Free Hold the Pickles by Vicki Grant Page B

positive as I’d hoped.

Chapter Three
    By the time I made it from Level D to the exhibition floor, half my samples had slid off my tray, and I was seriously hot. Sweat dripped down my back, and my glasses had steamed up like a shower door.
    I could still see enough, though, to realize there were other mascots at the fair. In the crowd I spotted a drumstick, a sushi roll, a cupcake and at least three burgers. They were all hollering slogans and doing silly waves to attract customers. It was a relief to find out I wasn’t the only person willing to make a fool of myself for a few bucks.
    There was also plenty of real food. I remembered Hammy saying I could eat as many samples as I wanted. Suddenly the afternoon didn’t seem that bad. I squinted out Frank’s mouth to see what my choices were. The Codfather Fish ’n Chips looked good. I was dragging myself over to get in line when I had a terrible thought. How was I going to eat anything? The hotdog’s mouth was a canoe-shaped grin covered in black mesh. There was nowhere to put the food.
    I tried to slump in disappointment, but my wiener prison wouldn’t even allow me to do that. I was trapped. My only option was to start handing out samples.
    I didn’t think I’d have many takers. All the other mascots had food that people would actually want to eat. My healthy hotties weren’t hot anymore, and they sure didn’t look too healthy. I didn’t know if the added fiber turned them gray or if all wieners would look that sick without artificial color. I did know one thing though. There was no way I’d eat any—even if I had a mouth to do it with.
    I stood on the sidelines, holding my tray out and occasionally muttering “Free samples.” Everyone ignored me. I couldn’t bring myself to do Hammy’s whole dorky sales pitch. I did have some pride—although you’d never know it to look at me.
    I was almost ready to give up when this kid stopped right in front of me. He looked at my samples and said, “Ooh. Nice.” I was hopeful for a second. Then he said, “Where’d you get those—the morgue?”
    That was it. Something snapped inside me. I mean, these were Hogg’s Doggs! No one could talk about my uncle’s food like that! (Other than me, of course.)
    I lowered my voice to make it as manly as I could. I sounded just like my Aunt Maxie. Then I hollered right in his ear, “I’ll have you know you’re talking to Frank Lee Better!”
    I curled up one arm and pumped my tennis-ball bicep. “I’m all natural! High fiber! Low fat! I’m the best wiener on the market!”
    The kid snorted, “Yeah, I bet you are,” and left.
    My rant hadn’t worked as well as I’d wanted. It hadn’t convinced the kid and had only managed to lure over one other customer, a little old lady. She held her purse with one hand and fingered the samples with the other.
    â€œI’m just trying to find a nice warm one,” she said in her sweet-little-old-lady voice. (As if that made her germs less deadly than the rest of ours.) She finally settled on an end piece with extra mustard.
    She was sliding her glasses down to inspect it when I heard a girl’s voice say, “These are all natural? Really? They look delicious!”
    I waited for the punch line. My guess was that the other kid had sent someone over to torment me. I tipped my head back to get a better look and immediately realized I’d make a mistake. I had a lot more forehead than I usually did. The movement threw my balance off. I toppled over backward.
    My pickled feet flew up in the air. My samples scattered. I landed hard on my sesame-seed bun. I worried for a second that everyone had seen my tighty-whities, and that’s the last thing I remember.

Chapter Four
    â€œFrank…? Frank?”
    I blinked a few times, and this beautiful teenage girl appeared through the black screen of my