Zacktastic (3 page)

So far Madeline is winning. She's caught ten kernels of popcorn in a row that Quinn has tossed her. Now eleven. Now twelve. It's going so fast, I don't think she's really chewing and swallowing them. In my head I picture all the kernels piling up in her throat—like a big popcorn ball that's going to get bigger and bigger until it explodes.

Next up is kernel number thirteen. I've always heard thirteen is an unlucky number. I'm not sure why, but suddenly it occurs to me: What if the thirteenth kernel is the most dangerous one?

Quinn pitches the thirteenth one toward Madeline. For a few seconds time seems to slow down, so I can see it all happening in slow motion. Madeline tips her head back. She opens her mouth wider. The kernel is sailing through the air and into Madeline's open mouth. I can practically see it go down her throat and get lodged in a bad place, blocking her windpipe along with all those other kernels she didn't chew and swallow properly.

My heart is pounding, but no one else seems concerned. Quinn is all set to throw the fourteenth kernel. “No!” I say.

“Zack, calm down,” Mom says.

But Madeline is waving her hands in the air, signaling Quinn to stop. Her face is turning red. No, wait. It's not red. It's turning blue!

“Are you okay?” Mom asks.

“Madeline! Madeline!” Quinn runs to her side. So do the other kids.

“Give her space,” I tell everyone in my sternest voice, and I guess because they're all scared, they do exactly what I say and back away.

Madeline's face is purple by now. She's choking, no doubt about it. Luckily, I'd watched a YouTube video about how to do the Heimlich maneuver, so I know what to do. I step behind her and wrap my arms around her middle, leaning against her and tipping her forward just slightly. The other kids and Mom are gathered like parentheses around us, but I pay no attention to them. I'm only concentrating on Madeline. I ball my right hand into a fist and position it just above where her belly button should be. Then I grab my fist with my left hand and press hard into her abdomen to try to force the popcorn out.

“Don't hurt her!” Quinn cries.

I push again and again and again. It takes five
times, but finally Madeline coughs. I let her go and feel my whole body exhale as the offending thirteenth piece of popcorn pops back out of her mouth.

Quinn rushes forward. “Are you okay?” she asks.

“Oh yes, she's okay now,” Mom says. She sounds like she's trying to calm herself down as much as she's calming Madeline. She's stepped forward, too, rubbing Madeline's back as Madeline keeps on coughing. Out comes another piece of popcorn. Cough, and another. Cough, and another.

“Madeline?” Quinn says, her voice quavering.

“It's all right,” Mom says. “As long as she's coughing, she's not choking anymore.”

I know she's right about that because that's what it had said on the YouTube video: As long as someone is coughing, their airway isn't blocked.

“You did a good thing, Zack,” Mom tells me.

I look over at Quinn, waiting for her to say
good job
, too, and maybe even
thank you
. Bonus points if she admits I was right about the popcorn contest being a bad idea in the first place. But of course she doesn't. Meanwhile, Madeline coughs and coughs and coughs. Pretty soon there are dozens of kernels all over the lawn.

“It's the strangest thing,” I tell Eli quietly. “I only counted thirteen when she was swallowing them.”

“Me too,” Eli says.

“Obviously there were more,” Quinn says loudly. “At least a hundred. She broke a record!”

“I'm not sure about that,” Mom admits.

“But look at the ground!”

Mom looks down, and I see her eyes widen at all the kernels peppering the grass like seashells at the beach. She shakes her head, but I can tell she thinks it's strange. “Zack, why don't you get Madeline some juice,” she says.

I don't know why I should get the juice and not Quinn, since I'm the one who saved
Madeline's life, and Quinn is the one who did exactly nothing. But I go to the side table with the balloons strung up next to it, and I swipe a juice box to bring to Madeline. She downs it in nearly one gulp.

“Go easy,” Mom tells her.

“She's lucky I was here, wasn't she, Mom?” I say. “Can you imagine if I was inside, or if I hadn't watched that Heimlich video?”

“I don't even
want
to imagine,” Mom admits.

Madeline drains the last of the juice from the juice box. “I guess I should say thank you,” she tells me. Her face is red when she says it. I'm pretty sure it's not from choking but because she's embarrassed about the whole thing.

“Or maybe not,” Quinn says. “Maybe he distracted you with all his loud counting and it was all his fault!”

“I was counting in a perfectly normal voice,” I say. “You're the one who insisted on the stupid popcorn contest in the first place—which means
it's
your
fault. She could have
died
!”

“It's all right, Zack,” Mom says. “All's well that ends well. Let's get back to the party business. We'll just disqualify this contest, which makes . . .” Mom pauses and looks down at her points tally. “Annie the grand prize winner of the day! Congratulations, Annie!”

Everyone echoes congratulations to Annie. Even Madeline, who has pretty much recovered, as far as I can tell. I'm watching her closely—her face is back to its regular color, and her breathing is totally normal. She's not coughing at all anymore, but I hear her mumble to herself, “I really wished I would win.”

“Too bad for her, you don't get things just because you wish for them,” Eli whispers to me.

I nod in agreement. If you ask me, Madeline should be grateful she's alive and not be so worried about winning. But I don't have any time to concern myself with her priorities, because suddenly there's an itch that starts on my right
foot's big toe. I squirm all my toes around to make it stop, but it just gets worse. I drop down, pull off my sneaker, and scratch my toe through my sock. But it's not working. So then I pull off my sock and—

“Zack! Ew!” Quinn screams. “Mo-
om
!”

Mom looks down at me on the ground. “What on earth are you doing?”

“I think something bit me,” I tell her. I hold my foot out to her so she can see my toe. “I hope it wasn't anything poisonous. Do you know how many people die each year because of poisonous insect bites?”

“You're
not
dying, Zack,” Mom says.

I look back at my toe. I have to admit that it looks normal. Aside from the little birthmark that's always been there, a squiggle and a dot, there's nothing there. No bite.

So why is it itching so much? Is it possible there's an
invisible
bite on my toe? Invisible bites may be more dangerous. . . .

“Pee yew,” Quinn says loudly. She holds her nostrils closed. When she talks, it sounds like she has a cold. “You're stinging ub da whole backyard wid dat ding.”

“Huh?”

She unplugs her nose for just as long as it takes her to say, “You're stinking up the whole backyard with that thing!”

That
thing
is my
foot
. I kick my leg up so it's almost in her face. She drops her hand again to bat my foot away.

“Gross!” she cries.

“Zack, really,” Mom says.

It can't be that bad. I lower my leg to smell it myself. I can't help but cringe because, well, my foot is a bit smellier than average.

I sniff again. There's something strangely likeable about the smell of your own smelly feet. The only word I can think of to describe it is
goodsgusting
.

Goodsgusting
: Adjective. When something
smells good and disgusting at the same time.

“You don't even smell human,” Quinn tells me.

“You don't even look human,” I retort.

“All right,” Mom says. “I think we've had enough drama for one day. Zack, go get the calamine lotion. It's in the hall closet.”

Ah, yes. Calamine lotion. If there is something dangerous about an invisible bite, the lotion might neutralize the poison. I rub an extra amount on, like half the bottle. Then I put my sock back on and my shoe over it. It's kind of squishy as I walk back to the yard.

I spot Uncle Max standing by the fence and rush toward him to say hello. “How's the birthday so far?” he asks.

“It's a long story,” I tell him.

But I don't have time to fill him in, because Mom says it's time for presents. Quinn and I always save the best for last. The difference is, I always save my Uncle Max present for the end,
but Quinn opens hers first. She spots it right away, wrapped up in a brown burlap sack. Uncle Max doesn't believe in using wrapping paper. It's too wasteful, he says. Besides, it's what's inside that counts.

Quinn pulls out a silver jewelry box, her initials engraved on the top. It's definitely the best present he's ever given her. Not that she really cares, since it's from Uncle Max. “Thanks,” she says after Mom prompts her.

We take turns, so next I open my present from Eli. Then Quinn takes a turn, then I open the present from Will and George. Quinn's turn again. I open my present from Mom and wait for Quinn.

And then.

My turn.

But there's nothing else with my name on it. Nothing wrapped in newspaper or tinfoil or even Saran wrap. Apparently Uncle Max didn't get anything for me.

I guess I'm not his favorite after all.

Unfortunately, I still have to sit through Quinn opening up ALL the rest of her presents. If I had to describe the experience, I'd say it's like watching the world's most boring movie—in sloooooooow motion. First Quinn holds up the package so she and her slame friends can
ooh
and
aah
over it.
Ooh, it's a box. Aah, it's covered in wrapping paper
. Like they've never seen a birthday present before. Like there aren't twenty others on the pile where that one came from. Then Quinn takes whatever ribbon or bow there is off the package and puts it aside to save. She slips her finger under the tape and lifts it up very gently, and then pulls the paper off. Her slame friends squeal like she did something difficult and important. Meanwhile, Quinn folds the paper up into a perfect square and puts it in a pile. And when all of that is said and done, finally, she looks at her present.

At this moment, Quinn is unwrapping her
five billionth present. Okay, maybe not actually the five billionth, but it's taking so long that it sure seems like it. Plus, it's a total fire hazard to have so many presents piled up around us. What if flames erupted and we needed to escape the backyard but everyone tripped over Quinn's loot and fell down and couldn't make it to safety?

I start to shove everything to the side. “Zack, stop, it's not yours!”

“I was just cleaning up,” I say. “For safety reasons.”

“All right, all right,” Mom says. “Zack, stay on your side. Quinn, on yours.”

Behind me, I hear someone go,
Humphhhh
.

When I turn around, there's Uncle Max shaking his head, his shaggy hair flopping from one side to the other. “Think of all the trees that were sacrificed just to wrap up the presents you and Quinn got today.”

“Mostly Quinn,” I mutter.

“If there's one thing I've learned in all my
years,” he goes on, “it's that you can't go back and capture what once was. You can only go forward and live with the consequences.”

I give my own
humphhhh
. I can't believe he's this upset about wrapping paper. It's like the wrapping paper is more important to him than I am. Mom will recycle it anyway, which Uncle Max knows. He's the one who brought over our three recycling bins—one for paper, one for plastic, and one for cans. He made us promise to always sort our garbage and never get lazy about it.

Quinn is finally done, and it's time for cake.

Twenty-one candles have been lit: ten each for Quinn and me, and one for us to grow on. Everyone sings the “Happy Birthday” song.

“Nut job,” Quinn mutters under her breath.

“Slame,” I mutter under mine.

“Make a wish!” Mom calls when the song ends. She's holding up her camera to get her annual picture of Quinn and me standing together, blowing out our candles. In all the photos around
our house, it looks like Quinn and I actually like each other.

That's the thing about photos. They don't always tell you what it's like in real life.

My toe burns. And something else is burning inside of me, too. I'm upset that I didn't have a bunch of friends to invite to my party. And I'm upset that I didn't have a big pile of presents to prove it. And I'm upset that the one person I count on the most didn't even bother to bring me anything.

Where is Uncle Max now? I scan the backyard, but he's nowhere to be seen. Well, that figures. Quinn's friends are chanting, “Quinn! Quinn! Quinn!” Like she's the only one having a birthday.

I bend my head toward the cake to get the candle-blowing part over with. I know most of the group will be clapping for Quinn—not me. It's like I'm not having a birthday at all. For a second I imagine the candles exploding. That'd stop their
chanting for sure.

“Zack!” Mom suddenly screams.

I look up again. “What?”

“Your face—it looked like it was on fire.”

I touch my fingers to my cheeks, and the skin feels smooth and normal. But maybe this tradition is too dangerous. Kids all over the world are leaning too close to fire on their birthdays. I take a step back. “Come on,” Quinn says impatiently.

“Don't lean too close,” I tell her.

“Don't tell me what to do.”

“All right,” Mom says. “Let's try this again. Make a wish, kids—and be careful.”