I'm Going to Be Famous (9 page)

“Poor Ben,” I say, more to myself than to Mrs. Caldwell.

“Yes, poor Ben,” she agrees. “Also, there is a problem in that Mike Snead is absent from school today.”

“Mike, too?” I ask.

“Yes, Mike has a headache. It seems he tried to eat a quart of ice cream in the bathroom this morning before breakfast. His mother reports that he ate so fast that he fainted from lack of oxygen and the cold ice cream. He hit his head on the bathtub and had to have three stitches in his forehead.”

“Poor Mike,” I mumble.

“Yes, poor Mike,” Mrs. Caldwell agrees again. “This, too, I believe, is a result of an attempt to break a world record.”

I can feel the winds of doom blowing my way. I'd better try to talk my way out of this. “Mrs. Caldwell, I think—”

“Also,”
she interrupts like a cannon, “there is a problem in that there is gambling in Lincoln Elementary School.”

“Gambling?” I ask. What is she talking about?

“Yes, gambling,” she answers. “I have information that there are bets on whether or not you, or Ben, or Mike, or even your sister, Kerry, can succeed at breaking these records.”

I look directly at her for the first time. “Really? People are betting on us?”

“
And
I have information that the betting is spreading.”

“Spreading?” I ask with a shiver. Where is she getting her information?

“Yes, spreading! Over thirty students at Lincoln Elementary are betting on the world-record attempts.”

“Mrs. Caldwell, I didn't know—”

“Well, now you know, Arlo,” she says. I hear anger in her voice. “Now you know that we are not just talking about a world-record attempt. We are talking about students getting sick and hurt. We are talking about gambling at Lincoln Elementary.
And
we are talking about an activity that is interfering with the main reason you are here—to study and learn. Therefore …”

Here it comes. I can feel it.

Mrs. Caldwell leans forward in her chair. Her nose is about eight inches from my nose. I can smell her perfume. “There will be no more betting on attempts at a world record.”

“But—” I almost whisper.

“
And
there will be no more practicing for an attempt at a world record.”

“But, Mrs. Caldwell—”

“
And
there will be no eating food in an attempt to break a world record at Lincoln Elementary School. Not in the cafeteria, or the classroom, or in the boys' bathroom.” She leans even farther forward in her chair. “Is that clear, Arlo?” she asks.

I'm afraid it is. I'd better agree with her—or die at an early age. But
where
is she getting her information?

“Yes, ma'am,” I manage to squeak.

“Good,” she says, leaning back in her chair and smiling. “I admire your courage at setting a high goal for yourself, Arlo. But it's just as well that this stops now. It is obviously not healthy for young children to eat so much, so fast. And besides, I don't think you could do it anyway. You simply can't.”

Can't? Did she say
can't?

“It's just too much to ask of yourself.”

Can't?

“I'm sure we won't have to talk about this again,” she continues.

Wrong,
Mrs. Caldwell. I
can
break the world record.

“And that there will be no further problems,” she says.

I'm going to be in the
Guinness Book of World Records
… you can bet on
that
.

CHAPTER 20

“A bet is a bet.”

—
M
URRAY
W
ALLACE

Mom packed a tuna sandwich for my lunch again today. I usually like tuna. But now, sitting in the cafeteria, I'm not hungry. I'm churning inside. I've got a big problem to solve: do I let Mrs. Caldwell tell me what I can't do, or do I do what I believe I can?

My PBA says that I can do it. I can, I can, I can, I can. And I
believe
that.

Mrs. Caldwell tells me I can't. She's the principal. She's in charge. She could get me in big trouble.

But who's supposed to run my life? Me or somebody else? That's the big problem.

“Hi, Arlo. Did you have a good visit with Mrs. Caldwell?”

It's Murray. Murray Wallace, sitting in the cafeteria eating lunch. I didn't even notice him—Murray Wallace who has a smile on his face. Murray Wallace who I'll bet gave Mrs. Caldwell her “information.” Murray Wallace the
informer.

“Thanks a
lot,
Murray,” I say, almost spitting the words at him.

“What are you talking about, Arlo?” he asks, acting innocent.

“You know what I'm talking about,” I say. “Mrs. Caldwell and her
information.”

Murray smiles at me like a cat smiles at a mouse. “Oh, it was nothing. I'd do it anytime for a good friend.”

Friend?
Blaggh!

“Yeah, well, our bet is off,” I say and finally bite into my tuna sandwich.

“Off? What do you mean?” Murray asks.

“It's off,” I repeat. “Mrs. Caldwell put the stops on everything—no bets, no world-record attempts.”

“A bet is a bet, Arlo, no matter what Mrs. Caldwell says.”

“Pig feathers, Murray! It'd be me getting into trouble, not you.”

“Oh, I get it,” he says, “you're
afraid
of Mrs. Caldwell. This is your excuse to get out of a bet you can't win. I should have known you'd back out in the end, Arlo. Laura knows the truth—I'm more of a man than you are. It's a plain and simple fact—you
can't
do it.”

That does it. It's time for action.

“Can you, Arlo?”

I'm
in charge here, Mrs. Caldwell or no Mrs. Caldwell. Rules or no rules. I'm sick of Murray and his mouth. I'll show him once and for all that I
can
do it. Commando Mucho and Xexus of Zoidtron to battle. Five … four … three … two … one … blast off!

“Attention! Attention, everybody!” I yell at the 180 students in the Lincoln Elementary cafeteria. I've climbed up onto a table so I can be seen and heard. The crowd turns.

“You are now about to witness one of the most wondrous events of our time …”

Ooohs and aaahs fill the room.

“I, Arlo Banana Moore, will now give you a show of my world-record-breaking banana-eating skill.”

All eyes are riveted on me. This is my finest hour.

“As I eat, not
one,
not
two,
but
three
bananas in less than twenty-one seconds,” I say, pulling the bananas from my lunchbox. “Ready!”

The tension mounts.

“Set!”

The crowd is at the edge of their seats. I'm to be a hero. I can feel it.

“And …”

“Stop right where you are, Arlo Moore!”

Oh, no.

“Get down off that table this instant!”

It's Mrs. Caldwell.

“I'll see
you
in my office,
now!
”

I think I've made a mistake.

“We'll see what your parents have to say about your lack of respect for authority!”

Yes, I've definitely made a big mistake.

CHAPTER 21

“I'll die a true hero.”

—
A
RLO
M
OORE

During dinner, Mom told Dad about her telephone conversation with Mrs. Caldwell. I sat and stared at my macaroni and cheese. I watched it go from steaming hot to gooey and cold.

Dad didn't say a thing. He just looked at me and then finished eating. Mom “suggested” that I clean up the kitchen while she and Dad talked in the living room.

I've finished cleaning off the table. I've also finished scraping the little bits of macaroni and cheese goo off the plates. I've wiped the orange plastic tablecloth with a wet rag and swept the kitchen floor. And now I'm elbow-deep in suds. I've saved the worst till last. I'm washing the dishes.

I wonder what it would be like to live inside a bubble. This sink is full of suds—thousands, maybe even millions of bubbles. It's like a huge mound of bubble houses.

But who wants to live in a house you can see through? Everyone would know how messy my room is.

Besides, this stuff blows around too easily. I can destroy this bubble mound in one breath.
Whoosh.
The bubble houses go scattering with the force of Hurricane Arlo.
Whoosh.
Thousands of homes are blown over with the force of my hurricane breath. Blasted into the outer reaches of the atmosphere, they fly. Hurricane Arlo keeps them from falling to the kitchen floor.
Whoosh.

“Arlo.”

“Huh? Oh, hi, Dad.”

“Quit playing and finish the dishes. Your mother and I want to have a talk with you.”

Uh-oh, that sounds serious. I think I'm going to get lecture number thirty-four. That's the one on being honest. Or I might get lecture number twenty-seven. That one covers behaving at school. I'll probably end up getting lectures number thirty-four, number twenty-seven,
and
number forty-three on respecting authority. All this labor in the kitchen, plus three lectures? That seems like too much to me. Mom and Dad have always told us to stand up for what we believe in. That's what I was doing: running my own life, following my own destiny. Is that such a crime?

I'm probably going to have to clean up the kitchen until I'm eighteen years old. All of that dish-washing will give me prune fingers. I won't be able to play soccer or baseball, or peel bananas.

Maybe I could buy an automatic dishwasher.
Yeah.
I'll empty my piggy bank and get one tomorrow. I'll give them eight dollars as a down payment. Then I can use my allowance money to pay on it every week. Mom and Dad will like it so much they'll feel sorry for me.

But it'll be too late. I'll have already been worked to the bone. I, Commando Mucho, prisoner of war, will lie dying in my cell bunk. Doctors will be rushed to my aid. Banana medicine will be flown in from Brazil. My fans will mourn me, but it'll be too late. I'll die a true hero, giving my life for the good of my kitchen. I'll be famous.

And Mom and Dad will feel guilty. They'll be sorry they treated poor Arlo so meanly. They'll come to the funeral and sit in the front row and cry. “Oh, poor Arlo! Why did we treat him so cruelly? We made him wash the dishes, and scrub and clean. We lectured him. And he was just following his destiny. Oh, poor Arlo!”

“Arlo, are you almost done?” Dad asks from the living room.

Woops, better finish in a hurry.

“Be right there, Dad.”

Commando Mucho, prisoner of war, reports as ordered to the firing squad.

CHAPTER 22

“Like a worm on the sidewalk.”

—
A
RLO
M
OORE

Sometimes I feel like a worm on the sidewalk —confused about how I got there and wondering where I should go.

Here it is, Friday, September 23. I'm sitting alone in my room. Tomorrow is the big day. Tomorrow I go for the official
Guinness Book of World Records
banana-eating challenge—seventeen bananas in less than two minutes. I should be excited. I should be nervous. I should feel confident, or scared, or
something.
But right now I feel like a worm on the sidewalk.

This has been a rough week. Mom and Dad gave me lectures number thirty-four, twenty-seven, and little bits of lecture number forty-three. Dad was very stern. So was Mom. It was serious business. Then they told me that as punishment for my banana-eating and cafeteria crimes, I had to be on kitchen duty for two weeks, plus I had to apologize to Mrs. Caldwell.

I don't mind the kitchen duty so much. I just play with soap bubbles in the sink, chant my PBA, and slowly get the job done.

Apologizing to Mrs. Caldwell was tough, though. I hate to apologize to people, even if they deserve it (which I guess she did).

But it's part three of my punishment that really gets me. It's part three that tastes like sour milk. It's part three that I just can't swallow. They told me I couldn't try to break the banana-eating world record. Dad said I
can't.
Period.

So every day this week, I've become Commando Mucho, top-secret banana-eater and world-record trainee. Mike Snead, Kerry, and I have sworn secret allegiance to our mission. We meet in Ben's garage after school and practice. We
will
attempt our goal. Despite injury, illness, pain, and parents, we will endure.

Mike's stitches came out yesterday. He has a little pink line on his forehead. You can even see the thread holes if you look really closely. He laughs and calls it his “battle scar.” But he also told me it aches a little worse than the rest of his head when he eats ice cream really fast.

He can eat a quart of vanilla in less than thirty seconds now. That's good. He's improved. But it's not nearly good enough. He's not going to make it. But he keeps on trying and practicing. I like that about Mike; he's got guts.

Kerry has guts, too. Not only is she still trying hard to spit those melon seeds sixty-five feet, four inches, but she even went out and got a pair of Dad's old boots from the garage. They're huge. She measured exactly twelve inches from the heel of each boot. Then she cut the extra part clean off with Dad's saw. Now, when she spits, she can measure how far the seed went by walking a straight line and putting the heel of the front boot and the toe of the back boot right up against each other. Each step is one foot. She says that's the way
serious
seed-spitters do it.

But Ben is another story altogether, and that's what's got me confused and wondering. Ben quit. He says he can't do it anymore. His stomach just can't take it. He still wants to be my trainer. He still reminds me to do my daily PBA. And he still lets us use his garage after school. But he quit. They told him he can't, and he believed them. I don't understand. Like a worm on the sidewalk, I'm confused.