Slider: Chapters 21–28

“Cyn says it’s ironic. I don’t even know what that means.”

It is covered by slabs of mozzarella and chunks of Iowa cheddar, followed by half a pound of Italian sausage nuggets, topped with a layer of pepperoni disks, then wedges of green and red bell pepper, mushrooms, sliced red onions, green and black olives, marinated artichoke hearts, and I don’t know how many whole garlic cloves.

Over that is a lattice of extra-thick bacon strips crowned by a nest of crispy hash browns containing an egg, sunny-side up, topped by a sprig of parsley.

I slide back into the booth and stare bleakly at the last four slices of pizza.

I look at HeyMan’s face, at his bristly jaw, at the concern and confusion in his eyes, but mostly what I see is my future contracting down to a knot of shame and misery.

I look at HeyMan’s face, at his bristly jaw, at the concern and confusion in his eyes, but mostly what I see is my future contracting down to a knot of shame and misery.

I imagine my mom’s face, and my dad refusing to look at me, and Bridgette’s smug, I-always-knew-you-were-a-loser expression.

As I eat my ice cream, he watches his dollop turn slowly into a white puddle.

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.

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.

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.

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.

El Gurgitator—aka the Gurge—is the most infamous eater on the circuit.

El Gurgitator—aka the Gurge—is the most infamous eater on the circuit.

He ventures a look at my face, smiles, then looks away quickly.

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.

The smell of baking pizza permeates the muggy air.

“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?”

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

As we all climb onto the stage and sit down behind the long table, Papa looks forlornly at the two dozen spectators.

Hoover looks askance at the water.

Egon Belt has finished his first slice and is munching contemplatively on his second, seemingly in no hurry at all.

Hoover and I are neck and neck, but I can tell from the redness of his face and the panicked look in his eyes that he is approaching the wall.

The Fangors are regarding their remaining half pizzas blearily, making no effort to continue.

Jake Grossman is slumped morosely in his seat; he never made it past the third slice.

I climb down off the podium, and HeyMan runs up to me and slaps me on the back. Seismic events occur within my digestive system. With a superhuman effort, I keep it together.

“It’s no honor, son,” he says after a moment. “It’s gluttony and conceit.”

His face seems to swell, and the whiteness of it gives way to red as the blood rushes from his stomach into his extremities.

So far, the only Things he has kept are a single rose petal and a V-shaped twig, both now resting on the edge of the patio near the foot of the chaise longue where I have been sitting for the past hour.

As boring as it is watching him crawl around in the grass, I can’t stop watching. It’s hypnotic.
My hypnotic trance is broken by the chirp of an arriving text message.