I'm Going to Be Famous (3 page)

Six.
I can taste them now. Rich, smooth ice cream, luscious syrup, whipped cream, nuts, mint sprinkles, and a cherry all piled on top of a wonderful ripe banana.
Wow.

“Is it a bet, Arlo?” she asks, still talking through the door.

How can I resist?

“It's a bet, Kerry,” I answer.

I might even eat them all at once. I might even …

“Arlo!” Kerry shouts.

“What?”

“Aren't you going to open the door so we can shake on it?”

I look at John and shrug. “OK, come on in. You can get some water for Louise and Lionel and watch John get ready for his date, too.”

John has finished shaving and is now applying large amounts of Acnehide to his face. I call it “pimple goop.” He fights a never-ending battle with the evil pimple forces of the deep. I think they live in his closet and sneak out and attack when he's asleep.

Next he'll put on enough deodorant to make my dead tennis shoes smell like perfume. I've seen this performance before. I think this is Kerry's first time. She's watching intently.

After the deodorant comes the mouthwash. John gargles so hard that little droplets come spraying out of his mouth and splatter on the mirror. I'll have to brush my teeth while looking at myself through dried gargle spots.

And last, but not least, comes the men's cologne. John is sure that smelling like something other than himself is the secret to a successful date. He then carefully brushes his hair, trying to make sure every strand is in place, and—
presto
—John Moore, ace lady's man, is ready.

He turns and looks at Kerry and me. A big smile is on his face. “What do you think? Can Michelle resist this handsome guy?”

Answering that question truthfully could get a little brother or sister in trouble fast. I'm still not sure what someone as smart, friendly, and good-looking as Michelle sees in John.

I think I'll go watch Louise and Lionel swim around in Dad's coffee cup. I'll let Kerry get shaving cream in
her
ear this time.

CHAPTER 6

“We only have one bathroom.”

—
“M
OM
” M
OORE

Getting out of bed in the morning is never easy. But today being the first day of school at Lincoln Elementary makes it even harder.

Maybe I should stay in bed. I could cover my head with my pillow and lie here like a big rock. School would start without me. All the kids would sit at their desks. The teacher would say, “Where is Arlo Moore, the kid who loves bananas?” And some kid with thick glasses and purple lips would say, “Oh, Arlo—he turned himself into a rock.” And everyone would sigh, and the teacher would say, “Please get out a sharpened pencil and a clean piece of paper.”

“Arlo, get up, honey.”

It's Mom. She hasn't realized that I'm now nothing more than a rock.

“Come on, dear. Today is a big day, the first day of school.”

That's exactly why I am now a silent rock.

“Arlo, get up.”

I think she's figured out my plan. She's probably not interested in her son being a rock on the first day of fifth grade.

“Your breakfast is almost ready.”

And she probably has figured out how to deal with my plan.

“Or maybe you'd rather eat a blob of cold oatmeal and a piece of burned toast as you run after the school bus you're going to miss.”

Yep, I think I'll get up.

Nature calls. I must go to the bathroom. To do this I have to dodge through the dirty clothes, model cars, Monopoly game, and scattered banana peels left around from practicing for my world-record attempt. I do this dodging with the skill that comes from a lifetime of keeping a messy room. I clean it up every week, but it seems to get messy within ten minutes after I'm done. Mom and Dad think it's a problem. They don't realize that only messy-room-keepers can make the rapid turns, quick stops, and daring leaps that it takes to get from the bed to the bathroom before it's too late. I've had lots of practice. They should be glad I keep a messy room.

The bathroom door is shut. I've arrived here from my bedroom obstacle course with little time to spare. Nature is still calling to me—loudly. It's Tuesday morning and I'm on the wrong side of the bathroom door.

“Hey Kerry, you about done?” I ask politely and in a calm voice.

There's no answer. I can hear the water running in the sink. This lets me know that Kerry is brushing her hair. Her hair feels like steel wool. It looks like a porcupine with a permanent, and it makes lots of noise when she brushes it. She has worn out at least three brushes this summer trying to straighten that frizzy red stuff. She does it in the bathroom with the door shut and the water running so no one can hear the sound of a brush being murdered.

“Hey, Kerry, hurry up. I need to use the bathroom.”

“In a minute,” she says.

In a minute may be too late. I'm no longer feeling calm. What I'm feeling is pain. Maybe I should do a favor for all the brushes in the world. Maybe I should mail my sister to the moon.

“A minute is too long. I need in there
now
.”

“I'm brushing my hair, Arlo,” she says.

“I know you're brushing your hair. I can hear. Hey, listen. I
have
to get in the bathroom. Do you understand?”

“Say please.”

Yes. I'll do a favor for all the brushes of the world. I'll do a favor for me also—I'll stuff her into an envelope and send her air mail to the outer reaches of the galaxy.

“Kerry!” I hiss through clenched teeth.

“Say please and I'll let you in, Arlo.”

I've lost control. I'm beating on the bathroom door. I've become a wild man filled with the strength of a lion. I'm Bigfoot, about to rip the handle off the door. Then I'll change into
Tyrannosaurus rex,
tearing my sister Kerry into little shreds. I'll be the creature of the black lagoon.…

“Arlo, what's going on here?”

Help has arrived. Mom seems calm. I'm most definitely not. In pain I shout, “Kerry won't let me in the bathroom!”

“We all have to share, Arlo. We only have one bathroom,” Mom says. As always, calm.

My kingdom for a million bathrooms.
Bathrooms in the hall. Bathrooms in the garage, the attic, and the big pine. A million bathrooms everywhere. Nature calls to me.
Very loud
it calls.

“But Mom! I need to be in the bathroom
now
.”

She looks at me. I think she understands.

“Kerry, come on out. Arlo needs to use the bathroom. Hurry up.”

The sound of a brush being murdered stops. The water has quit running in the sink. I've been saved, rescued from pain on the wrong side of the bathroom door.

There she is, miserable creature. May the hairbrushes of the world get their revenge. May you go bald at age ten. May you always find the bathroom doors of the world locked. May you …

“Good morning, Arlo.”

Miserable creature.

“Good morning, Kerry.”

CHAPTER 7

“I'd swear to it on a stack of pancakes.”

—
B
EN
H
AMILTON

Riding in a school bus makes me feel a little sick to my stomach sometimes. It's not the motion. It's not that smell that all school buses seem to have. It's not even the fact that school buses take you to school every morning. I guess it's just that I've had some bad experiences on school buses. Or maybe
embarrassing
is a better word.

For example: that bus driver didn't really have to tell everybody just now about the first time I rode the bus, the first day of school, the first time, ever.

“Oh, I remember you,” she says. “You're little Arlo Moore. Remember the first time you rode on my bus?”

“Yes. Please don't remind me,” I say. She reminds me anyway.

“You were so cute,” she says. “On the way home from your first day of school as a first-grader, you sat in the very back seat. You were so small I couldn't even see you back there.”

I smile and try to get away down the aisle to a seat. Kids are in line behind me, standing on the bus steps and on the sidewalk outside.

“After I had dropped everybody off and driven the bus all the way to the garage,” she says, “I found you.”

Everyone is listening. I'm beginning to turn red with embarrassment.

“And there you were, little Arlo Moore, sitting in the back seat. I asked you where you were supposed to get off the bus and you said, ‘At the green house.' And I said, ‘Which green house?' And you said, ‘The big one with my other shoes in it!'”

Kids are giggling.

“And I looked down,” she says, “and there you were …”

Some kids are laughing out loud.

“… You had tied your left shoe to your right shoe with a big knot that you couldn't get undone. You couldn't stand up or walk. You were stuck back there like a hog-tied grasshopper.”

Howls of laughter fill the bus. Trying to smile, I quickly find a seat. Embarrassing. Very embarrassing. I should have stayed in bed and missed the bus. I should have stayed home and practiced eating bananas.

“Hi, Arlo.”

It's my best friend, Ben Hamilton. Mrs. Richardson, my next-door neighbor, thinks Ben and I look alike. “Why, you two could be brothers!” she always says. Ben has blond hair. I have dark brown hair. Ben has blue eyes. I have brown eyes. Ben is three inches shorter than me, is right-handed, and talks in a high, squeaky voice. But Mrs. Richardson still thinks we look alike.

“Howdy, Ben. How was summer camp?” I ask.

“Great!” he says, sitting down beside me. “I just got back last Saturday. We got to go canoeing every day. We had horses to ride, pillow fights at night, Cokes for lunch, and homemade ice cream every Sunday night.”

“Wow! Sounds nice.”

“Yeah, but the best part was that I didn't even have to see my little sister for four straight weeks. I felt like I was in heaven.”

Four straight weeks without having to see your sister. I've got to talk to Mom and Dad about summer camp.

“Hey, Arlo, what's this I hear about you trying to set a world record eating bananas?” Ben asks.

Motor-mouth Kerry, the bathroom hog, strikes again.

“Who told you that, Ben?” I ask, just to confirm what I already know.

“That's what Kerry is telling everybody. She says you're going to try to eat seventeen bananas in less than two minutes. Then she starts laughing.”

I feel embarrassed again. The whole school will know about it before morning recess. People will think I'm nuts, just like Kerry and John do. I'll be the laughing stock of the cafeteria. I'll probably be pelted with open-faced peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Hostess Twinkies.

“Yeah, well … I thought I might give it a try,” I say quietly.

“I think it's a
great
idea, Arlo,” Ben exclaims.

My ears must be full of orange juice.

“Say what, Ben?”

“I said, I think it's a
great
idea. You can do it. You're the best banana-eater I've ever known. You could eat five bananas in one sitting when you were in the first grade. You can break that record if you try.”

“You really think so, Ben?”

“Yep, I sure do,” he says with a grin.

He really does think I can do it. My friend Ben believes in me. I can be a hero, not a Hostess Twinkie target. I can be famous, not just another fifth-grade kid. I can be …

“But you know what you need, Arlo?”

There's always a catch.

“No, what do I need?” I ask.

“You need a trainer,” he informs me. “That's what you need. You know, like the pros have. Trainers help athletes get ready to break records.”

Ben is pointing to his brand-new three-ring notebook. It's got a clear plastic cover on it with a picture underneath. The picture is of a football player catching a touchdown pass.

“This guy,” Ben says, “had a trainer help him get ready to catch touchdown passes like that. That's what you need, Arlo, a trainer … and I have just the right person in mind.”

“Who?” I ask. Maybe he knows somebody I don't know.

“Me!” he says with a big grin on his face.

“You?”

“Yeah, me. I, Ben Hamilton, will train you, Arlo Moore, to break the world banana-eating record. We'll use the Positive Brain Approach.”

This sounds fishy to me. “The
what?
”

“The Positive Brain Approach. It's a way to get really good at something. I heard about it from Charlie Swink. He uses it to train for baseball season.”

Wow.
Charlie Swink is the best Little League baseball player in Seagrove. This Positive Brain Approach must be good.

“How does it work, Ben?”

“It's pretty simple … but it's kinda weird.”

Ben is looking at the ceiling of the bus. He always looks up when he's trying to think of the best way to explain something.

“How is it weird?” I ask.

“Well … you have to sorta talk to yourself to make it work.”

No problem. I do that all the time.

“What do you say to yourself?” I ask.

Ben is still looking at the ceiling. “Actually, you don't really talk to yourself … you … well, you chant to yourself,” he says.

I don't understand. “Chant?”

“Yeah, chant.”

“What's a chant?” I want to know. I'm looking at the ceiling, too. I start doing that when I sit next to Ben.

“Charlie Swink says it's something you say to yourself over and over and over again,” he answers.

“Are you sure Charlie does this, Ben?”

He answers quickly. “Yeah, I'd swear to it on a stack of pancakes. He told me about it last spring.”