Pickle (12 page)

Another twenty kids went into the student restrooms. Awesome part: nobody thought to take the plastic off or warn other kids, so it just kept happening until the bell rang and class started. Classic.

 

29

A Visitor

“We, uh, need to make some new pickles,” I said as soon as I came into the lab for the Thursday pickle maker meeting. “I saw Ms. Ruiz. The fair is coming up
really
soon.” I pointed to the Pioneer Fair poster on the wall and pulled
The Joy of Pickling
out of my backpack. I'd looked through it the night before, but I didn't find any speedy recipes. Fish doesn't take that long to pickle, but I knew we couldn't do it after seeing the pickled herring pictures. I brought
The Joy of Pickling
back to school specifically so they could all see the lovely plate of gray lumps.

“The parsley garnish doesn't hide the disgusting, does it?” I said. Frank looked closer.

“What are those yellow flecks on the top?”

“Grated egg yolk,” I said.

“No way. I'm not touching that. We're doomed,” Oliver said.

“Not necessarily. Couldn't we just buy some pickles and enter those?” Bean suggested.

“I think that's kind of sleazy,” Frank said. “C'mon. How hard can it be?”

Someone tapped on the door.

“Who is at the door?” Bean looked at me, like I'd invited Principal Lebonsky to drop by.

“I don't know,” I said.

“Do not open it,” Frank said, but the person on the other side opened it.

It was Hector. He waved at us and walked in carrying his old, beat-up skateboard.

“Hey, guys,” he said.

“Hey, Hector,” Bean said, and smiled. “What could you possibly be doing here?”

“I think I'm a pickle maker. I mean, I think I could be. I'd like to be,” he said. Maybe he'd figured out what we were doing, like Sienna. Did everybody know what was going on? It was possible that we were not the anonymous prank masters we thought we were. We didn't even leave P.T.A. signs up by the plastic-wrapped sinks. I tried to think of a question I could ask him to find out whether he meant pickle maker or “pickle maker.”

“Oh, um, why? You don't even like pickles,” I said. Hector looked hurt, like it was an insult.

“They're not so bad. I've been thinking about giving them another try.” He inspected the trucks on his skateboard and scraped some gunk off with his thumbnail.

“What? You're here because you want to make pickles? With us? Really?” Bean asked. Hector looked at me, and then the others, like he wasn't sure anymore, but then he said yes.

“We're working on our pickling contest entry for the Pioneer Fair,” Frank said. He gestured to a cutting board and some fluffy green dill leaves Oliver had put on the table. I hadn't even seen him take that stuff out. “How do we know you're not here to scope out the competition?”

“What? That's goofy.”

“Did you know about the pickling competition coming up at the Pioneer Fair? Did your granny tell you?” Oliver crossed his arms over his chest.

“No, I just knew Ben did this, and I thought it might be fun. I—”

“—just wanted to check out the competition.”

“What? No, I just—”

“We're on to you, Hector. We cannot compromise our secret pickling formula!” Frank yelled. Hector looked at me and started stammering.

“I just want to be—”

“We know what you want. We're going to try and win the contest fair and square, and so should you,” Sienna said. Hector stared at her. She shook her head. “If you go now, we won't tell Ms. Ruiz about this.”

Hector's face got red. He glared at me, waiting for me to say something. Anything. I wanted to—really, but I just wanted him to leave, too. I tried to apologize with my eyes. He opened his mouth, but then he just shook his head and left. Oliver closed the door behind him.

“That was close,” Bean said.

“Yeah,” Oliver agreed, and then everybody stared at me. I couldn't look at them. I just waited until my stomach stopped feeling like I ate a bucket of that pickled herring and it was all about to come up.

“So, what are we making for the contest?” I said. I didn't care about making any stupid pickles, but I wanted to stop them from staring at me like that.

Nobody said anything for a while.

“Are you mad at us?” Sienna said.

“No! Why would I be mad?” I said.

“Well, how about because we kicked your best friend out of the lab,” Oliver said. “I mean, if you wanted him to join I guess we could talk about it. We could vote, like we did with Sienna.” Bean scoffed, but I couldn't tell what Frank was thinking.

“You guys voted to let me in?” Sienna said.

“It's just…” I stopped. I didn't want to tell them that I was selfish. That I just wanted the club for myself, and I didn't want to share them. And I didn't want to remind them that he was afraid of his grandma enough to ruin us all. He would be in a big world of hurt if his grandma caught him setting a prank up. “I don't think this would be Hector's kind of thing.”

“Which?” Oliver said. “The pickles or the P.T.A.?”

“Either, I guess. But, thanks for the offer. We've been doing everything together for years. It's okay to have a few changes,” I said, and they seemed to accept it. I don't know if I did.

We looked through
The Joy of Pickling
, but nothing seemed that exciting. The book was pretty old, so we went to the library to look online. Maybe we could find a newer, cooler pickle recipe.

The computers are right in the middle of the room, so it makes a good lookout. Oliver and Frank talked about pranks we could do in the library while I searched for pickle recipes. There isn't a lot of variety if you stick to cucumbers and stay away from stuff like fish and turkey gizzards. Some people get really crazy with stuffed pickles and pickle ice cream, but I didn't think that was how the pioneers would do it. The pictures made me feel gross again, so Frank took over.

The best we could come up with were bread-and-butter pickles. They weren't really that exciting. They didn't even have any butter. But at least Ms. Ruiz and Principal Lebonsky would think we tried. Some other pickler would be getting the cash prize.

 

30

Principal Pickles

“Hey, Hector, wait up!” I found Hector right where I thought I would—in the lunch line reaching for a bowl of mac and cheese. It was the first Friday of the month, and that made it a gooey tradition. He glanced over his shoulder and nodded at me.

“What's up?”

“I just haven't seen you much. How's it going?” He looked annoyed for a second, but then his face relaxed.

“It's Mac Friday. Things are good,” Hector said. He grabbed another bowl of mac while the lunch lady's back was turned and seemed miffed that I was watching. “I'll have to make up for it later, anyway. Mac Friday is usually also spinach-salad-for-dinner Friday.”

“Sorry.” I grabbed a lunch tray and followed Hector. “What about dinner at my house? I don't know what we're having, but there's an eighty percent chance that it's better than that.” Hector didn't answer, so I kept talking. “We could watch a movie? Or skate?”

“Yeah, no thanks. I'll just stick with the salad.” Hector picked up his tray and walked past me to Leo and Finn's table. I sat down with the pickle makers and tried not to look at Hector's table. Hector caught up with me after lunch on my way out of the cafeteria.

“You could sleep over at my house, if you want to,” he said. “My grandma might make something better than spinach salad if you're there.” I said yes.

*   *   *

Hector was right. Principal Lebonsky made lasagna because she said it was a special occasion since I don't come over that often anymore. She said it like she wanted me to feel bad about it.

I really wanted to ask her about the stuff that had been happening at school. Like if they had any suspects, and what the teachers and parents were saying about it. Then I started to worry that I might not be able to look innocent. Principal Lebonsky had a way of looking at you, like she could see inside you, and she didn't like what you had for lunch. She didn't mention the pranks, so I didn't, either.

Principal Lebonsky must have had spinach ready for the salad, because there was a lot of it in the lasagna. She tried to mix it up in the cheese, but it made a whole layer of stringy greenness. After dinner, Principal Lebonsky gave me a brownie with a scoop of ice cream. I looked at the bowl she put down in front of Hector, half expecting to see spinach salad, but she gave him a brownie and ice cream, too. It even looked about the same size. She got a bowl for herself and sat down. Then she asked me if I knew what the pickle club planned to make for the fair. Hector stabbed his spoon into his ice cream and wouldn't look at me.

“We haven't really found anything that we feel is … fair worthy,” I said. “We're, uh, conducting more pickling research to find something just right. But, you know, nothing too crazy. We're still beginners.” I took a big bite of ice cream that gave me brain freeze, but it stopped me from talking.

“You'd better get cracking. Pickles aren't like a box of that instant macaroni and cheese that you can just make at the last minute,” she said. “They take time and care.”

I apologized for disrespecting the pickle. “Have you considered eggs?” she said.

“On top of the pickles?” I asked. That picture of the pickled herring flashed in my head, but I pushed it out so I could keep eating my brownie.

“
As
the pickles, Ben. Surely a pickling fanatic like yourself must be familiar with pickled eggs.”

I admitted I wasn't, and it made Principal Lebonsky's mouth look like she ate pickled lemon.

“I'll counsel Ms. Ruiz regarding her oversight. She should be advising you on all manner of preservable foods. We must be expected to respect customary traditions.”

“I didn't know that anyone would want to pickle eggs.”

“Oh, they are a delight. I used to make them in the summer, but they can stink up the apartment,” she said. I think I remembered that. It smelled like a smoke bomb, but we're not allowed to have fireworks in our building.

Principal Lebonsky got a green recipe box down from the top of the refrigerator and flipped through the cards until she found the one she'd been looking for.

“Aha, my old recipe…” She handed me a wrinkled index card with a winking tomato in the corner. The recipe for “Lebonsky Eggs” was handwritten in perfect cursive letters. “Feel free to make it your own. Just stick with those ingredients and measurements. And instructions. They'll be perfect.”

It kind of felt like an assignment, like now we had to make the principal's pickled eggs.

“The League of Pickle Makers had been talking about making some bread-and-butter pickles,” I said. Principal Lebonsky nodded slowly.

“I'm sure that other groups will put together some bread-and-butter pickles,” she said. “But those aren't quite up to our standards. Are they, Ben?”

“Are we done talking about the league of lint yet?” Hector said. He sighed and clanked his spoon down into his empty ice cream bowl.

“You would do well to join a club, Hector,” Principal Lebonsky said. It wasn't the first time I'd heard her say it. The only sounds in the kitchen were the cat clock on the wall and me squirming in my chair. Hector just stared at the table. I stared at Hector at first, but then I stared at the table, too. I didn't say anything. Hector got up and left.

“Come on, Pickleboy,” he called out from the living room.

There was a
Battlestar Galactica
marathon on TV. The original. It sounded like the perfect night to me because a) the original
Battlestar Galactica
is awesome, and b) they never, ever eat pickles on that show. No reminders about how much time I spent fake-making them.

 

31

We Pickle

“Hey, it's skinny Benny,” Diego said when I walked into the restaurant on Saturday morning. He says it almost every time. Anybody else would bug me, but you can't be mad at Diego. “Que pasa? You eating first, or cleaning later?”

I have never seen him not laugh when he says this. Not even a fake laugh, either. He gives himself the giggles. He's been saying it ever since I started helping at the restaurant. Diego is the happiest guy I know. Just being around him makes me feel cool.

“Today, for you,
papas con crema
. Potatoes, cream, a little garlic, and chile. I'll teach you how to make it. Delicious, quick and easy.” It would have been, too, if I hadn't spilled the cream in the walk-in. Diego didn't say anything, but I knew to move the mats, get a rag and some cleaner, and sop it up. If you want to make people in a restaurant mad, leave a mess for someone else to clean up. I did it once when I was seven. I spilled a bunch of sour cream down the back of the prep table and didn't say anything until it smelled funky and my mom forced a confession out of me. Being the owner's kid doesn't stop dirty looks.