Kissing the Frog: Chapter 6

Later at practice, Coach Mathews pulled Wheat and me aside and  said that Benny Goodchild’s mom had called and said that along with the flu, he had sprained his big toe pretty badly on the bed post while rushing to the bathroom to throw up.

I didn’t ask if he made it to the toilet or not while his toe had to hurt like heck, but I sort of wanted to. I know that’s pretty weird. I was thinking there’s nothing’s worse than … 

Oops. I came back to reality as I suddenly figured why Coach had decided to share this story with us. “At least for the near future, you’re going to be our varsity 119-pounder, Spank,” he said.

That “great” news almost made me want to find something to bang my own big toe up against. Maybe I should have been feeling bad for Benny but I was thinking only about myself. 

And “Whoa!” or “Woe!” were the words that I was thinking. Those are homophones, by the way. I just learned about those.

I know it’s a bit of a cop-out but I was totally satisfied wrestling junior varsity behind Wheat. Now I was going to have to step out of her little shadow and probably get the stuffings beat out of me.

The difference between most 119-pound wrestlers and 112-pound wrestlers is about seven pounds of muscle, if you get my drift. But, hey, I would be getting a chance to win a varsity letter, maybe coming with a few dislocated body parts.

“Good stuff,” Wheat said before she headed to the girls’ locker room to change into her wrestling togs. “Now you can bulk up and eat anything you want. I’m kind of jealous.”

“Then why don’t you wrestle 119 and I’ll take your 112 spot,” I said. “It seems only fair since you’re better than me.”

“You’re probably right,” she said, “but …”

She didn’t finish and so I did it for her. “But you have a better chance of being a state champ at 112. That’s what I want, too, Wheat. You a state champ. I just don’t want us to be known as the Champ and Chump Siblings.”

“Spank, I think you’re going to be a lot better than you think. In fact, once you get out from behind me, I think you may flourish. I’ve never said this before but I don’t think you quite try your best against me. You hold back a little whether you know it or not. You put up a good fight but I think you have more. You showed it last night.”

“Whatever you say, Wheat,” I said half-heartedly.

But I thought about what she said as we warmed up. Maybe I was holding back a little. Maybe I was better than I thought I was. And then I went out and worked with Doug Littlejohn, a junior varsity wrestler at 126 pounds. He whipped me good in some takedown drills and seemed to like it a little too much. He’s a bit of a knucklehead, always bragging about this or that, but he’s still a teammate.

With moving up a weight class, I was going to be paired with him more in practice. Then after he got done with me, Wheat kicked my butt a few times. By then, I was barely able to handle Tommy the Torso.

I was dragging that night as we sat down to the dinner table.  Then I smiled when I remembered I could eat all I wanted. Of all nights for Mom to plop down a big dish of chicken chow mein, not one of my favorites. I call it “chicken bowel pain” when she is out of earshot.

“By the way,” Mom said to me after our family prayer, “a Laurie Meadowbrook phoned and asked that you return her call tonight.”

“Middlebrook, Mom,” Wheat piped up. “Laurie Middlebrook. The mayor’s daughter, the beauty queen type and Spank’s new flame.”

I decided to get the humiliation over with. “ I guess I’m going to the prom with her,” I said, my voice becoming a little shaky to actually say that out loud.

My mom squealed — actually squealed. Gosh, how embarrassing. Ric just nodded his head with a big smile on his face. Wheat looked like she was going to burst out laughing. Lake was the only one who didn’t seem obligated for some comical reaction, concentrating on making a mess out of his apple sauce.

“When were you going to tell us this big news?” my mom asked.

“It’s not big news, Mom,” I said. “It’s just a date. That’s all.”

“Your first date, though, honey,” she said. “That’s very big. I know you probably don’t believe this, but you will never forget your first date.”

Not if the time leading up to it was going to get any worse, I thought.

“By the way,” Ric said, “how are you going to get to the prom? Is she light enough that she can sit up on your handlebars or can I help you out?”

“Laurie said her dad would drive us,” I said as all this talk started to make me my belly buck a little.

“Wow, that’s pretty impressive,” Mom added. “You get our mayor as a chauffeur. Maybe your dad can at least give you a police escort in his squad car.”

Wheat then let go of the other big news. “Spank is going to stay at varsity at 119 pounds. Bennie Goodchild sprained his big toe while running to the bathroom to puke.”

To be honest, that’s what I felt like doing as my parents cheered that new announcement — the part about me staying at varsity, I think, not Bennie spraining his toe. What little I ate of the “chicken bowel pain” wasn’t settling in so well. The thought of my big date and then wrestling varsity against guys bigger than me suddenly made me feel like my stomach contents weren’t safe. I held back a gag.

“May I be excused?” I barely got out.

“You’ve only eaten half your meal and now you can eat all you want,” Mom said.

“Well, I’m about ready to do my Bennie Goodchild impersonation, hopefully without spraining my toe,” I said. Everybody seemed a little shocked but Mom who said, “Go, go.”

I hit the downstairs half bathroom at a full run but all I could manage was a couple of weak dry heaves.  I think it was more nerves stuck in my throat than anything else. By that time, Ric had knocked on the bathroom door and walked on in.

“You OK, bud?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Hey, a lot on your plate right now and I don’t mean the chicken chow mein. Never tell your Mom this but it’s not my favorite, either.”

“I’ll be fine,” I said more confidently than I was really feeling. Ric patted my shoulder and paused like he had something to say. But then he left me alone, while I wondered if I could eat a couple of bowls of Cheerios before bed without hurting my mom’s feelings.

I decided that a little air would do me good and walked outside onto our front porch. It was probably 30 degrees, not bad for a late January night.  I didn’t even bother with a coat. Wrestling at 119 pounds and weighing 112 — maybe more like 111 after passing on some of my supper — I didn’t have any reason to do a lot of sweating.

But before I knew it, my legs just started jogging. I’ve already told you that’s  what a lot of smaller wrestlers do anytime there’s some open space in front of them. I started circling our block and by the time I had finished, Wheat was out in front of our house waiting for me.

She doesn’t like walking or running by the funeral home by herself when it’s dark. She doesn’t talk about it much but I know it spooks her a little, especially when we know a body is inside. It doesn’t bother me at all, but the big viewing room is on our house’s side — not 50 feet from our second-floor bedroom window. I think that might be another reason Wheat doesn’t mind sharing a room with me. Maybe the main reason.

She looked a little like a ghost herself with a white hoodie pulled tight around her face. “I could use a little run to work off some of that meal, too,” she said as she joined me.

It’s about 600 yards  around our block and we didn’t say a word on my second lap. Then about halfway through the third lap, Wheat finally said, “Don’t keep your lady waiting too long, Spank.”

I ignored her until we were just starting our fourth lap. “I don’t want you listening in,” I said and then picked up the pace, scooting by Mr. Saunders who was out walking his mean little spaniel mix, Bootsie. Bootsie may be the only dog I dislike in the whole world and, of course, he made a lunge at me.

Mr. Saunders jerked him back and Wheat fell right over Bootsie who let out a yelp. I really took off then. I rounded the second corner and headed down Elm Street — which is our backstretch — almost all out. After another turn and with about 100 yards to go, I heard Wheat coming, huffing and puffing more than you would have thought a skinny little girl could. I  started my finishing kick and Wheat passed me in a dead sprint just a couple of feet AFTER our front walkway, which we consider our finish line.

“Gotcha,” I said.

“Yeah, well I had to untangle myself from that little gum-ball of a dog and then listen to Mr. Saunders yell at me for scaring him half to death. And that it was disrespectful to be playing — like we were playing — in front of a funeral home,” she said between heavy breaths. “I’d like to hit that Bootsie with a shovel and stick him in a little cardboard casket outside the funeral home with a note to bury him deep.”

We agreed on that. Actually, I was smiling. I had beaten Wheat in a race — a rarity — and I also didn’t need to go into our house and weigh myself after a run. “I’m ready for my big call now.”

“You go, girl,” Wheat said.

“You got it, little brother,” I replied.