Big Mouth Page 28

  “It is, too. I’m being set up, can’t you see that? That’s my captain sweatshirt, I admit that, but that’s not me wearing it. Are you blind? Look!”

  “Hold your tongue, boy! I know red when I see it, and that hair was not red.” He shoved the paper into Shane’s face again. “And your face is crystal clear in that one. That is clearly you throwing your wheelchair in the gym.”

  “Well, yeah, but I—”

  “Aha! A confession!”

  “No! It’s not a confession. I’m not confessing to anything. I don’t have anything to confess to.” Shane turned on his Finns. “You two. You set me up, didn’t you?”

  “Who, us?” they asked in unison.

  Culwicki seemed to notice the Finns for the first time. He gestured their way. “Take them, too.”

  “What? No, wait….” The Finns looked like they wanted to bolt as the Olive Shirts pounced on them.

  Culwicki held the tipster’s note in front of their noses now. “And who’s that squirting mustard on our poor janitors? Huh? Huh?” They didn’t answer. “That’s what I thought. How dare you revolt in my school? What are you, a bunch of Big Burpees? This is unacceptable. My office. Now. Let’s go.”

  Without further word, Culwicki spun and marched back through the hallway he’d entered, with the Olive Shirts poking and prodding their prisoners behind him with brooms.

  The cafeteria they left behind was quiet enough to hear a French fry drop. No one had their arms linked anymore, but still we stood there, watching the empty doorway.

  “Dang,” Roshon said quietly. “It was Shane. I can’t believe it.”

  “Neither can I,” Gardo said with far less awe. He turned and eyed Tater, who was already sitting at the table slathering his hamburger with mustard. “Tater…”

  “Yes?” My bald lab partner looked up and batted his eyes innocently.

  “What did you do?”

  “What did I do? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Gardo kept eyeing him. Slowly, a smile crept across Tater’s face. Reaching under the table, he picked up his backpack, stuck his hand in, and pulled out a book. Introductory Forgery: How to Write Like Anyone But Yourself…And Not Get Caught. Looking right at us, he dropped the book into the trash can next to him. Then he took his green marker out of his back pocket and tossed that in, too.

  He lowered his backpack to the ground, then dusted off his hands.

  “Oh, fellas,” he sang out. “I hate to trouble you, but has anyone seen my lucky pen? I think someone stole it.” Tsktsking, he picked up his hamburger and licked a drip of mustard. “People are so dishonest around here. It’s a crying shame.” He chomped into the burger, then smiled as he chewed. Mustard oozed down his chin like vampire blood.

  Wow. Tater did it—he vented the volcano. No more Plum pressure cooker. Culwicki would be off our backs now, and the Olive Shirts would have to go back to using their brooms on dirt. I had a new hero.

  Gardo sat down and gave my hero a napkin. He tapped his chin, then pointed to Tater’s. “You know what, Tater? I’m starting to think you’re not as dumb as you look.”

  “Why, thank you, Gardo.” He gently dabbed the corners of his mouth, missing the chin mess completely. “How kind of you to notice.”

  I joined them on the bench as the other Plums sat down, too. The place was still eerily quiet. It was almost as if they expected Culwicki to come stamping back in.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “I don’t get something. What happens when the Mustard Taggers strike again? Culwicki will know he’s got the wrong guy.”

  “Who says he’s got the wrong guy?” Gardo said, reaching into his backpack and pulling out a plastic container.

  “What do you mean? Of course he’s got the wrong guy.”

  “How do you know? Maybe Shane is the Mustard Tagger. We don’t know that he’s not.” He looked at me long and hard. “Do we?”

  Tater stopped chewing and waited for my response.

  I considered Gardo’s point. Everyone knew that Shane had ordered the mustard-filled Super Soaker attack, and everyone knew he’d ordered my dunking and Jasper’s dunking and all the other cafeteria terrorizations. So even if the big jerk hadn’t committed the Mustard Strikes, he could’ve ordered them. We had no way of knowing.

  So Gardo was right. We didn’t know that Shane wasn’t the Mustard Tagger. “No, I guess we don’t.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Tater started chewing again.

  The drone of low voices was kicking back in. Around the room, yellow hats were disappearing, and jackets and sweatshirts were pulled on over yellow shirts. It was like city lights going out at night, one by one.

  Boy, was I glad I never went yellow.

  Roshon and his cousin didn’t have sweatshirts, so they were sitting shirtless.

  The sound of squeaky wheels reached my ears. Max’s cart rolled up, the big crate on top blocking my view of the person pushing it. It stopped next to me, and Lucy stepped around it. Her eyebrows arched when she saw Runji and Roshon.

  “Nice farmer tans,” she said. “When did Del Heiny approve stripping as an extracurricular activity?”

  Roshon slouched and crossed his arms over his pale chest.

  Runji wasn’t fazed. “No more yellow. Didn’t you see? Shane is the Mustard Tagger. And Thuff Enuff showed him who’s boss.”

  “I saw,” she replied, looking my way. “You unleash a Leo, you better be ready for anything. They rarely do what you expect. People should remember that.”

  My face got hot. Was she talking about me and Shane…or me and her?

  She turned to the crate and lifted off the top. “Looks like my timing is good. Me and Max just made these. I thought I’d have to do some convincing to get people to ditch their yellow.” She pulled out some Max RED shirts and handed them to Runji and Roshon. “Here. Unless you’re planning to stick with the naked mouse look.”

  After they pulled on their REDs, she made them hand out shirts to other Plums, too. Former Yellows started crowding around the crate.

  Tater scowled when Lucy handed him a RED. “I hate blending with the walls.”

  “And you like being a Shane disciple?” she asked.

  “No.” He pouted but took the shirt and went RED, too.

  She held one out to Gardo. He waved it off. “Red is nothing but trouble.”

  “Trouble in the eyes of The Man is power in the hands of the People.”

  “Yeah, well, when power comes in another color, we’ll talk. Right now I’m in mourning.” He pretended to brush some lint off his black shirt.

  Lucy pushed her way back to the crate. With the crowd growing next to us, Gardo and I sat side by side. He hadn’t opened his container of lettuce yet.

  “In mourning, huh?” I asked guardedly. “No more wrestling?”

  “I dunno.” He shrugged and sighed heavily. “It’s more running than wrestling. Maybe I’ll join the marching band. I hear they need tuba players.”

  I cringed. “Max talked to you, didn’t she?”

  “Of course she did. What’d you think would happen? She’d invite me to a buffet?” He lifted the lid and stared at his container of lettuce and lemon wedges. Suddenly he reached across the table and grabbed a handful of Leonard’s Tots.

  “Hey!” Leonard protested.

  “Hey yourself. Share with the conquering hero.” He shoved them all into his mouth at once and chewed like a starving cow. He caught me watching and swallowed. “Jeez, Shermie, the woman made me look at pictures of a guy wearing a tuba. I almost let Shane kill you.”

  I’d almost wanted him to.

  “You could’ve warned me,” he said.

  “I tried to.”

  “Tried to? You gave me a cookie!” He stabbed his Tot in ketchup.

  Okay, so that was a retarded thing to do. “What do you want me to say?” I watched him jam his Tot into a mushy red mess. “Fine. I’m a rat. You never have to speak to me again. Is that what you want?�
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  He took Leonard’s napkin and covered the red and brown carnage in front of him. “Would you do it again?”

  There it is, the million-dollar question. I nodded.

  “Then you’re not sorry.” The napkin soaked up the water from the ketchup beneath. He poked at it a couple of times. “But you’re not a rat, either. You opened your big mouth for the same reason you stood up for Leonard. You’d take a punch in the teeth for Ruffers Thuff if you had to.”

  I didn’t say anything. He was right, and we both knew it.

  “Not that it matters, anyway.” He scooped up the napkin and the mess and tossed it past Tater into the trash. “I just pledged my loyalty to you in public, so I can’t very well kill you now. I’m committed.” His smile seemed forced, but at least it was there. He took another Tot from Leonard and offered it to me.

  I stared at it.

  “Oh, for crying out loud, Shermie, take it. We’ll be fine. Jeez.”

  There was a reason we’d been friends forever. I took the Tot and bit into it. And, man, was it good. I gotta figure out what to eat already.

  A RED shirt dangled in front of my face.

  “What do you say, Shermie?” Lucy was behind me. “Time to retire the Scoops white?”

  I looked at the shirt. If I said no, would she wrap it around my neck? “I don’t know…. I’ve been loyal to Grampy this long.”

  “Loyalty isn’t your problem.” She tossed the shirt on the table in front of me. “But you could dial down your Leo once in a while. It’s a bitch sometimes.”

  I swiveled to face her and she leaned against the crate, which was being pillaged by half-dressed Plums. She looked good in RED. Better than yellow or brown. Her cheeks seemed rosier or something.

  “Hard to believe Shane was behind the Mustard Movement,” she said. “He’s an idiot.”

  Next to me, Gardo snorted. “We thought Tater was an idiot, too, till we got to know him.” He batted away a Tot that Tater’d aimed at his head. “No offense, buddy, but you do stick food up your nose.”

  “No offense taken,” Tater replied. “I’ve been thinking about ditching the Snot Tot trick anyway. It might be time for a new image, you think?”

  Gardo perked up. “Really? If you’re serious, I can make you a legend.”

  I groaned. Careful what you wish for, Tater.

  “And that’s my signal to run.” Lucy stood tall again. “I gotta go, anyway. Ms. Maxwell’s waiting for me. We have to finish setting up that lab. It’s taking forever.” She pointed to her Band-Aid. “And it hurts.” But instead of leaving, she watched the Plums who were bringing in more red shirts from Culwicki’s booth and passing them out. Black markers were uncapping left and right. “It’s kind of sad, isn’t it?”

  “What?” I said. “That Plums are back to wearing red?”

  “No. Not that, really. More like sad that we’re done being yellow, you know? It was kind of fun—in the beginning, I mean. I liked not being a tomato, at least for a few minutes each day.”

  “We’ll find something else stupid to get crazy over.” I picked up the T-shirt she’d dropped in front of me and held it against my chest. It was too small even if I had wanted to wear it. I balled it up like a ripe, round Plum and threw it at her. “This is Del Heiny Junior thirteen. Stupid is a way of life.”

  CHAPTER 25

  “Says here Libras are ruled by Venus, the planet of luuuv. We’re a delight to be around. No wonder I’m so irresistible.” Gardo glanced at me over the small booklet in his hands. “Hey, what are you doing, picking corn? You gotta bend all the way down for cherry pickers.”

  I shot him an upside-down shut-up look, then stood and leaned to my left in a long, satisfying side stretch. I didn’t care how much luuuv Mr. Delightful had going, he was in no position to criticize my stretching techniques. The only leaning he was doing was against the cement step behind him.

  Gardo was lounging like a lump on the bottom row of the stadium bleachers. His legs were stretched out in front of him, and he was reading me random facts from a ten-cent astrology booklet as he waited for me to finish my post-walk stretch. The lazy bum hadn’t walked the track with me in three weeks, not since he quit the wrestling team. He said he was saving himself for badminton next year. Jeez, I can’t believe we talk about badminton. Life sure got boring when they kicked out Shane and the Finns. Being a Plum all day every day was as dull as it was pathetic. Something had to happen around here already or we’d all whither way.

  “Oh, I like this one: ‘Libras appreciate the finer things in life.’ I thrive in aesthetically pleasing surroundings.” Scowling, he shifted and sat up straighter. “There ain’t nothin’ pleasing about this bench.”

  I made a few “isn’t that tragic” noises. A good friend would’ve probably finished stretching so Gardo’s delightful tushy didn’t go numb, but the suffering boy was stuck with me. Leaning right, I stretched long and slow. “Where’d you get that thing, anyway?”

  “7-Eleven. They sell them next to the register. Hey, did you know John Lennon was a Libra? Bruce Springsteen, too.” He turned the page. “Maybe I should start a band.”

  “Please, Ruffers Thuff sings better than you.”

  “That didn’t stop Springsteen. The guy’s throat is a gravel pit, but he’s still filthy rich.”

  “I’m sure they call him the Boss for a reason.” I straddled my legs wide, then bent down for another set of cherry pickers—all the way down.

  I did need to finish up. We were meeting Lucy in the parking lot for an early movie. She’d be finished helping break down the month-long pig carcass lab by now. Building that fake crime scene and double-wire cage had taken her and Max a lot of lunch and after-school time, but the breakdown was supposed to go really fast. All their sneaking around and trying not to be noisy or attract attention while they waited for approval really slowed the setup. Frankly, I was more than happy to see that nasty hog go. I usually liked Max’s labs, but a rotting pig smelled a million times worse than any butyric acid lab. And I’d seen enough maggots and ham flies to last me a lifetime.

  Max’s new unit was on nutrition, which was way easier to stomach. She was giving extra credit to anyone who did a report on the documentary Supersize Me, so we were headed to the Kensington Art Cinema, where it was replaying back in the theater. We’d write our reports over winter break, which was just a day away. Plus, Max said people should try to do social things that didn’t revolve around food. Going to the movies would cover that—once we passed the refreshment counter without caving, we’d be home free.

  I finished my stretch and stood up. Gardo was digging through his plastic grocery bag. When he pulled out a snack bag of Lays potato chips, I saw a takeout box of China Town Express still in the Seven-Eleven bag.

  “Ew. What are you thinking, buying Chinese food from 7-Eleven?” I didn’t know China Town had express stations in convenience stores.

  “Shut up. It’s good.”

  “It’s disgusting. Seven-Elevens are for packaged snacks, not meals. It’ll probably give you scabies or something.”

  “You don’t even know what scabies are.”

  “I know I don’t want them. It doesn’t matter anyway, because they won’t let you take that into the movies. No one’s dumb enough to believe a metal-handled paper box with teriyaki dripping from the bottom is your purse.”

  “No one will even see it; I’ll tuck it down my pants. What are they going to say, ‘Hold it there, young man, I believe that bulge in your pants is kung pao chicken’?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re an idiot.”

  “It’s a gift.”

  I reached into my backpack for my water bottle and the graham crackers I’d packed that morning. “You still can’t take it. Today isn’t about eating. Max said we should do nonfood things. Lucy made a graph about it. If she sees those chips, you’re dead meat.”

  “It’ll be dark. She won’t even know.”

  “Not that dark. Hurry up, we gotta go.”<
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  He sighed, then suddenly ripped open the Lay’s bag and started jamming chips into his mouth. “I’m eating my chips, at least,” he declared, spraying bits of potato. He held the bag out to me. “Wah suh?”

  I waved it off. “It’s not Saturday.” I was fine with my graham crackers. They’d been in the Sherman T. Thuff Book of Good and Tasty Things forever, so it was no sacrifice. I could wait until Saturday for chips. On second thought, I’d have a scoop of Spazzy Monkey on Saturday instead. Now that was worth waiting three more days for.

  I had to admit that I was kind of liking man-hater magazine’s Whatever-On-Saturday rule. Max said it was smart, even. That was how she ate, so it couldn’t be stupid. And it is true that knowing I’d get a treat on the weekend did make it easier to pass up chips and stuff during the week. I just couldn’t eat a lot of my weekend treat. But hey, some was better than none. All I had to do was make sure that during the week I stuck to the foods in the book Max gave me. I didn’t have to starve or gag myself on coconut.

  When Max first handed me a book about “healthy foods,” I considered lighting it up with a Bunsen burner. But then I discovered that the foods in it weren’t all raw carrots and cauliflower stalks and grass seed from the front lawn. Besides graham crackers, it said I could have baked chips, and apples with peanut butter, and cherries, and even this really good stuff called Uncle Pete’s Spiced Pork with Ten-Alarm Salsa. Lucy helped me cook it, and ten-alarm was no exaggeration. Best of all, the book didn’t have the word coconut in it anywhere.

  It also said I was supposed to drink lots of water. Heaven!

  I alternated chomping grahams and chugging water.

  “Oh, hey, I got your map.” Gardo pulled a shiny black poster folded like a square napkin out of his bag. White lines and colored dots covered the black background.

  “She remembered!” I snatched the square from his hands.

  It was a star map. Gardo’s sister was taking astronomy at the community college and agreed to pick up a star map at the campus bookstore in exchange for one car washing. Gardo said I had to do the washing, but I argued that she meant for him to do it. Either way, I got my map. Only, when I unfolded it to full size, I discovered several smeared fingerprints floating in space around Orion’s Belt.