Food Fight, page 8
And that’s what’s so weird. Mom doesn’t like the way I eat, but she’s pretty much an expert in dealing with me and food. She knows exactly what I do eat and exactly what I don’t. She understands the difference between penne and rigatoni. She remembers to buy extra boxes of Nature Valley Crunchy Oats ’n Honey Granola Bars when they go on sale. And most importantly, she knows there’s absolutely no chance I’d ever eat something called buttermilk chicken strips, even if my aunt had been perfecting the recipe for a hundred years. Or if I was starving to death on a deserted island. Or if eating one strip would earn me a trillion dollars.
Spice Things Up
We’re all sitting around the patio table, about to eat, and Aunt Beth starts pushing her fancy buttermilk chicken strips on me. Mom stays quiet while everyone at the table makes a point to tell me how incredible they are.
Gran holds one up and declares, “You’re really missing out, Ben.” I try not to watch how it wiggles in the air.
I keep saying no thanks, but somehow two end up on my plate anyway. They’re bumpy and crooked like Gran’s fingers. I stare at them for a few seconds, half expecting them to crawl away. Finally, I look across the table at Mom. She glances down at my plate and opens her mouth like she’s about to say something but doesn’t.
But instead she turns to Aunt Beth and smiles. “These are fabulous. Best I’ve ever tasted.”
Now I know I can’t even count on Mom. I want to say something rude or stomp inside to watch TV. Dad calls that making a scene, and I’m sure he’d tell me I’m way too old for that kind of behavior. But the thing is, there’s nothing here for me to eat. I’m not going to eat these chicken strips any more than I’m going to eat the baked macaroni and cheese or salad or dinner rolls or green beans. I can’t decide if Aunt Beth was so confident in the deliciousness of her chicken strips that she decided I wouldn’t need any buttered penne, or if maybe she’s being a little mean.
Just when I’m sure I can’t contain my frustration for one more second, Aunt Beth stands up and heads inside. When she returns, she places a bowl of pasta in front of me. But it’s not penne—it’s elbows, glistening and slimy like a bowl of wet worms fresh from a puddle.
So I don’t eat anything. This is the part no one understands. Even though I’m starving, I’m not going to eat at all. Not because I’m being disrespectful or babyish, but because I cannot put any of these things in my mouth and swallow them.
At the other end of the table, everyone’s focused on my cousin Sally, who’s chatting about declaring her major and other boring college stuff. I barely even hear what anyone is saying until there’s a lull in the conversation and I realize all eyes are back on me and my uneaten dinner. I guess someone asked me a question that I didn’t hear.
“Tell them, honey,” Mom says, in an encouraging voice. I give her a blank stare. “About your class trip. To the colonial place.”
I’m so relieved she’s not asking me about the chicken strips that my thoughts go a little haywire. But after a second, I’m rambling about the platform tents and the archery and the orienteering competition at Abner Farms. The fact that I’m not honestly psyched about the trip doesn’t matter. I just keep talking. Sally interrupts, saying the trip is so not fair since she didn’t get to do anything like that in middle school. Gran asks if I’d like to borrow one of her good sleeping bags, and Aunt Beth offers to lend me her binoculars. But I’m too distracted by the puzzled expression on Uncle Pat’s face to respond to any of them.
He plunks his elbow on the table and rests his chin in his palm. “Does this place have a colonial-themed McDonald’s on site?”
Everyone stops talking and sits perfectly silent and still like we’re posing for a picture.
About a million thoughts run through my head, tumbling over each other like they’re caught in a riptide. I’ve always believed I was safe from this kind of treatment here at Aunt Beth and Uncle Pat’s house. But now it feels like an older version of Darren has invaded our family dinner, and I have about one second to decide how to react.
I force my face into something resembling a smile and look straight at him. “Yeah, I think they have a horse and buggy drive-through.”
Laughter roars around me like I’ve said the most hilarious thing in the world.
Later I overhear Uncle Pat ask Mom, “Seriously, what’s he going to eat there?”
Stir the Pot
When we get home from dinner, Dad heads straight upstairs with Maddie to get her ready for bed. Mom fills the pasta pot with water and sits down next to me. She slumps over the kitchen table, reminding me of how she looks sometimes in the morning before her first cup of coffee.
“I’m sorry I didn’t stand up for you tonight.”
It isn’t one of those irritating fake apologies, like when she says, “I’m sorry you feel that way, Bob,” to Dad when it’s totally clear she’s not.
“It’s okay.” I’m afraid she’s going to start crying, so I look down at my hands.
“No, it’s not okay,” Mom says, staring at the table. “That was an ambush. And I should have known better.”
“But Uncle Pat’s right. There’s no way I can go.”
“Well, Dad and I think you can.”
I jerk my head back up to face her. “You can’t make me go.”
“We would never make you go. But we’re completely confident in your ability to go on this trip.” She pauses, like she’s thinking really hard. “If that’s what you want.”
A burning ache pulls at my throat, and I swallow hard to push it back down. I don’t know where she’s going with all this, but I don’t trust a single thing she’s saying.
I say, “You know as well as I do that what I want doesn’t matter. Because that’s never going to happen. I’m never going to start magically eating like a normal person. And it sure isn’t going to happen at Abner Farms.”
“Maybe we could use some help figuring it out.”
I shake my head. She’s about to go into high gear again, begging me to let her call the school and explain my “situation.” She doesn’t understand that the absolute last thing I need is to have all the adults at Abner Farms hovering over me like a bunch of mosquitos, asking nosy questions and making irritating suggestions about what I should eat.
“No, I have another idea.” Her voice is so soft and uncertain that I’m sure it’s going to be a shockingly bad one.
“Like what?”
“Maybe we should talk to someone who knows more than we do about the kinds of things that can be hard for kids your age.”
“Like a shrink?” She bites her lip and, after a second, nods. I stare at her openmouthed, my head pulsating in an explosive mash-up of rage and hunger. “No way.”
Mom stands up and walks over to the stove. Neither of us says a word while she drains the pasta, spoons it into a bowl, stirs in some butter, and places the bowl on the table. She lingers near me but doesn’t sit back down.
I concentrate on shoving a monstrous spoonful of pasta in my mouth, silently daring her to remind me that they’re hot.
“I don’t need any more people poking around in my business. I’ll figure it out myself.”
She looks like she’s about to say something but can’t remember what it is. I keep eating, knowing she’ll eventually sit back down and launch into a reassuring pep talk about how everything will be okay and she’ll never make me do anything I don’t want to do. But instead she turns and walks away, calling a tired goodnight from the stairs.
Out to Lunch
I’m still ticked off about the way I got hassled last night. Hopefully someone in my family will rob a bank or steal a car before our next family dinner and replace me as the biggest Snyder failure. At least I won’t have to face Darren at lunch today because we have our first Science Fair Lunch Bunch meeting.
I wait until the last second to sneak into Mr. Butler’s room, sliding through the door right before he pulls it closed. I’d figured these sessions would be pretty quiet affairs, with all the brainiacs eating in silence while they recharged for more high-level thinking. But surprisingly, now that I’m in here, I can see I was totally wrong. It’s a pretty rowdy crowd. And maybe that’s better, because I bet no one will even notice me. I grab a spot at an empty table by the door, thrilled to be sitting alone in the corner where I can savor my lunch and my solitude.
“Okay, glad everybody’s having a good time. I’ll give you a couple more minutes to visit, and then we’ll get started,” Mr. Butler yells over the noise.
On the other side of the room, Olivia is waving. It takes a second to register that she’s waving at me. As I half-wave back, I realize she’s the only other person sitting alone. Then her wave evolves into a come on over motion. I try to move my arms in a way that conveys no thanks, I’m fine right here, but I guess it looks more like I’m calling a runner safe at the plate. As soon as she yells my name, I shove my lunch back in my bag and walk over to the seat next to her. Trying to avoid her would never work. Olivia never gives up.
I’m sure she’s going to nag me about something. But before there’s an opportunity for her to irritate me again, Mr. Butler launches into a discussion about our developing passion for science. The only thing I’m passionate about is being able to eat without Darren breathing down my neck twice a week. Mom and Dad have no clue about my real motivation for doing the science fair, but they were thrilled I was doing it.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Olivia whispers, and rather than disagree, I nod.
Now all I have to do is come up with a painless science fair project that I can execute with minimal effort.
And with minimal interference from my lab partner.
Sugar and Spice
A short kid I’ve never seen before is standing outside Mrs. Frankel’s classroom, blocking me from going into the election meeting.
“Ben Snyder?” he asks, staring me straight in the eye and holding out his hand for what turns out to be a fist bump. He’s wearing a plaid button-down shirt, a leather belt, and dress shoes like he’s on his way to a banking internship.
“I’m Albert Fisher. I was hoping to talk to you before the meeting. I’d like you to be my running mate.”
“Huh?”
“I’m thinking if we run as a team, it improves our chances. I’m going to be class president, and I’d like you to be my VP.”
He pulls his shoulders back and smiles a toothy grin. This is a kid who definitely watches too much cable news.
“Nobody’s running against me, so I think my chances are pretty good already,” I say, slipping past him and into Mrs. Frankel’s room—where there are about ten kids.
Albert follows me, still trying to sell me on his idea, but I ignore him.
There’s an empty spot next to Lauren. I grab it, smiling at her as I sit down.
“What was that all about?” she asks, nodding in the direction of Albert, who takes a seat in the front row.
I glance over at Albert. “Nothing. That guy’s got nothing on you.”
A list of candidates is up on the white board. Secretary and treasurer each have three or four contenders. Lauren and Albert are the only kids running for president, and I’m the only VP candidate. I guess most people don’t go after the big jobs.
Mrs. Frankel shushes everyone and starts in on a long and boring explanation of the election rules, an overview of each position, and how our posters must be approved before we hang them. I barely listen and instead look around the room at all the other candidates and their posters. I’d bet anything that Savanna Simmons decided to run for treasurer just for the chance to turn all the Ss in her name into dollar signs on her posters. Mostly, I enjoy watching Lauren take furious notes about every single thing Mrs. Frankel says. It will be a breeze to be vice president for someone who’s so responsible.
“I’m confident you’re each familiar with the job description of the position you’re running for, but I’m passing these out just in case.”
I scan down to VP, which I’m sure will have the shortest list of duties. Everyone knows a vice president doesn’t do much of anything except hang out with the president—a job I will excel at. As I read on, a sudden chill hits me like I’ve been pushed into an industrial-sized freezer.
The vice president will provide a brief update on class activities to the school board during meetings twice a year. School board meetings are broadcast on local cable television.
“Crap,” I whisper.
Lauren looks away from her notes and glances at the sheet of paper I’m holding. “You knew about that, right?”
“Yeah. Totally,” I lie.
Sweat drips down my back as I imagine reporting to the school board while our entire town watches. And if that’s not bad enough, Mrs. Frankel throws out another public speaking zinger: we each have to make a sixty-second campaign speech in front of the entire sixth-grade class on Friday. Voting will take place that afternoon during lunch, and the results will be announced the following Monday.
“Mine’s already written,” Lauren whispers. “Is yours?”
I nod. Being almost-vice president is more work than I thought. Also, it seems like I shouldn’t even have to make a speech since no one is running against me. In the spirit of democracy, I decide to keep that thought to myself.
A few minutes later, Lauren and I are wandering around school with our approved posters. I’ve pushed the school board meetings and the campaign speech to the very back corners of my mind. Lauren is super chatty, talking again about her plan to launch a peer tutoring program for the sixth grade and her commitment to learning every sixth grader’s name by the end of the week.
“I just think if I make an effort to know someone, then that person will be more likely to get to know the next person. And if we all feel connected, we’ll all want to help each other succeed. It’ll snowball.”
My face hurts from smiling so much. I could listen to Lauren forever. After we’ve passed a couple of Albert’s posters, which are all identical and feature a huge photo of him wearing a jacket and tie under the words Well-Suited for the Job, I stop and come up with a great idea of where to hang Lauren’s posters. My recent gain in height finally feels like a real asset, because I’m realizing that her glittery and inspirational campaign masterpieces would look great right above Albert’s. And I’m tall enough to make it happen.
“Perfect,” she says each time I hang one.
I like to think she’s admiring me instead of the posters. Either way, I’m happy. And I’m even happier when she offers to help with mine.
My posters don’t matter as much, but I do like them. Vote for Ben—The only choice for VP. They were a pain in the butt to make, but I kept reminding myself that all this hassle will be worth it when Lauren and I are on student council together.
Use Your Noodle
Sixty seconds is a seriously long time. I never thought so before I had to write this speech, but now I do. And it’s an especially long time if you don’t have anything in particular to say. Which is why it’s a miracle that I have two hundred and seven printed words on a piece of paper I’ve folded and unfolded so many times since this election assembly began that it might disintegrate before I even get up to the podium.
Voting will take place right after this assembly during lunch, and the results will be announced Monday morning. Yesterday Principal Wright and Mrs. Frankel established the order of speeches using a system so low tech it’s almost embarrassing—pulling positions from a hat. It was determined that candidates for secretary would go first, followed by treasurer, then president, and finally vice president.
So I got the very last of eleven spots, which I initially assumed was great news. But now that we’re halfway through, I know it’s actually a curse because everyone’s already completely bored. From up here onstage, we candidates have a great view of every humungous yawn, blank stare, and sneaky whisper in the auditorium. Even Mrs. Frankel has closed her eyes a few times. It feels like time is grinding to a halt and that we’ll never survive the last speeches and make it to lunch. I’d rather suffer through Darren’s abuse in the cafeteria than be stuck in here.
Each sixty-second speech unfolds into its own small eternity of stammers and coughs and nervous laughter, from both the speech-giver and the voters in what feels like torture for all of us. My irritation keeps ratcheting up. My speech is just as mind-numbing as all the rest, and even though I’m guaranteed a win, I don’t want to look like an idiot in front of everyone.
Finally it’s Lauren’s turn, and I sit up straighter and get ready to be wowed. I wish I could see her face, but as soon as she starts talking, I know she’s destined for a lifetime of political greatness. She’s on fire, outlining her plans for the peer tutoring program and describing her sincere desire to represent each one of her classmates. When she rattles off the names of each kid sitting in the front row like some sort of genius, everybody stops fidgeting and starts paying attention. It feels like Lauren’s speech is over in an instant. I wish I could offer up my sixty seconds so she could keep talking, but instead I yell Way to go a few times as she walks back to her seat.
Now I can’t wait to see Albert fall all over himself as he tries to compete with Lauren’s performance. And whatever pathetic thing he does up there will only make me look better when I give the final speech of the morning.
Albert’s up and hurrying across the stage as soon as his name is called—I’m sure because he’s desperate to get the whole thing over with. Resting his arms on the podium, he pauses. I can only assume like he’s about to cry.
“I don’t need to know everyone’s name in order to be a great class president,” he begins.
