and flashed mustard packets hidden in their fists. They must’ve swiped them before the cafeteria ladies swooped in. Like Tater, Kenny and William were hard-core Yellow Shirts, sticking with their yellow gear today instead of wearing a Halloween costume.
Lucy poked her salad with her spork. “My point is, they’ve outlawed mustard.”
I shrugged. “Yeah. So?”
“So, you’re going to be the hot dog–eating champ, aren’t you? Where’s the big eat-off held every year?”
“You know where it’s held,” I answered. To the guys I said, “At Nathan’s Famous.”
“Precisely,” she said.
I shook my head in confusion. “You lost me.”
Gardo was just as confused. “What’s Nathan’s?”
“Nathan’s
Famous.
It’s only the most famous hot dog place in the world, Mr. Image,” Lucy said. “Or should I say
Miss
Image?”
Gardo winked his false lashes and tipped his wig like a true gent.
“Nathan’s Famous is a Coney Island landmark,” Lucy said. “Every Fourth of July they hold a huge hot dog–eating contest. It’s the Super Bowl for competitive eaters. Shermie, what’s your cupboard stocked with at home?”
I had the feeling I was being set up, so I didn’t answer.
Gardo did. “He’s got mustard in his cupboard. I’ve seen it. Bottles and bottles of it.”
“What kind of mustard?” Lucy asked.
Leonard gave it a try: “French’s Classic Yellow?”
Lucy shook her head, then stared at me calmly, waiting for my answer.
I didn’t want to answer, but the silence was excruciating. “Nathan’s Famous mustard,” I finally said.
Nathan’s Famous mustard was the highest-rated condiment in the Sherman T. Thuff Book of Good and Tasty Things. I slathered it on everything, not just hot dogs. I even tried it on pizza once. Lucy herself had three pieces of that brilliance. She knew I was crazy about the stuff, and she knew that when I first heard that Nathan’s Famous wasn’t just a mustard brand but an actual restaurant, one where they hold
the
main eating event of the year, that was what convinced me that choosing hot dogs as my trademark food was destiny. But what did that have to do with her soup and salad?
“I still don’t get your point,” I said. “So they don’t serve mustard in the school cafeteria. So what?”
“So you’re letting them dictate which condiment you can put on your food.
Condiment,
Shermie. If that isn’t Big Brother, I don’t know what is. Who are they to tell us what food we can or can’t eat, let alone which condiment we top it with? What if I want relish? I’m gonna get kicked out of school for
relish
?” She pulled a big, shiny yellow lemon out of her grocery bag, scored it with her fingernail, then squeezed the pee-colored juice onto her lettuce. “I will not give in to the Man. Del Heiny may own Culwicki, but it doesn’t own the universe.”
“She’s got a point there,” Tater said, tapping his Yellow-Shirted heart.
“Of course I do.” She stirred the juice and salad with her finger. Then she stabbed her spork into the bed of colorful leaves and raised several pieces daintily to her mouth. It was as mesmerizing as watching Tsunami execute the Solomon Method.
“That’s your lunch?” I’d pass out from starvation if all I ate was salad with a squirt of lemon, a few sips of broth, and some goopy cheese.
“It is.”
“I swear,” Tater said, shaking his head, “I don’t get girls. Lettuce and a squirt of lemon juice? Next thing, you’ll be pulling rice cakes and tofu out of your backpack. Are you on a diet or something?”
She made a face when he said “tofu.” “I’m not
on
a diet. Everything anybody eats is part of their diet. I’m watching what I eat.”
“Why?” I asked. She looked fine to me.
Gardo fielded that one. “Because she’s a girl, and girls do weird things with food, man. Don’t think about it too hard.” He chomped into his second burger. Ketchup dribbled down his chin like blood. “
Man!
Whoever
Lucy poked her salad with her spork. “My point is, they’ve outlawed mustard.”
I shrugged. “Yeah. So?”
“So, you’re going to be the hot dog–eating champ, aren’t you? Where’s the big eat-off held every year?”
“You know where it’s held,” I answered. To the guys I said, “At Nathan’s Famous.”
“Precisely,” she said.
I shook my head in confusion. “You lost me.”
Gardo was just as confused. “What’s Nathan’s?”
“Nathan’s
Famous.
It’s only the most famous hot dog place in the world, Mr. Image,” Lucy said. “Or should I say
Miss
Image?”
Gardo winked his false lashes and tipped his wig like a true gent.
“Nathan’s Famous is a Coney Island landmark,” Lucy said. “Every Fourth of July they hold a huge hot dog–eating contest. It’s the Super Bowl for competitive eaters. Shermie, what’s your cupboard stocked with at home?”
I had the feeling I was being set up, so I didn’t answer.
Gardo did. “He’s got mustard in his cupboard. I’ve seen it. Bottles and bottles of it.”
“What kind of mustard?” Lucy asked.
Leonard gave it a try: “French’s Classic Yellow?”
Lucy shook her head, then stared at me calmly, waiting for my answer.
I didn’t want to answer, but the silence was excruciating. “Nathan’s Famous mustard,” I finally said.
Nathan’s Famous mustard was the highest-rated condiment in the Sherman T. Thuff Book of Good and Tasty Things. I slathered it on everything, not just hot dogs. I even tried it on pizza once. Lucy herself had three pieces of that brilliance. She knew I was crazy about the stuff, and she knew that when I first heard that Nathan’s Famous wasn’t just a mustard brand but an actual restaurant, one where they hold
the
main eating event of the year, that was what convinced me that choosing hot dogs as my trademark food was destiny. But what did that have to do with her soup and salad?
“I still don’t get your point,” I said. “So they don’t serve mustard in the school cafeteria. So what?”
“So you’re letting them dictate which condiment you can put on your food.
Condiment,
Shermie. If that isn’t Big Brother, I don’t know what is. Who are they to tell us what food we can or can’t eat, let alone which condiment we top it with? What if I want relish? I’m gonna get kicked out of school for
relish
?” She pulled a big, shiny yellow lemon out of her grocery bag, scored it with her fingernail, then squeezed the pee-colored juice onto her lettuce. “I will not give in to the Man. Del Heiny may own Culwicki, but it doesn’t own the universe.”
“She’s got a point there,” Tater said, tapping his Yellow-Shirted heart.
“Of course I do.” She stirred the juice and salad with her finger. Then she stabbed her spork into the bed of colorful leaves and raised several pieces daintily to her mouth. It was as mesmerizing as watching Tsunami execute the Solomon Method.
“That’s your lunch?” I’d pass out from starvation if all I ate was salad with a squirt of lemon, a few sips of broth, and some goopy cheese.
“It is.”
“I swear,” Tater said, shaking his head, “I don’t get girls. Lettuce and a squirt of lemon juice? Next thing, you’ll be pulling rice cakes and tofu out of your backpack. Are you on a diet or something?”
She made a face when he said “tofu.” “I’m not
on
a diet. Everything anybody eats is part of their diet. I’m watching what I eat.”
“Why?” I asked. She looked fine to me.
Gardo fielded that one. “Because she’s a girl, and girls do weird things with food, man. Don’t think about it too hard.” He chomped into his second burger. Ketchup dribbled down his chin like blood. “
Man!
Whoever
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