I'm Going to Be Famous Read Free

One sizzling sandwich straight from the Greasy Spoon, the best hamburger joint on the Oregon coast.”
    He sure can cook. Boy, that looks good.
    â€œWhen did you decide not to be famous?” I ask, trying not to be too pushy.
    â€œI don’t know,” he says, giving me another look. “I guess that’s something I just grew out of. I haven’t really thought about it for a long, long time. Come and get it, everybody, dinner is served!”
    We are all here now: Mom, Dad, John, Kerry, and me. I sit at the far end of the table. That’s because I’m left-handed. If I sit with a right-handed person to my left, we bump elbows. Four years ago, I did that to my aunt Roberta. She had a forkful of spaghetti almost to her mouth. It never made it. She didn’t say a thing. She just got up and left. Mom said that the white dress Aunt Roberta had on was brand-new and cost a lot of money. I felt guilty. John thought it was funny. So now I always sit where I can’t knock spaghetti or anything else into somebody’s lap.
    â€œArlo, why were you asking me about being famous?” Dad asks. He always wants to know why us kids ask the questions we do.
    â€œNo particular reason,” I reply. “I was just curious.”
    â€œTell him about our bet,” Kerry says with a mouthful of hamburger.
    â€œQuiet, Kerry.” I’m giving her my shut-up-or-I’ll-get-you look.
    â€œArlo thinks he’s going to be famous, Dad,” she continues.
    â€œI said quiet, Kerry.” My shut-up-or-I’ll-get-you look doesn’t work on Kerry anymore. Why am I tormented by having such a motor-mouth for a sister?
    â€œWhat’s this bet all about, Arlo?” Dad wants to know.
    Thanks a lot, Kerry. I’ll help myself to some more potato salad and try to act unconcerned.
    â€œOh, it’s just a little bet Kerry and I made, that’s all.”
    â€œWhat kind of bet?” he asks firmly. “You know your mother and I don’t approve of gambling.
    â€œIt’s not a money bet, Dad. It’s just … well … uh …”
    â€œYes, Arlo?” Mom asks.
    Mom sometimes seems to know what I’m thinking. She sits there quietly and in her gentle way reads me like a book. That’s how well she knows me. I think this is one of those times. I guess I might as well tell the whole story.
    â€œWell, it’s just a little bet on how fast I can eat bananas. I’m going to break the world record by eating seventeen bananas in less than two minutes. I’ve got three weeks to get ready. I think that’s September twenty-fourth.”
    Everyone has stopped eating and is looking at me. Big brother John, the hotshot senior in high school, is grinning like he’s in a toothpaste commercial. A little piece of onion is on his chin.
    â€œYou’re gonna eat what real fast, Arlo?” he asks.
    John is going to give me a hard time about this, I can tell.
    â€œBananas, John, bananas.”
    â€œAnd how fast are you going to eat them?”
    I didn’t like his tone of voice. It makes me mad. I can feel myself getting hot in the face again.
    â€œFast enough for a world record,” I answer, trying to stay calm. “I’m going to eat seventeen bananas in less than two minutes. That will put my name in the Guinness Book of World Records. And Kerry will then have to clean my room and do all the lawn mowing for one full year. That’s the bet.”
    John laughs. “Seventeen bananas in less than two minutes? C’mon, Arlo.”
    I knew he’d give me a hard time. No one has any faith in me. I must set John straight.
    â€œThat’s right. I can do it. I’m going to be famous!”
    â€œYou can’t do it, Arlo,” John says.
    There it is again, that word can’t.
    â€œYou want to bet, John?” I ask angrily.
    He puts down his hamburger, wipes his chin, and grins. “Sure, why not. I’ll bet you