The Water Fight Professional

  Chapter Three:

  Barf-O-Bits

  I hadn’t meant to sound as if I were calling Chance fat. He wasn’t fat anymore. But he still gave me a dirty look from behind his lawnmower as he stomped toward the garage. The truth was I missed the kid he used to be. I mean, kissing girls? Last summer we both would have gagged at the idea.

  I knew about girls. I had a little sister. Girls talked a lot. They giggled for no reason. And they cried if you threw a water balloon at them.

  It’s weird. It’s irritating. It’s weirditating.

  I’ll still get married someday. Probably to a circus performer. I mean, have you ever seen what can be done on a flying trapeze? The girls who flipped through the air were nothing like my sister or Isabelle. They’re daring. They’re brave. And they wouldn’t cry if you threw a water balloon at them.

  I tossed my Popsicle stick in the garbage can by the side of our house, grabbed the mail from the mailbox, and ran my tongue along my lips to destroy any evidence before going inside. Mom couldn’t think I had “ruined my appetite.” She refused to believe that the reason I didn’t eat her ground turkey rolls or salmon quiche was because they’re nasty.

  My sister, Christine, sat backward on her knees on the couch with her nose to the window.

  “What are you doing?” I don’t know why I asked. I never understood her anyway.

  “I’m waiting for Parker.” She didn’t even look up.

  “Who’s Parker?”

  “He’s the mailman. He’s cute.”

  I rolled my eyes. Last year she thought Dan, Dan, the Ice Cream Man was cute. And she’s only nine. Boys were so different from girls. “The mail already came.” I dropped a pile of envelopes on the table.

  My mom spun into the room. Her hair was long and slick like a Slip ’N Slide, and when she spun it looked like one of those brushes at the car wash. She grabbed her foot in one hand mid-spin and extended her leg up by her head in a stretch that would make me cry “uncle.”

  That might seem strange to most kids, but it was pretty normal around here.

  “The mailman came twice yesterday.” Mom balanced on her other leg. “And Parker is cute.”

  “He sounds crazy.”

  Christine turned her head at that. “He’s not crazy. He’s just new. Delivering mail is a hard job.”

  Mom swung her leg from the front of her body to her back and leaned forward, picking up the pile of mail from the table. She dropped into the splits. “Delivering mail must be hard. Parker delivered the Lancaster’s mail to us. Joey, take this over to Isabelle’s house, please.”

  “No way.” I would rather eat salmon quiche than have to deal with Prissy Izzy.

  Christine jumped off the couch. “I will, Mommy.”

  Christine thought Isabelle was a princess or something. And all the girls at my school thought Christine was an angel. Even worse, they all wanted to grow up to be my mom—a dancer/actress/singer. Where were all the girls who dreamed of becoming trapeze artists?

  “Thank you, sweetie.” Mom cha-cha’d back to the kitchen.

  I followed, even though I greatly feared whatever she had fixed for dinner. “Mom, do you think if the mailman delivered Isabelle’s mail to us that he might accidentally deliver our mail to them?”

  Mom swayed side to side as she loaded the dishwasher. “Maybe.”

  “Noo …” I wailed.

  Nothing fazed my mom. Though she was talking to me, I know she was imagining herself on stage. “I’m sure the Lancasters would bring any of our mail over to us if they got it—just like we’re doing for them.”

  “But … but … my Galactic Turbo Drench 3000. And my water balloon slingshot.” Dad had helped me order them last week—after I gave two dollars of tithe at church.

  “Don’t worry, honey.” Mom did a body roll.

  Now that was strange.

  I would have to meet this Parker character—let him know I was expecting a package.

  Problem solved. Deep breath.

  “I ran into Chance’s mother at the supermarket today. She told me about the golf camp Chance is going to. I signed you up.”

  Why did Mom have to create an even bigger problem?

  Golf: The world’s most boring sport. (According to me.)

  Me: An easily distracted bundle of energy. (According to Mrs. Lyons, my 6th grade teacher.)

  What could my mom have been thinking? “I don’t want to play golf.” Especially with Chance.

  Mom wiped the counter and pulled a bowl out of the fridge.

  Had she heard me?

  After a moment she glanced up. “It will be good for you. You’re not doing anything else this summer.”

  My mouth opened. No words came out. Maybe I didn’t sign up for all kinds of sports the way Chance did, but I kept pretty entertained. I certainly didn’t sit around watching TV and surfing the Internet all day like some kids.

  No, I was a businessman.

  “Mom, I’ve got to run my business. I’ve got to earn ten dollars an hour. I’ve got to …” I made the mistake of looking in the bowl Mom put on the counter. “I’ve got to barf.” The lumpy red chunks in a saliva-looking goo made my stomach churn. “Mom, did you throw up?”

  Mom kissed my head. “That’s your dinner.”

  I slouched onto a barstool.

  Golf + vomit soup = Mom destroying my vacation.

  She sashayed past me, not even noticing the fact that I was doubled over as if I’d been punched in the gut. In the summer, Mom performed at the Starlight Mountain Theatre. She went to rehearsal almost every night.

  As if timed to the second, my dad returned home from work and Mom swung her dance bag over her shoulder. He spun her around twice then twirled her out the door before turning to me. “Hey, Joe.”

  Dad was the only one who called me Joe instead of Joey. It made me feel like a man—though it wasn’t quite as strong a name as “Zabransky.” I sat up straighter. “Mom made barf-o-bits for dinner.”

  Dad chuckled as he headed toward the kitchen. “It can’t be that bad.” He looked into the bowl. “Gazpacho!”

  My eyes grew wide. “What did you say?”

  Dad pushed the bowl away. “It’s … it’s … a bad word,” he muttered. “Your mom knows I hate it.”

  I zoned out. Gazpacho was a bad word? I’d never heard it before. But I liked the sound of it.

  “Come on.” Dad headed back out the way he’d come. “We’re going to McDonald’s.”

  Woohoo. Dad would give Christine and me a small amount of money, and we would have to decide what we were going to buy for dinner. It was never enough to buy everything we wanted, but it sure beat a bowl of barf.

  Dad gave us a budget whenever we went anywhere to teach us a financial lesson. It was his excuse for taking us to the circus, the movie theater, or the arcade.

  Ah-ha! My dad’s thriftiness and business sense could be just the weapon I needed to win the bet with Chance—a secret weapon, because I couldn’t tell Dad about the bet. He once read me some scriptures on how foolish gambling was.

  If he found out I’d made a bet, I would be in some deep gazpacho.