Big Mouth Read online

  “We don’t have time for a jog,” I continued. “The bell rings in six minutes.”

  “Then we’ll do six minutes of walking. We wouldn’t be here now if you’d been here this morning.” Gardo did a quick leg lunge to each side. “Put up your hood.”

  I put up my white hood but refused to lunge. “We can’t do this now. We’ll get all sweaty, and I don’t want to be all sweaty for the rest of school.”

  “Jeez, you can be such a girl sometimes. Here.” He fished my black Galactic Warriors T-shirt out of his gym bag and tossed it at me. “Don’t worry, it’s clean.”

  I held it away from me like it had maggots on it. I was not going to put that on. It shrank the first time my mom washed it, I couldn’t even get it down over my gut. That’s why I said he could keep it. How much humiliation could a guy take?

  “Fine, don’t put it on. Let’s go.” He started walking away from me down the track. “Shermie, remember our coach rule. What I say goes…so go!”

  Stupid coach rule. I followed after him, the Hunchback of Del Heiny Junior 13. Ow. Ow. Ow…

  “Good,” he said, falling back to me. “We’re not doing anything insane, just getting our legs moving. This will work out the stiffness.”

  I grumbled out of principle, but I had a feeling he was right about the working-out-the-stiffness thing. When I rode my bike home after racing to Gardo’s wrestling practice the other day, my muscles had felt a lot better. Kind of loose and lean. But then, my wobbly legs after that sprint to the gym were nothing compared to this post-jogging agony.

  We reached the first curve on the track.

  “The best thing for stiffness is stretching the muscles,” Gardo said. “Otherwise, day two stiffness is worse than day one.”

  That made me pick up the pace. “Worse” was not a word I wanted to hear.

  I glanced at my watch. “Four minutes till the bell.”

  “That’s fine. We’ll just finish this lap. After school, I want you down here doing three more laps. That’ll be a mile of walking. I have practice, so you’ll have to do it without me. Got it?”

  “Yes, Coach,” I muttered.

  “What’s that?”

  “Yes, Coach,” I said louder.

  “Promise?”

  “I promise! Jeez, relax.”

  We walked the far straightaway in silence. I was less hunchback-y on that side of the track, and my calf felt a lot looser than it had when I’d flipped myself out of bed earlier. A bead of sweat trickled down my back. Thank goodness Gardo said we could dump the plastic wrap from our regimen. Even he’d had to admit that Coach Hunt’s Gut Wrap sucked.

  We rounded the final bend on the track. I was breathing a little harder than normal, but not a lot. It felt kind of good, actually, cleansing even. This was way better than jogging. I could do this again. The empty stadium was kind of peaceful, truth be told.

  Another bead of sweat slipped down my temple. A movement on the school’s roof caught my eye, a large bird or something. I whipped my head up for a better look and caught the sun hard in my eyes. The world went suddenly hazy and I stumbled.

  “Whoa!” Gardo caught me. “What was that?”

  I made sure my feet were firmly under me before I answered. “I don’t know. I just got a little dizzy, that’s all.” I shook my head, making the dizziness worse. “Let me just stand here a minute.”

  “You need water. Here.” He pulled a small water bottle out of the pocket of his sweatshirt. “Drink half of it.”

  I drank half of the water, and it worked wonders. Almost immediately, the dizziness was gone. I gave back the bottle. “Just thirsty, I guess.”

  “You’ll get used to it.” He put the bottle back in his pocket. Part of me wanted to rip it right back out and run for my life. “I’ve been rationing my water since tryouts. It’s not so bad now, I’m only dizzy in the morning, after laying down all night. Be glad you don’t have to wrestle for two hours every morning and afternoon on top of all the other training.”

  Amen to that.

  “I could get used to this walking stuff, though. Look.” I did half a squat and stretched to my left and to my right. Not bad. The muscles were sore, but they weren’t so stiff.

  We walked the last stretch of track, reaching his gym bag just as the first bell rang. When he picked up the bag, a ring of keys fell out into the dirt.

  “Shoot,” he said. “I forgot to give Coach his keys back this morning.”

  “What are you doing with his keys?”

  He smiled mischievously. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

  “Funny.”

  He shrugged. “Trust me, Shermie, you don’t want to know.”

  I pictured him fetching a box full of Gut Wrap supplies and Gardo Glasses and who knew what else from Hunt’s desk. “I think you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right.”

  We headed up the stairs quicker than I would’ve liked, but we only had two or three minutes before the second bell. In a few hours I had to be back here, finishing up my three laps. And who knew, a walk might be kind of nice after sitting down and stiffening up for the next few hours. Maybe I’d even stretch before my laps; that would probably make me feel even looser. I’d miss my bus, but that was no big deal, I’d just catch the city bus. It was always running between school and the mall. And I’d be sure to go to the electronics store on level two during my Scoops break to buy another alarm clock. I couldn’t miss two mornings in a row with Gardo. He’d definitely have me doing the bleachers then.

  Or worse, he might quit on me. And I couldn’t risk losing Gardo, too.

  When I walked into the football stadium after school, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was packed. Runners were sprinting around the dirt track, the Black Cherry Heirloom flag team was twirling purple flags in the visitors’ end zone, cheerleaders were jumping and shaking purple pom-poms and tossing each other around in the middle of the field, and there was even a woman pushing a triple-wide stroller around the track with three matching boys strapped in it. What was up? That place should’ve been deserted. When the last bell of the day rang, most Plums I knew fled school like it was on fire. This was crazy.

  I sat down in the home team bleachers to figure out what to do. Gardo wanted me to go down there and huff and puff my way around the track, but doing that in front of all these people would kill the Thuff Enuff rep in a heartbeat. He wouldn’t want me to ruin my rep, now would he? Besides, I had about as much energy for working out as a turnip.

  Rapid footsteps came down the stairs to my left, then stopped suddenly. I glanced up to find Mad Max surveying the field and breathing heavily. She was wearing powder-yellow sweatpants and a matching zip-up sweatshirt and sweatband.

  “Ms. Maxwell? What are you doing here?”

  “Sherman, hello! Phew.” She dropped onto the wooden slat next to me and jerked her thumb back at the stairs. “I do laps every other afternoon. Keeps me sane.”

  “Sane” was not the word I would have used for someone who ran steps voluntarily. An angry, hungry growl rumbled from my belly. I coughed to cover it up.

  She studied the activity on the field below. “Did they drop anyone yet?”

  “Who?”

  “The cheerleaders. Someone eats turf at least once a practice.”

  “Ms. Maxwell!”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Sherman, those girls are like rubber; they bounce back up like nothing happened.” She kicked her shoe up on the bench just below ours to tighten her shoelace. “Cheerleaders are amazing athletes. They don’t get the credit they deserve.”

  I shrugged. “Jumping around with short skirts and pom-poms doesn’t help them there.”

  “No, I don’t suppose it does.”

  We watched the cheerleaders for a moment. A short girl with a long blond ponytail did a bunch of somersaults in front of a pyramid of six other cheerleaders. Just as she cleared the pyramid, another small girl flew up like a firework from behind the stack, kicking her legs int
o splits and touching her toes before landing on the ground with her two feet solidly together. Half a second later, the pyramid collapsed, with cheerleaders rolling in every direction, then hopping up and clapping and cheering like their team just won the Super Bowl. Then they stopped on a dime, dropped their clapping hands and smiles, and got to work on another pyramid, stepping on each other’s hands and thighs and backs, completely serious and intense as they did it.

  “That one who just did the somersaults,” I said, pointing, “she’s a Scoops-a-Million regular. Rocky Road, two scoops on a triple-dipped waffle cone, hot fudge, whipped cream, no nuts but two cherries. Every other night, at least. You’d never know it.”

  “Those girls stay active. I couldn’t survive without my Friday fudge.”

  “I guess.”

  We watched the girls a minute longer; then Max clapped her hands on her knees and stood up. “Enough yakking. I can feel my heart rate dipping.” She turned and raised a foot to start climbing again. “I’ll leave you to your spectating.”

  “Oh, I’m not spectating. I’m here to work out.”

  She lowered her foot. “Really?”

  What, is that so hard to believe? “Yeah, I’m gonna do laps. I did some today at lunch. And I’ll be here tomorrow morning, too.”

  I stood up and pulled my hood over my head so she’d know I was serious.

  “Well, that’s great, Sherman. Just…be careful and take things slowly, will you? Speed kills, you know.”

  “I’m not doing my laps in a race car.”

  She laughed.

  Hey, I made a teacher laugh. Score one for the Thuffster.

  Her laugh trailed off, but her soft smile stayed. Was it any wonder every guy in school was in love with her? “I just mean don’t do too much too soon, that’s all. Be patient.”

  Just my luck, a lecture after school. I snatched up my backpack and started down the steps toward the field. “Yes, Ms. Maxwell.”

  “It’s the tortoise who wins the race, Sherman,” she called out, “not the hare. Remember that.”

  “Yes, Ms. Maxwell.”

  “Work smarter, not harder.”

  “Yes, Ms. Maxwell.”

  “Where’s your water? Drink lots of water!”

  “Yes, Ms. Maxwell.”

  “And above all, have fun!”

  “Yes, Ms. Maxwell!”

  When I reached field level, I looked back up into the stands. Max was running up the steps again. She was going pretty fast, too, for a girl. She might’ve even given Gardo a run for his money.

  I turned back toward the field as two runners sprinted by. Fudge Ripple and Butter Pecan. They waved.

  “Hey, Thuff Enuff. All right!”

  “Atta boy, Thuff!”

  Swell. Between them and Max, there was no going back now. I was committed to lapping this crowded field. There was no way I was going to walk it, though. I wasn’t a girl.

  I hung my backpack on the wire fence, took a sip from the fountain at the bottom of the stairs—shut up, Gardo, it was just a sip!—turned to the track, and started jogging. I’d stiffened up again since lunch, so it wasn’t a pretty beginning. The hunchback was back. Not as awful as before, but still. Have fun, my rear. Nothing about this training is turning out to be fun. After a few steps, my calf started to tighten, reminding me that I’d forgotten to stretch. I stopped and moved over to the grass.

  As I was leaning left with my hand over my head, Fudge Ripple came racing at me. All alone this time, he slowed, then stopped in front of me, bending forward with his hands on his knees and panting like a racehorse.

  “Hey, Thuff,” he said. Sweat splashed in the dust at his feet.

  “Hey.” I pushed my hood off for one last bit of breeze. “Where’s your partner?”

  He wagged his thumb over his shoulder. “Josh didn’t want to sprint the last lap.”

  “You weren’t sprinting when I saw you before?”

  That made him laugh. “Funny one.”

  What? I was serious.

  He stood up straight and then leaned sideways in a stretch that was just like my own. See, Max, I know what I’m doing. Then he switched hands and leaned to the other side.

  That was what I was just about to do. So I did.

  After a moment, he rolled his head forward, back, forward, back, very intense about it. It looked like it felt good, so I gave it a try. Yeah, it felt good. Next he hula-hooped his hips clockwise, then counterclockwise. I can hula-hoop. So I did. It kind of felt like we were doing a disco dance on the football field or something. As we hula-hooped our knees, Butter Pecan jogged slowly up to us.

  “Hey, Thuff Enuff.” He was winded but not the panting dog that Fudge Ripple had been after sprinting.

  I smiled at him but didn’t answer because I was being intense about my stretching, too. Fudge Ripple and I stopped hula-hooping, straightened our knees, and then bent forward to touch our toes. Or in my case, to touch the tops of my shins. It felt really good on my hamstrings. My calf, though, was ominously tight. I rubbed it.

  Butter Pecan stretched his hand over his head and leaned to his side. “Bad calf?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Rubbing is good. Maybe you shouldn’t jog on it, though.”

  “Really?” Keep talking, buddy.

  “He’s right,” Fudge Ripple said. “I strained my calf over the summer, so I walked for a few weeks instead of running. You gotta go easy on a bum calf, otherwise it never heals up. You need to be patient, don’t push it.”

  Butter Pecan nodded, then hula-hooped his waist. “Walking’s as good for you as running, so it’s okay.”

  “Then why are you guys running?”

  They looked at each other and shrugged. “We like running,” Butter Pecan said.

  Now I know you’re crazy. We worked our legs into wide straddles and reached toward the ground. “Well…” I tried to sound thoughtful with my head hanging upside down between my legs, “walking would make me late for Scoops. But if it’s best…”

  “It is,” Fudge said with finality. “Hey, will you be working on your ice cream training tonight? That was the coolest. I’d like to try it.”

  I stood up straight, then nearly keeled over from the head rush. “I…uh…no. No, I’m not doing ice cream anymore, just hot dogs.” The throbbing relaxed and I could see straight again. “Brain freeze sucks.”

  “You can avoid that, you know,” Butter Pecan said.

  “You can?”

  “Yeah. When you eat the ice cream, spoon it into your mouth upside down. That way, the cold ice cream doesn’t touch the roof of your mouth, just the spoon does. No more brain freeze.”

  I doubt that. “I work in an ice cream parlor, so I know everything about ice cream, and I never heard that before.”

  “Apparently you don’t know everything about ice cream.”

  “Whoa! Them’s fighting words, buddy!” I put up my dukes. Ow. That maneuver was too quick for my head, and for my sore arms, too.

  Butter Pecan threw his hands up to shield himself and backed away in mock fear. “Hey, now, go easy on me, Thuff Enuff. I heard what you did to Shane today.”

  I dropped my dukes. “Huh?”

  “Oh, yeah, everyone’s talking about it. You didn’t know?”

  “No.”

  “You’re kidding? I think the scrubs are about ready to elect you class president. Anyone who can punch out Shane and a Finn is freakin’ royalty.”

  Punch out Shane and a Finn? I just snapped at them. How did that turn into a punch-out? The Del Heiny Junior 13 rumor mill sucked.

  “Look, Thuff Enuff, we gotta take off. My dad is probably already waiting in the parking lot. We’ll catch you later tonight at Scoops.”

  They jogged to the stairs and started climbing. I couldn’t think of any more stretches to do, so I stepped onto the dirt track and began walking my three laps. Right away I noticed that the stretching helped. I didn’t feel so tight everywhere. And walking was definitely easier on the stiffness th
an those few steps of jogging had been.

  Every once in a while, I stopped and rubbed my calf so that people would know I was walking because I was injured. The rest of the time, I just put one foot in front of the other and envisioned myself drinking a huge glass of water, eating Meat Lover’s Supreme Deep Dish from Slimmy Jim’s, putting ice on my head to quell the pounding headache, and then taking a long, deep nap. And while I was at it, I composed a pretty cool eighth-grade class president acceptance speech.

  Hey, crazier things have happened.

  * * *

  Friends, Classmates, Countrymen, lend me your ears….

  It is with great honor that I stand before you today, your humble servant and newest eighth grade class president.

  When I first came to Del Heiny Junior High #13, I was much like you—a kid without a dream, without a goal, without hope…a Plum without a future. Then I discovered my calling, my talent, the reason I was put on this earth, and I realized that the key to my destiny had been within me the whole time. It just needed a little nudge, a little training. I did have a future, and that future was hot dogs. With that realization things tumbled my way—fame, riches, reputation, and, now, the presidency.

  I am but a humble representative. My success is your success, and in voting for me, you have voted for yourselves. You have put your trust in me, and I am thankful. Rest assured that I feel my responsibility to my fans and fellow eighth graders. To you all, I pledge to be a president of action and change. My eyes are open to the things that need changing, and I am committed to making those changes. To that end, I, Sherman “Thuff Enuff” Thuff, eighth grade class president, hereby make three essential presidential promises:

  Henceforth, all vending machines will dispense soda.

  Thuff! Thuff! Thuff!

  Henceforth, the cafeteria will stock mustard packets. And relish. Everyone’s always forgetting relish. Go, Green!

  Thuff! Thuff! Thuff!

  Henceforth, the school colors will be changed back to orange and blue, and the mascot will be the Galactic Warrior Royal Ranger!

  Thuff! Thuff! Thuff!

  And, most importantly, henceforth, all those caught dunking scrub doughnuts will be sentenced to wear embarrassing wrestling singletons at school—ALL day, EVERY day!!