Chapter 3

DEPRIVED

After what seems like ten years but is still too short to me, we stop hugging and get back to our seats. Fifteen minutes left in lunch. Plenty of time, as long as we skip chewing and go for the direct-food-inhale.

“Okay, so that hug gave me a new idea,” Eggy announces.

“For Operation Happiness?” Brainzilla guesses, and Eggy nods.

“Okay, so the idea is called Hands Across the Football Field,” Eggy says.

“I already love it,” Flatso gushes.

“The whole school would join hands for five minutes,” Eggy says, and I look at her like she’s the one who’s cuckoo.

Zitsy seems into it, though, and leans forward. “And then what?”

“Maybe pass a squeeze back and forth,” Eggy adds. Wow. It’s so… over the top.

“Um—” I start, but Zitsy interrupts.

“I think the key here is snacks.”

“I wasn’t thinking snacks,” Eggy admits.

“Either way, it definitely has potential,” Brainzilla says, but Tebow shakes his head.

“Coach Struthers hates having civilians out on ‘his’ turf,” he says. “He’ll get the whole team to chase us off.”

It’s true. Coach Struthers is a nut about the turf. Once I went to watch Tebow practice, and when I stepped on one of the chalk lines, I got whistle-blasted loud enough to cause brain damage.

Yep. That’s just one example of the tragicomedy that is North Plains High.

It’s kind of like Hamlet meets Bridesmaids.

I watch Zitsy push his bag of vinegar chips around, not eating them. That’s not like him. Usually he eats so fast and so much that it’s like watching a wood chipper. Zitsy not eating is bumming me out.

“You know what? Marty kind of got me down,” I say. Then I stand up, give my whole body a shake, and say, “Get off! Get off! GET OFF!” This usually helps me brush away icky, ugly, heebie-jeebie feelings, but it doesn’t do much to counteract my reputation as a nut job.

“Why does Marty have to be such a Hater, anyway?” Flatso asks, not really expecting an answer.

But I surprise Flatso with my response. “Because”—I give her a grin—“he’s deprived.”

“Hellz yeah,” says Eggy, and Tebow crows, “It’s on!”

“Oh, boy.” Brainzilla puffs out a breath that lifts her bangs from her forehead. “Here we go.”

Yeah, that’s right—it’s time for another round of our favorite game: DEPRIVED!

Goal: To be the object of greatest pity.

How to Play: State a way in which your life has been hideously deprived.

In the end, we declare Zitsy the winner.

He spends the last ten seconds of lunch vacuuming chips and high-octane Coke into his digestive system.

That’s when I know that my friend is all right.