was going to puke. My dad yelled at me all the way home, saying I had been rude.
Rob might think he knows something about what the world of eating is all about for me. But there’s no way he can help me with any of it.
I don’t think anyone can.
Brownie Points
I’m in the kitchen filling my water bottle with the promise of a great Saturday ahead of me. I’m ready to take a mental break from all the aggravations of my week—Lauren’s icy silence, Rob’s nosy questions, and Darren’s big mouth— and have some fun.
Just as I’m leaving the house, a text from Josh buzzes.
New plan—skate park!
We had agreed to meet at the basketball courts by school, so I respond with ???
In less than one millisecond, it’s followed by a text from Nick—No hoops?
Josh responds with Alex says everybody is going 2 the skate park
There are about a hundred things I’d like to text back. Like, Who is everybody? Or, I thought you hated the skate park. But it wouldn’t matter. Once Josh has an idea, there’s no stopping him.
I actually love the skate park. I tried to get Josh and Nick to go a bunch of times over the summer, but Josh never wanted to. So it’s taking everything out of me not to razz him about how he likes to do things when they’re his idea, but not when they’re mine.
As we head over, I don’t bother asking him who’s going to be there—and neither does Nick. I’m pretty sure it will include Alex, JT, and Darren. They travel in a pack. And then who knows after that? Everybody could mean a million different things.
Turning in, I’m relieved to see that today Everybody is just guys. I like to board, but I’m not great. I sure don’t do any impressive grabs or flips. I count at least ten kids from our grade, and so far none of them look like a budding Tony Hawk either.
At first no one seems to notice or care that we’re here. Josh stops and scans the crowd for a second, I guess looking for his best opening. Alex finally waves us over, and Josh approaches in his typical Josh way, high-fiving anyone who comes within a five-foot radius. “That kid can work a room,” my dad once said after a little league awards banquet.
Alex is trying to explain how to do a heel flip to JT, which Alex can apparently land anytime he wants. I keep waiting for him to do one, but instead he just keeps talking about it. Darren is on the far side of the park taking a long pull from a water bottle and laughing with a couple of kids, so for now I stay put for the heel-flip lecture.
After a few minutes, Darren’s group spreads out and goes back to boarding. They’re flying—cutting back and forth across the ramps—and I hate to admit it, but Darren is an awesome skateboarder. He seems to float an extra inch or two above the concrete like he’s breathing helium instead of regular oxygen like the rest of us. He knows it too. I can tell by the way he adds a trace of finesse after an especially hard jump or grab and then looks around to see if anyone is watching.
Alex has finally finished his lecture, and we’re off. I want to push myself for more speed and zone out everything except the sound of my wheels, but I can’t. I’m looking around, checking out the way some people are battling with a trick and others are nailing whatever they try. I keep moving, waiting for my Zen.
After almost an hour, I notice a kid from my math class, Jack, sitting on a bench surrounded by backpacks and water bottles near one of the ramps. It seems like he’s been sitting in the same spot since we got here, but I don’t know for sure. Jack’s eyes are glued on JT, who bails midair on a spin. As soon as JT is back on his board, Jack yells, “Overall a 5.9. Major deductions for the shaky landing!”
JT laughs. “Thanks, man. Tons of room for improvement.”
“Over here!” Alex yells, whizzing by. “Gimme a score on my heel flip!”
Jack stands up for a better look and after considering Alex’s trick, announces, “Comprehensive score of 7.3 for the self-proclaimed heel-flip expert.”
Now everybody’s calling out to Jack, asking him to score them. He’s fast and furious with the color commentary, a mash-up of a stand-up comic and a sports announcer. I’m laughing so hard that when I go in to pop an ollie, I can barely keep my feet on my board. Jack’s remark is, “Moderate degree of difficulty with unnecessary exertion. 6.1.”
Nick gets a 7.9 for “original artistry” on a failed Indy Grab.
Josh scores a 5.2 for “excessive use of air.”
I sit down to catch my breath. Out of the corner of my eye I see the one person Jack hasn’t scored yet. Darren. He’s standing off to the side, leaning his board against his leg. He’s not laughing, but he’s not looking particularly happy, either.
I’m not the only one who’s noticed Darren, because just then Alex yells, “Darren, you’re the last dude to compete!”
“Yeah, go for the gold!” adds JT.
Darren doesn’t move for a second, but then he’s off—carving back and forth, faster and faster, catching air, and gliding like he could do it forever. He slows down a little, seeming to head straight for Jack, executes a flawless kick flip, and comes to a stop. He turns to face Jack, sporting his classic, smug grin. I think he’s waiting for applause.
Darren’s boarding was easily a thousand percent better than what anyone else did. I’m thinking Jack will have to give him a perfect ten, whether he wants to or not.
“8.9,” Jack yells, adding, “Deductions for extraneous stylistic flourishes.”
I might choke trying not to laugh, even though the other guys are all cracking up. I don’t need to give Darren any more reasons to hate me.
I shake my head. This can’t be happening.
“And you never seemed very serious about the election anyway. You didn’t even know what the vice president does.”
My mouth is open, but no words are coming out.
I want to know why she’s attacking me instead of that slime bucket, Albert, but I’m pretty sure asking would be a big mistake. I glance at her friends. They all have an identical smirk on their faces and are inching closer to us in a protective pack. I need to keep my cool. I had planned to save my best idea for the end of our conversation, but since things are going so badly, I decide to go for it now.
“What I wanted to talk to you about is getting your peer tutoring idea started.”
“Are you kidding me?” she yells. “Now you want to take over my idea? Because you don’t have any ideas of your own?”
Mr. Butler peeks his head out into the hall. “Everything all right out here?” he asks.
And as if this isn’t bad enough, Darren suddenly appears out of nowhere, hovering at Lauren’s side and looking concerned.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
She doesn’t answer him. Instead she glares at me, and it’s pretty clear she hates my guts. “I don’t think you really care about being vice president.”
Lauren stomps into class, and all I know is that she’s absolutely right. But not for the reasons she thinks.
I’m even more alarmed later in the afternoon when I bump into Albert himself. He high fives me and says, “I’m going to insist my teachers call me Mr. President.”
I don’t bother to ask if he’s joking. I say, “I think you and I should get together before the first student council meeting.”
He looks at me blankly.
“To make a plan. You know, for a class project.”
His laughter is shameless and loud. “You’re kidding, right? Nobody expects us to actually do anything. We’re in sixth grade.”
As he walks away, all I can think about is how it will feel to stand in front of the school board and the cable news cameras with absolutely nothing to say.
After school I track down the other two members of our newly elected class board. I’m hoping they might have some ideas for class projects or school improvements. Treasurer Savanna Simmons tells me right away that she’s a little over-committed but happy to attend our meetings and keep track of whatever money we make through fundraisers. And our secretary, Bridget Kane, suggests we do an anti-bullying campaign. Nodding in fake agreement, I try not to think about how much fun Darren would have with that.
I drag myself home and hide out in my bedroom, too discouraged to even look at my homework. I keep thinking about the way Darren acted in the hall. That kid’s got a knack for showing up whenever I don’t want to see him—like a roach.
I know I can deal with him, even at his worst. But every time I remember the anger in Lauren’s eyes, I feel like I’m drowning. None of this has gone the way I planned, and now I’m stuck having to make good on my commitment. My motives about running for vice president were all wrong, and I can’t blame Lauren for thinking I’m a self-serving jerk.
I have to prove that I’m not.
I just don’t know how.
Salt in the Wound
The election results were only announced yesterday, but it feels like a hundred years ago. All the energy I used to spend trying to find Lauren at school is now spent trying to avoid her. It’s exhausting.
And Darren’s eating it up. At lunch he’s relentless in his retelling of what went down between Lauren and me in the hall. And he’s even more excited to describe the hours-long text session he had with her last night.
Then for kicks he snatches my pretzels and eats a few, calling it a trade as he tosses a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos from his lunch in my direction. I slide the Doritos over and grab back my pretzels, but they’re totally unappetizing after Darren’s dirty paws have contaminated the bag. No matter what he does, he gets a lot of laughs—even from Josh and Nick, who never seem bothered by the fact that I’m the butt of every single one of his stupid jokes.
Sitting in science class, I’m waiting to see what Darren has up his sleeve next. He and Lauren arrive together, deep in conversation, but he calls out Hey, longlegs to be sure I’ve noticed them. If I could crawl into the snake cage behind me, I would. Even Olivia notices my dark mood. A few times she asks me, with genuine concern in her voice, if I’m okay. But I don’t answer, and eventually she gives up and focuses on taking meticulous notes about erosion.
I zone out for the rest of the afternoon, dragging myself from class to class with a heaviness that makes me feel like I’m wearing Dad’s winter coat.
Finally I slink into the house after school, hoping to escape to my room undetected. But Mom is at the kitchen table waiting for me.
“Have a seat, Mr. VP,” she says, smiling.
Hearing those initials spoken aloud again makes me furious.
She’s prepared a snack for me like I’m in kindergarten. I reach for a few slices of apple, sure this is some sort of trap but hungry enough not to care. She’s sizing me up in that motherly way, trying to decide if I’m sick or if there’s something else going on.
“How was your day?” she asks cautiously.
I shrug, knowing there’s no way I would ever tell her what’s really going on or how I’m feeling. No mom wants all the gory details about what a loser her kid is.
But she tries anyway.
“Anything you want to talk about?”
“Nope,” I say, swiping the rest of the apples off the plate and standing up.
“I’m wondering if you’ve reconsidered my ideas about what you can do to manage your eating while you’re at Abner Farms?”
I stare at her, incredulous. I can’t believe she’s bringing this up right now. She’s been on my case for a solid week, begging me to let her call school and request special meals for me. She’s convinced that if she doesn’t take some action, I’m going to starve to death and the staff will have to orchestrate some sort of colonial funeral in my honor. If Mom had her way, she’d write “Please feed Ben a plain bagel every four hours” across my forehead before I leave for the trip.
If I leave for the trip. With the way things are going this week, it seems unlikely.
No matter what I say, she doesn’t get it. In sixth grade, mother-ordered special treatment generates a loser status that can never be reversed. This is why I don’t want anyone to know anything about me and food. And it’s why every time she brings it up, I say the same thing: “I’ve got it under control.”
But I don’t.
And she knows it. A few days ago she started a new campaign to send me to Abner Farms with a few granola bars in my bag, even though every single page of instructions says NO OUTSIDE FOOD OR DRINKS. I wonder which one of us would get in more trouble if I got caught. Or if Dad found out. And if that isn’t bad enough, she keeps bringing up the idea of sending me to a therapist.
Thinking back on my day reminds me of watching news coverage of a natural disaster. I’m too wiped out to add Mom’s anxiety to my load, so I decide to negotiate before we’re both sucked too far into her nervous vortex.
“Here’s the deal,” I say. “I’ll go see a therapist. But you have to back off on your other ideas about calling school and sending me with contraband snacks.”
I figure this is the least risky option if I’m trying to protect myself from the social repercussions of motherly interference. I try not to think about the possibility of having no social status to protect.
She considers it for a second.
“Okay. Three sessions.”
“Two.”
“Deal,” she says, holding back a smile. “This feels like a good compromise.”
I need to get out of here. I shove the last two apple slices in my mouth and head upstairs before I totally lose it. That was no compromise. It was a maternal version of the erosion we’re learning about in science. She wore me down like a raging river cutting through the Grand Canyon.
Tough Nut to Crack
Moms can work pretty fast once they get their way—which is why I am sitting across from a complete stranger less than twenty-four hours after I agreed to her plan.
His office is actually kind of cool. A big picture of a volcano spewing chunky lava straight into the sky hangs on one wall, and a picture of a hundred hot air balloons hovering over a mist-covered field is on another.
He sees me looking at them and says, “Pretty awesome, right?”
I’m thinking he’s awfully impressed with himself, but I don’t respond.
“So, Ben,” he starts, and for some reason I want to yell, Hey—don’t call me that. But it doesn’t even make sense. It’s my name. I just don’t like him saying it. Like we’re friends.
“How are you doing today?”
I consider looking him straight in the eye, real confident, and saying, “Well, Rob, I’m doing just fine, thank you.” I mean, he did introduce himself in the waiting room as Rob. But really, I’ve never called adults by their first names. Even my uncle Pat I call Uncle, not just Pat.
And besides, it’s a stupid question. Obviously things are not so great if my mother has dragged me here to talk about what I eat—and mostly to talk about what I don’t eat.
I don’t answer. Nothing. It’s like we’re frozen. I’m still staring at the balloon picture, and he’s staring at me, and I wonder how long we can stay like this. I can’t wait to tell my mom she brought me to a worthless therapist who can’t even get me to talk.
But it’s weird, all this quiet. The air conditioning kicks on and startles me. I glance away from the balloons and look right at Rob, who’s kicked back in his chair like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He looks like he could stay in that position forever.
I say, “I’m sure my mom already told you everything you need to know.” That should shut him up. But it doesn’t.
He laughs a little and sits up straighter. “Yeah, your mom told me a little bit about you. But here’s the thing: sometimes moms don’t get it right when they tell me stuff. So I’m asking you.”
I think for a second and decide maybe I’ll give this joker a chance. But I’m not going to let him interrogate me. I’ve got to play some offense.
“Is there any kind of food you don’t eat?” I ask Rob. I’m sure me asking him questions is somehow against the rules.
But he answers right away. “Sure, lots of stuff.”
“Like what?” I need this guy to understand I’m not going be the one doing all the talking in here.
“Well, for starters, I don’t eat meat.”
I nod. “Vegetarian? Or vegan?”
“Vegetarian.” He’s nodding too, like we’re in agreement. Which we’re not.
“Do you not like meat, or you just don’t want to eat it?”
“Great question.” His enthusiasm is getting on my nerves, but I’m a little curious about his answer.
“Actually, I love meat,” he says. “Pretty much any kind of meat. How ’bout you?”
“Nope, I don’t eat meat.”
And then he does another annoying thing. He asks me my own question. “Do you not like it, or you just don’t want to eat it?”
“Both.”
Rob nods, like he totally understands what I’m saying when it’s obvious he doesn’t.
“Anything besides meat you don’t eat?” I ask.
Rob frowns. I can’t tell if he’s thinking or trying to outsmart me. Just when I’m sure he’s not going to answer, he says, “Brussels sprouts. Eggs sunny-side up. Green jellybeans. Oysters. Olives. Bourbon. And beef jerky. That’s what I come up with off the top of my head.”
I’m fairly impressed with his list. They all sound disgusting, so I go with the worst one.
“Oysters?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he laughs. “Absolutely sickening. Have you ever watched anybody eat an oyster?”
I laugh a little too. He’s smart enough not to ask if I’ve ever eaten an oyster.
I tell him, “Once my grandfather ordered oysters in a fancy restaurant on his birthday. Looked like huge snot balls.”
What I don’t tell him is that I had to go sit in the car because I was pretty sure I was going to puke. My dad yelled at me all the way home, saying I had been rude.
Rob might think he knows something about what the world of eating is all about for me. But there’s no way he can help me with any of it.
I don’t think anyone can.
Brownie Points
I’m in the kitchen filling my water bottle with the promise of a great Saturday ahead of me. I’m ready to take a mental break from all the aggravations of my week—Lauren’s icy silence, Rob’s nosy questions, and Darren’s big mouth— and have some fun.
Just as I’m leaving the house, a text from Josh buzzes.
New plan—skate park!
We had agreed to meet at the basketball courts by school, so I respond with ???
In less than one millisecond, it’s followed by a text from Nick—No hoops?
Josh responds with Alex says everybody is going 2 the skate park
There are about a hundred things I’d like to text back. Like, Who is everybody? Or, I thought you hated the skate park. But it wouldn’t matter. Once Josh has an idea, there’s no stopping him.
I actually love the skate park. I tried to get Josh and Nick to go a bunch of times over the summer, but Josh never wanted to. So it’s taking everything out of me not to razz him about how he likes to do things when they’re his idea, but not when they’re mine.
As we head over, I don’t bother asking him who’s going to be there—and neither does Nick. I’m pretty sure it will include Alex, JT, and Darren. They travel in a pack. And then who knows after that? Everybody could mean a million different things.
Turning in, I’m relieved to see that today Everybody is just guys. I like to board, but I’m not great. I sure don’t do any impressive grabs or flips. I count at least ten kids from our grade, and so far none of them look like a budding Tony Hawk either.
At first no one seems to notice or care that we’re here. Josh stops and scans the crowd for a second, I guess looking for his best opening. Alex finally waves us over, and Josh approaches in his typical Josh way, high-fiving anyone who comes within a five-foot radius. “That kid can work a room,” my dad once said after a little league awards banquet.
Alex is trying to explain how to do a heel flip to JT, which Alex can apparently land anytime he wants. I keep waiting for him to do one, but instead he just keeps talking about it. Darren is on the far side of the park taking a long pull from a water bottle and laughing with a couple of kids, so for now I stay put for the heel-flip lecture.
After a few minutes, Darren’s group spreads out and goes back to boarding. They’re flying—cutting back and forth across the ramps—and I hate to admit it, but Darren is an awesome skateboarder. He seems to float an extra inch or two above the concrete like he’s breathing helium instead of regular oxygen like the rest of us. He knows it too. I can tell by the way he adds a trace of finesse after an especially hard jump or grab and then looks around to see if anyone is watching.
Alex has finally finished his lecture, and we’re off. I want to push myself for more speed and zone out everything except the sound of my wheels, but I can’t. I’m looking around, checking out the way some people are battling with a trick and others are nailing whatever they try. I keep moving, waiting for my Zen.
After almost an hour, I notice a kid from my math class, Jack, sitting on a bench surrounded by backpacks and water bottles near one of the ramps. It seems like he’s been sitting in the same spot since we got here, but I don’t know for sure. Jack’s eyes are glued on JT, who bails midair on a spin. As soon as JT is back on his board, Jack yells, “Overall a 5.9. Major deductions for the shaky landing!”
JT laughs. “Thanks, man. Tons of room for improvement.”
“Over here!” Alex yells, whizzing by. “Gimme a score on my heel flip!”
Jack stands up for a better look and after considering Alex’s trick, announces, “Comprehensive score of 7.3 for the self-proclaimed heel-flip expert.”
Now everybody’s calling out to Jack, asking him to score them. He’s fast and furious with the color commentary, a mash-up of a stand-up comic and a sports announcer. I’m laughing so hard that when I go in to pop an ollie, I can barely keep my feet on my board. Jack’s remark is, “Moderate degree of difficulty with unnecessary exertion. 6.1.”
Nick gets a 7.9 for “original artistry” on a failed Indy Grab.
Josh scores a 5.2 for “excessive use of air.”
I sit down to catch my breath. Out of the corner of my eye I see the one person Jack hasn’t scored yet. Darren. He’s standing off to the side, leaning his board against his leg. He’s not laughing, but he’s not looking particularly happy, either.
I’m not the only one who’s noticed Darren, because just then Alex yells, “Darren, you’re the last dude to compete!”
“Yeah, go for the gold!” adds JT.
Darren doesn’t move for a second, but then he’s off—carving back and forth, faster and faster, catching air, and gliding like he could do it forever. He slows down a little, seeming to head straight for Jack, executes a flawless kick flip, and comes to a stop. He turns to face Jack, sporting his classic, smug grin. I think he’s waiting for applause.
Darren’s boarding was easily a thousand percent better than what anyone else did. I’m thinking Jack will have to give him a perfect ten, whether he wants to or not.
“8.9,” Jack yells, adding, “Deductions for extraneous stylistic flourishes.”
I might choke trying not to laugh, even though the other guys are all cracking up. I don’t need to give Darren any more reasons to hate me.
