The Big Blueberry Barf-Off! (5 page)

After dinner, I found my pals Feenman and Crench at the Student Center. They were sprawled on couches in the lounge. They were tossing pencils up to the ceiling, trying to make them stick.

This is a difficult sport. You have to get the pencil point to go deep into the ceiling tile. Feenman and Crench practiced pencil-tossing all the time. They had already stuck around twenty pencils up there. Not bad.

“Where's Sherman Oaks?” I asked. “Have you seen him?”

Crench pointed. “He's in the video room with a bunch of kids,” he said. “He's showing the new
Spider-Man
movie on his watch.”

“Hope he enjoys it,” I said. “Because in a few days, all the new movies will be on
my
wrist.”

A pencil dropped from the ceiling and stuck into the top of Feenman's head. He didn't even notice. “How, Bernie?” he asked. “How are you going to get the watch?”

“I'm going to challenge him to a pie-eating contest,” I said. “No way we can lose. Not with Beast on our side.”

Their eyes bulged. “Beast?” Crench said. “You're joking, right? He's an
animal
, Bernie. Know what he did? Beast chased a car
down the street this morning.”

“And he caught it,” Feenman said.

“Trust me,” I said. “Trust me.”

I ran to the video room. Sherman's movie had just ended. He was popping popcorn on the watch with a special popcorn attachment.

I pulled him aside. “Sherman, what's up, dude?”

“Can't talk now,” he said. “I have to make some important phone calls on my watch. Then I'm going to download some new music files.”

“I have an idea for a little fun,” I said. “A contest between our dorms?”

Sherman's pal from Nyce House, Wes Updood, stepped up to us.

“Whussup, Updood?” I said.

It hurts, but I have to admit it: Wes is definitely the coolest guy in the fourth grade.

He works out. And he knows all the new music. He plays saxophone and blues guitar. And he's the star of Mr. Farrhowt's rap class.

Wes is so cool, he even looks good in a vest!

That's bold.

“Whussup, dude?” Wes Updood said.

“Bernie wants to have a contest,” Sherman told him. “Between Nyce House and Rotten Stinking House.”

Wes laughed at Sherman's pitiful insult. “Yo, what's up with
that
? What kind of contest, dude?”

“Well…” I rubbed my chin. “How about a pie-eating contest? That would be fun for everyone, wouldn't it? We all like to watch guys stuffing their face with pies, don't we?”

They stared at me. “He's way crazy,” Wes told Sherman.

“No. Give it a chance,” I said. “We'll make it totally fair. Sherman, you pick a guy from
my
dorm to compete for Rotten House. And I'll pick a guy from Nyce House.”

I slapped Wes on the back. “How about Wes here? Wes is a definite winner. You like pie, don't you?”

“Yo, I like
winning
,” Wes said, flashing a double thumbs-up.

“Okay, so Wes will go for Nyce House. That means you'll probably win. I don't stand a big chance. But, okay. You pick a guy from my dorm,” I said. “Any guy at all. And we'll…uh…have prizes. You
know. Just for fun. A nice prize for the winner.”

“What kind of prize?” Sherman asked.

“Well…”

I tried to look as if I was thinking hard. “How about if my dorm wins…I get your watch?”

“I KNEW it!” Sherman screamed. “I knew it. It's a cheap trick to take away my watch. No way! No way, Bernie! No contest!”

“But, Sherman, old pal—” I started.

“I'm not falling for it,” Sherman cried. “No pie contest. Beat it, Bernie. Beat it!”

Wes stepped up to me and waved a fist in my face. “Dude, I think Sherman wants you to beat it.”

“Okay, okay.” I turned around and walked to the door.

April-May June stood in the doorway. “Hi,” I said. “Have you been thinking about those dance lessons Saturday night?”

“Sherman wants you to beat it,” she said.

“Is that a yes?” I asked.

She pointed to the door.

I stepped through the doorway and headed back to Rotten House.

You might think I was defeated. You might think I was a loser tonight. You might think I didn't have a plan to get that pie fight going.

If so, you don't know Bernie B.

At lunch the next day, I pulled Beast to the Dining Hall. We stopped at the dessert table. I glanced around the crowded room.

The table where the Nyce House kids always sit was empty. No sign of Sherman Oaks yet.

“Beast, are you ready?” I whispered. I grabbed him by his huge ears to get his attention. “Do you remember what you're supposed to say?”

Beast nodded. “No problem, Big B.”

“Okay, buddy. Remember, don't start till Sherman is listening. You sure you remember what to do?”

He grunted. “Ha-ha. We'll put on a little play.”

I petted his head. “That's right. A little play.”

Was I tense? Yes. Beast and I had rehearsed all morning. But would he remember what to do? Or would he start gobbling blueberry pie?

“Sssh. Here he comes,” I whispered. “Here comes Sherman. Get ready, Beast.”

He grunted again.

Sherman Oaks picked up a lunch tray and got into the line. I knew he could hear Beast and me. So I started our little play.

I picked a small plate of blueberry pie off the dessert table and handed it to Beast. “Here you go, pal,” I said, loud enough for Sherman to hear. “Have some pie.”

“Oh, no!” Beast said, shoving the pie back at me. “I can't. Don't make me eat that, Bernie. I'm allergic to blueberry pie.”

I acted surprised. “Huh? You're allergic to blueberry pie?”

“Yeah. Allergic,” Beast said.

“Come on. Just have a tiny taste,” I said.

“No way. If I eat just a tiny taste, I'll get sick and hurl my guts out.”

“Too bad, Beast,” I said, shaking my head.
“That's really too bad.”

I turned and saw Sherman striding over. He had a big grin on his face. “Okay, Bernie,” he said. “Maybe I
will
have that pie-eating contest with you. I'll pick Beast to be on your side. Beast against Wes Updood. And it
has
to be blueberry pie.”

“But—but—” I sputtered, clapping my hands to my cheeks.

Sherman rubbed his chin. “If I win…let me see…I need a slave. That's it. If I win, you'll be my slave for a month. If you win, you can have my watch.”

“No way!” I said. “That's not fair. You heard Beast say he's allergic to blueberry pie. Let me pick another guy, Sherman. Give me a break. Let me pick someone else for the contest.”

Sherman shook his head. He had the biggest grin on his face. “No. It has to be Beast,” he said. “Only Beast. Beast against Wes Updood. And
all
blueberry pies.”

“But I'll lose. I'll lose big-time,” I said, shaking my head. “How about cherry pie? Maybe banana cream pie?”

“All blueberry pies,” Sherman said. “Shake on it.” He stuck out his hand.

I started to shake his hand, then pulled it back. Started to shake, then pulled back. Finally, I shook his hand. “You've got a sure thing going,” I told Sherman. “You can't lose.”

Sherman tossed back his blond head and laughed. “Know what I like my slaves to do, Bernie?” he said. “I like them to carry me on their backs to Mrs. Heinie's class.”

“B-but that's on the
fifth
floor!” I stammered. “I have a bad back, Sherman. All those stairs—”

“Better start working out,” Sherman said. He spun away and walked off, laughing his head off.

When Sherman was out of sight, I turned back to Beast. “Good work,” I said. “The trap is set. Hey—where's that pie?”

The whole pie was gone from the tray.

Beast rubbed his stomach. He had blueberry stains all over his face.

“Good work,” I said again. “This contest is a cinch. The watch is mine! Now I just have one little problem…. How do I come up with the pies?”

Our classroom building looks like an old-fashioned school house. I guess that's how it got its name—the School House.

It's an old, red brick building with a white door in front and long vines of poison ivy clinging to the walls.

Some kids call it Mouse
House. Yeah, you guessed why. The mice outnumber the students two to one. You can't fall asleep in class. The mice will crawl up your legs.

The next afternoon, I was walking out of the School House when I saw April-May by the front door. “Hey, hi!” I called. “How's it going?”

“Fine,” she said. She kicked a mouse out of the way and started up the front stairs.

I chased after her. “Looking good,” I said. “I like what you did to your hair.”

“You can't see my hair. I'm wearing a cap,” she replied.

“How about a walk? Or maybe we could hang out at the Student Center?”

“No way,” she said. “I have my cooking class now. With Ms. Monella. It's going to be very cool. We're
getting everything ready to bake chocolate cakes tomorrow.”

I stepped in front of her. “Chocolate cakes? How many kids are in your class?”

“Twenty-five,” April-May said. “We're baking twenty-five chocolate cakes. Get out of my way, Bernie.”

My brain was spinning. “Why not blueberry pies?” I said.

She squinted at me. “Are you crazy? It's chocolate cakes.” She pushed me out of the way and started into the classroom kitchen.

“About those dance lessons Saturday night—” I said.

She slammed the door in my face.

“Is that a maybe?” I shouted.

I stood there, thinking hard. Chocolate cakes…chocolate cakes…
Why not PIES
?

There's gotta be a way….