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  Mom gives me a curious look.

  “You don’t like it?”

  “No, it’s great. I guess I’m just not very hungry tonight.” I seem to be recovering from the crust disaster, but I don’t want to take any chances.

  “Are you sure? Do you want some ice cream for dessert?”

  “Ice cream sounds great.” At least I know it won’t hurt my throat.

  Mom puts a huge scoop of vanilla in a bowl. “Do you want some chocolate syrup on it?”

  “Sure.” It’s crazy how nice she’s being.

  “Nuts?”

  “No thanks. I’ll take it smooth.”

  Mal has finished his Cheerios. He watches intently as Mom sets the bowl and spoon in front of me. Mal doesn’t like eating cold things — he specializes in room-temperature food — but he is fascinated by ice cream. Not to eat, but to watch. I put a spoonful in his cereal bowl. As I eat my ice cream, he watches his dollop turn slowly into a white puddle. Have you ever watched ice cream melt? It’s slightly more interesting than watching paint dry. Mal loves it.

  I take the next day off. Yogurt and bananas for breakfast, and chicken noodle soup for lunch. Every top athlete needs an occasional day of rest, I reason. In less than a week, I’ll be scarfing pizza like a demon, and I want to give my throat a chance to heal. It feels completely normal at the moment, but that thing with the crust really freaked me out.

  I’m sitting at my computer reading about competitive eating records when I get a text from Cyn.

  Cyn’s house is one of the oldest in town, a three-story Victorian monstrosity with turrets on the two front corners and fancy carved cornices along the eaves. It was built by a wealthy grain merchant back in the 1920s, but when he died the home fell into disrepair. When I was a little kid it was boarded up, vacant, and called the Haunted House of Vacaville. Cyn’s dad bought it and moved his family in when I was in the first grade. That’s how long Cyn and I have been friends.

  The Lees have been working on the house ever since. It’s really nice now — it doesn’t look haunted at all — but it’s a big house, and there is still a lot of stuff to fix. When I get there Mr. Lee is at the top of a long ladder, wearing a dust mask and scraping a third-story window frame.

  “Hey Mr. Lee,” I call up to him.

  He looks down at me and pulls his mask down onto his chin. “David,” he says. “Did you stop by to help me scrape paint?”

  “Looking for Cyn,” I say.

  “I thought as much. She and your friend Hayden are in her room performing some sort of computer wizardry. You can go on in.” He pulls up his mask and goes back to scraping.

  I walk inside and up the curving, carpeted staircase with a massive oak banister that Cyn and I used to slide down. It was fun until Cyn broke her arm. After that, Mr. Lee fastened some big wooden buttons along the top of the banister to keep us off it. HeyMan never got in on the banister-sliding because we didn’t get to be friends with him until the fourth grade when he moved here from Des Moines.

  Cyn’s room is in one of the turrets. It’s the only round room I’ve ever been in. She is sitting at her antique rolltop desk, typing on her computer. On the wall above her desk is a map of Korea, and next to the desk is a ceiling-high bookcase. Cyn reads books like I eat food. HeyMan is sprawled on the carpet reading an X-Men comic.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “Cyn’s been playing Nancy Drew,” HeyMan says. He’s wearing his ironic LET’S RODEO shirt.

  “I found out who your Jooky-dog guy is,” Cyn says. “Schutlebecker is an unusual name, and there’s only one in Rockford, Illinois — Virgil B. Schutlebecker. So I cross-referenced the name with Jooky Garafalo and Nathan’s Famous, and I came up with this guy.” She turns her laptop toward me.

  I recognize him instantly. Thinning blond hair down to his shoulders. Squinty, close-set blue eyes. And a smile that looks like it’s been cut out of a toothpaste ad and pasted onto his face.

  “That’s El Gurgitator,” I say.

  “I know,” Cyn says. “I’ve been reading about him. He doesn’t exactly have a good reputation.”

  El Gurgitator — aka the Gurge — is the most infamous eater on the circuit. He’s won his share of contests and has been accused of cheating more than any other eater.

  “The Gurge sold me the Jooky dog?”

  “Well . . . he sold you something,” Cyn says slowly.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Virgil Schutlebecker has a pretty active history on eBay,” Cyn says. “He sells old comic books, souvenirs, all kinds of collectibles. His buyer-satisfaction rating on eBay is kind of lousy. That’s probably why he’s using BuyBuy now.” Cyn raises her knees, wraps her long arms around her shins. And spins in her chair to face me. “I’ve been thinking. When we were looking at that hot dog, there was this yellow stuff on it.”

  “Yeah. It looks like mustard. So?”

  “So who takes time to put mustard on a hot dog during an eating contest?”

  I let that sink in, and the further it sinks, the sicker I feel.

  I manage to say, “You think the Jooky dog is . . . fake?”

  “Look at that face,” HeyMan says, gesturing at the screen. “I wouldn’t buy a dollar bill for a nickel from a guy like that.”

  “But how can it be fake?” I say. “It came with a Certificate of Authenticity!”

  “I’ve been trying to track down Jooky Garafalo, too,” Cyn says. “He’s harder to find.”

  “Jooky’s a mysterious guy. Jooky is probably just a nickname.”

  “His real name is Jeremy,” Cyn says.

  “How did you find that out?”

  “I am a woman of mystery. But I can’t find an e-mail or anything for him. He doesn’t even have a website. I thought if we talked to him, we could find out if the Jooky dog is real. If we can prove it’s fake, BuyBuy has a policy that says if you don’t get what you paid for, you get your money back.”

  “I can get my money back?”

  “If you can prove it.”

  “It has mustard on it!” I say, triumphant — but even as the words leave my mouth, I know that won’t be enough. The Gurge would claim I put the mustard on myself, since one mummified half dog is pretty much like any other. Without Jooky, I’d have a hard time making my case.

  Cyn and HeyMan are giving me equally pitying looks.

  “I think I’ve been Gurged,” I say.

  The day before the qualifier, I have a dilemma: fast or gorge? Some of the stuff I’ve been reading online says that it’s best to eat nothing the day before the contest. The theory is that if you’re starving, food moves out of your stomach and into the intestines more quickly, providing additional capacity. But others say that you’re better off continuing the stomach-stretching right up until a few hours before the event.

  I have credit left on my SooperSlider card, a head of cabbage in the fridge, and enough money to buy several pizzas. I still haven’t made up my mind whether to eat when I go downstairs for breakfast. Mal is at the table, eating Cheerios. Dad’s gone. Mom is in her study doing something on her computer. I open the fridge and gaze sleepily at the shelves of food. I see yogurt and pickles and mustard and mayo and eggs and milk. No leftovers except some fish sticks from last night, and I can’t deal with fish sticks for breakfast. I don’t much like fish sticks anyway — just the name grosses me out. Mom makes them way too often, since it’s the only form of protein Mal will eat. In the crisper drawer is cabbage, celery, carrots, and lettuce. Nothing looks good. There’s a loaf of bread on the counter. I could make toast, but that doesn’t sound good either.

  I sit down across from Mal and pour some Cheerios from the open box into my palm. Mal freezes, staring at my handful of cereal. He takes a Cheerio from his bowl and puts it in his mouth. I imitate him, eating a single Cheerio from my hand.

  We chew, me looking at Mal, Mal staring at my hand. Then we do it again.

  I can see why Mal likes eating Cheerios this way. Each t
iny crisp circle has its own special crunch and its own flavor profile: sweet, then sour, then a hint of salt and a sort of grainy, pasty, oaty aftertaste. I wonder what the world record is for eating Cheerios.

  Mal and I eat Cheerios until the box is empty. He ventures a look at my face, smiles, then looks away quickly.

  “Okay,” he says.

  I’m rewatching a Jooky Garafalo interview online from a couple of years ago. Jooky had just won a scrapple-eating contest in Pennsylvania. I have to look up scrapple. It’s fried slabs of cornmeal and pork. Jooky ate nine pounds of it. That’s a lot of scrapple.

  “It’s all about the flow, bro,” Jooky says. “I get in this, like, Zen state of mind, and I, like, get my swallow muscles going in this slow-jam rhythm, man. It ain’t nothin’ without the flow. There’s lots of guys faster than me, and guys with bigger stomachs, but if they ain’t got the flow, I’m gonna waste ’em every time, ’cause I am, like, the Master of Flow.”

  Jooky is a cool-looking guy. He has a shaved head, several studs in his ears, and big aviator sunglasses, and he always wears a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off so you can see his tattooed arms. All his tats are fast-food logos: McDonald’s, KFC, Chipotle, Sonic, Subway, and so on. He gets paid by the companies to display their logos.

  “But you don’t always win,” the host pointed out. “Joey Chestnut beat you three years running at the Nathan’s Famous event. Does he have the flow, too?”

  “Joey, man, he’s from another planet, another universe. Dude has, like, a black hole in his belly. Ain’t nobody know where it go, bro. Another dimension, maybe.”

  “So you must have been relieved that he didn’t enter the scrapple contest.”

  “Man, I don’t care who enters what. I just love to eat. You feel me?”

  Jooky is a class act.

  I hear a metallic clank from downstairs and jump up. It’s the sound of the mail slot. I go pounding down the stairs quick to get to it before my mom.

  I’m too late. Mom is standing in the hall holding the mail as I skid to a stop in my stocking feet. She looks up. “David? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, desperately hoping the Visa bill isn’t in there. “I just heard the mail come.”

  “Are you expecting something?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, it’s probably nothing but bills.” She drops the mail on the bureau. “I have to run out for a bit. Can you stay with Mal? He’s in the backyard.”

  As soon as she leaves, I flip through the mail. Sure enough, one of them is the Visa bill. I put the mail back on the bureau, then nudge the Visa envelope toward the wall until it drops behind the bureau. I hear it hit the floor with a soft tok. The bureau is big and heavy, and nobody ever cleans behind it. If she does find it she’ll assume it fell back there accidentally. By the time the next bill arrives I’ll have won the Pigorino Bowl — I hope — and I’ll be able to pay her the two thousand dollars.

  It’s not the best plan, but it’s all I got. I turn away from the bureau and find Mal standing in the hallway watching me. He looks away. He’s holding a long black feather, probably a tail feather from a grackle or crow.

  “Tomorrow’s the big day, Mal. Wish me luck.”

  He holds the feather in front of him and moves it back and forth as if he is a priest bestowing a blessing, then clomps up the stairs to add his new Thing to his Wall.

  Saturday morning Bridgette shows up for breakfast and Mom makes pancakes. Bridgette is full of wonderful news. She got an A on her biology labs and a job promotion in the admissions office, and Derek blah blah blah. It’s more interesting to watch Mal eat his Cheerios.

  I skip the pancakes. Instead, I drink a half-gallon carton of apple juice. I want to take in enough to give my stomach a little stretch, but nothing that will stay there for long. The contest is at noon, and I’ll need all that room for pizza.

  Bridgette takes a break from her bragging to notice me. “Gross. Why are you drinking straight out of the carton?”

  “To save on dishes,” I say.

  Bridgette looks at Mom, who smiles and shrugs. “David’s contest is today,” she says, as if that makes it okay for me to drink out of the carton.

  “You’re letting him do that?”

  “David is old enough to make his own decisions,” she says, as if saying it will make it true.

  I want to hug her, but of course I don’t, because our family is not big on hugging. Except for when Mal starts shrieking; then we hug Mal.

  “You should come,” I say to Bridgette. “You might find it interesting.”

  “Derek told me about that thing at his fraternity. He said you were eating roadkill.”

  “Just one bite,” I say.

  Mom gives me a look, starts to say something, then clamps her mouth shut and gives her head a little shake.

  “Competitive eating is a sport,” I say. “If you knew anything about it you’d know that.”

  “I know it’s disgusting,” Bridgette says.

  “It’s just as much a sport as weight lifting or gymnastics. It’s about pushing the limits of what the human body is capable of.”

  “Whatever,” Bridgette says.

  “You just hate it because I’m good at it,” I say.

  That takes her by surprise. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because it’s true. You have to be the best at everything.”

  “There are lots of things I’m not good at.”

  “Name one thing — besides eating — that I can do better than you.”

  She thinks for a moment. “You’re better with Mal.”

  “Okay,” Mal says.

  “What else?” I say.

  Bridgette looks at me blankly, as if she’s never seen me before.

  I say, “You don’t actually know anything about me, do you?”

  I meet HeyMan under the fiberglass cow. It’s a hot, humid, windless day. We sit on the grass in the shadow of Vaccie’s freshly painted udder.

  “You know how many eaters are entered?” HeyMan asks.

  “A dozen, last I checked.”

  The street is blocked off in front of Pigorino’s. Some guys are setting up a long table on top of a low stage decorated with red, green, and white Italian flags. A big banner over the stage reads “First Annual Pigorino Bowl Qualifier” in alternating red and green letters. The smell of baking pizza permeates the muggy air. My stomach is making noises — I don’t know if it’s from being hungry or nervous. Or both.

  “I wonder how many pizzas they’ll make,” HeyMan says.

  “Well, I plan to eat four, at least. But I bet most of those guys won’t make it through two.”

  “You worried about choking again?”

  “That was a fluke,” I say, hoping it’s true. “I’ll be dipping the crusts in water this time, going for maximum slide factor. Is Cyn coming?”

  “She said she’d be here. Hey, here come the Fangors. Are they entered?” He points at a pair of identical blond hulks making their way down the sidewalk, followed by two blond girls, also identical. The Fangors have two sets of twins in their family. The girls, Tessa and Trina, are two years ahead of us in school and generally considered to be the hottest girls in Vacaville.

  “Tim and Tommy are entered, but not the girls.” I spot a familiar face. “See that guy in front of the drugstore?”

  “The huge guy?”

  “Yeah. He’s from Derek’s fraternity.” I wave. “Hey Hoover!”

  Hoover looks at us blankly, then recognizes me and makes a face. He crosses the street to join us.

  “Hey kid,” he says. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be here.”

  “The contest was my idea,” I say.

  He barks out a sour laugh. “It would be. Oh well. I can always hope you choke.”

  “He choked last time he ate pizza,” HeyMan says.

  Hoover brightens. “So there’s hope for me?”

  “That was a fluke,” I say.

  “Just tell me Joey
Chestnut ain’t in town.”

  “Pretty sure he’s at Coney Island right now for the Nathan’s Famous contest,” I say.

  “Oh, that’s today, huh?”

  “Yeah, all the pros are in New York, so it’s just us amateurs.” I don’t mention Egon Belt.

  “So it’s down to you and me then, huh? Clash of the Titans!”

  “I guess.”

  Hoover heads over to where they’re setting up the tables, and I see Cyn coming toward us. She waves and crosses the street.

  “I have intelligence,” she says.

  “You don’t have to brag about it,” HeyMan says.

  “I mean intelligence as in information. About your friend Virgil Schutlebecker.”

  “The Gurge is no friend of mine,” I say.

  “Yeah, well, he’s no friend of a lot of people. I found a whole Reddit thread online full of Gurge haters. And that’s not all. He also —”

  Cyn is interrupted by a blast of feedback from the stage. We look over and see Papa Pigorino himself standing on the stage in front of a microphone.

  “Contestants!” he shouts into the microphone. “All come-a to front-a of stage!”

  “That’s me.” I run down the street to where the eaters are gathering in front of the stage.

  Papa is strutting back and forth across the stage in his white suit with his fake accent, telling us-a he-a is-a proud-a to be-a here on this-a historic occasion. I see several familiar faces and a few strangers. Hoover is front and center, along with the Fangor twins. Jake Grossman, the biggest kid in my high school, is there, and so is Hap Hardwick, the football coach. Every single one of them is bigger than me, and they all look hungry. I see Egon Belt strolling unhurriedly toward us from down the block.

  Papa is going over the rules, reading them from a long sheet of yellow paper. Pizza boxes may not be opened until the starting bell. Each pizza is cut into eight slices, and whoever finishes the most slices in ten minutes wins. The entire slice must be eaten to count — no tossing the crust. Chipmunking is allowed, but the contestant must swallow whatever is in his mouth within sixty seconds after the final bell or be disqualified. A “Reversal of Fortune” is automatic disqualification. Reversal of Fortune is a nice way of saying barf.