Chapter One Ancient potatoes lurk in our bedroom closets Under beds with dust bunnies In the toes of rubber boots no one has worn since spring When Mom finds one of the withered gray tubers she waves it in our faces Do your homework Rudy she says Cyrus clean your room Or I’ll touch you with this putrid thing I’ll cook it in your soup without you knowing A slimy tornado of fear whirls in my throat at the thought of wrinkly-potato soup I try not to gag I expect the potato to clink and clack when Mom shakes it in my face but of course it doesn’t It’s not a baby’s rattle it’s a potato A potato that looks like it’s had a fight with a hole punch The shriveled spud is 1
the leftover ammo from a potato-gun battle between my brother Rudy and me Rudy’s eight and I’m nine A potato gun looks like a water pistol but instead of water you fill it with potato First you find a big potato in the stinky kitchen drawer Then you shove the gun’s short barrel in past the peel to load it with potato flesh A potato pellet is shaped like a pencil eraser only it’s crunchy and white not rubbery and pink It doesn’t exactly hurt when you get shot with a potato pellet but it can sting Sometimes if Mom’s out of potatoes Rudy and I battle with apples Once when Mom was at work we tried a banana It was disgusting Banana pellets don’t sting they just mush and dribble Eventually Rudy and I tire of shooting each other with bits of spud We get distracted by the tv or lego Or by Wigglechin our cat who is old and often clinging to things she’s trying not to fall from Like the living room curtains or the dining-room chandelier 2
