Slider: Chapters 1–8

Dark-red oregano-flecked sauce bubbles up through the cheese, surrounded by a hand-tossed, artfully charred crust.

In fact, I have a rather sophisticated palate. I like lobster and artichokes and stuff like that.

In fact, I have a rather sophisticated palate. I like lobster and artichokes and stuff like that.

“Where do you put it?” she asks.
That is what my dad calls a rhetorical question. I answer her anyway.

When my dad is not patching the driveway or poisoning dandelions or caulking invisible cracks around the windows or trimming the bushes to within a millimeter of each other he sells commercial refrigeration units.

Both of them are so crazy for college that they take classes in the middle of summer, and both of them have jobs on campus—Bridgette works in the admissions office, and Derek is the caretaker for his fraternity house.

Dad keeps our yard immaculate, but Mal manages to find something almost every day.

“Clairvoyance is a myth,” Derek says.

“Maybe he has super senses,” I say. “He can sniff out potato chips like a bloodhound.”
Derek nods and makes his thoughtful face. “Enhanced sensory capability has been observed in autistics.”

We don’t have White Castles in Iowa, but it’s the same thing: a greasy wafer of pulverized cow in a squishy bun half the size of your palm—a two- or maybe three-bite hamburger.

The rest of dinner is a constant stream of boasts from Bridgette punctuated by oohs and ahhs from Mom, with the occasional useless trivia erupting from Derek, and invisible me eating pizza.

The day before the qualifier, I have a dilemma: fast or gorge?

In other news, a Nathan’s Famous qualifier is being held at the Iowa Speedway.

Jooky Garafalo’s Mortification!!!

This HISTORIC HALF HOT DOG has been lovingly preserved and is now available for sale to a discriminating collector.

More chewing sounds come through the phone, and then he says, “Is that, like, a what-do-you-call-it...a euphemism?”

I bid three dollars and sit staring intently at the screen, willing my invisible competition to give up.

Dad got it from one of his clients and brought it home to use in front of his workbench in the garage, only he never got to do that because Mal fell in love with it, and what Mal loves to do is roil himself up.

The blue-jay feathers go every which way, but they’re always underlined by a black feather from a starling or grackle.

The blue-jay feathers go every which way, but they’re always underlined by a black feather from a starling or grackle.

I gape at the screen, willing it to return to some semblance of reality.

She keeps repeating the phrases “integrity of the auction environment” and “your credit card has been charged,” and “terms of service agreement,” all of which add up to “You’re stuck with your purchase.”

Eventually I slip into a fitful sleep.

“Okay,” Mal says, smiling, his cheeks distended with dry Cheerios.

“I have twenty bucks. I could invest in lottery tickets.”
HeyMan regards me doubtfully. “And when you don’t win? You got a backup plan?”