This story is so fun to write.

Chapter 3:

Something really cold is on my head. I try to push it away, but it comes again.

Cold and wet.

Oh God. I have a huge headache. I feel like it's going to split my head in two. I open one eye.

I see the huge brown eye again, and almost scream. But then I realize it's Cody.

"Tapeworm," he whispers worriedly, pulling that wet towel away from my face. That thing's like ice. "Tapeworm, are you ok?"

I really don't deserve Cody. He's always there, helping me along. He does everything for me. What do I do for him?

Puke on our dissection pig and get both of us a D. It was the only D he had ever gotten. It was the only time he was mad at me too. Wait, I take that back. I remember a couple of other times he was made at me. Like the time when I accidentally stuck marshmallows on the ceiling in his suite and he got in trouble, and the other time when I nearly burned his closet down and ooh… the time Zack threw dog poop at me but I ducked and it hit Cody… and the time when I was screaming and his cake didn't rise properly… oh God. Off track—again. Sorry. Well, the point is it wasn't the only time Cody was mad at me.

"Where's Zack?" I manage to croak. See, I told you that headache was killing me. I can't even talk right. That's saying something for me.

He closes his eyes, trying to keep his anger in, and breathing in deep. Cody does that when he's mad. I should know. I get that a lot from him.

"Mr. Forrester sent him to the principal's office," Cody says through gritted teeth. Mr. Forrester's our science teacher by the way. "Tapeworm, why possessed you to vomit everywhere?"

Sometimes Cody uses such big words that I can't understand him. But he only broadens his vocabulary when he's mad or he doesn't want me to understand him. Like one time when he was mad at me, (I'd put itching powder in his P.E. clothes on April Fool's Day), he used such big words, I just looked really stupid at him. Then he laughed at me, and he stopped being mad at me. I understood what he just said though.

"I don't know." I think about it for a second. And then it all comes flooding back. "I thought it was you, Cody. I thought it was your eye that I had to dissect and I thought I was going to kill you, and then I was freaking out and…"

I stop and get up to head over to the sink. I have to throw up again. Mr. Bass sends me to the office after I'm done. He wants to make sure I'm not really sick or anything.

I head over there, almost wishing I could break the sidewalk with each step I take. I'm mad. Stupid Zack.

I didn't find it necessary for him to scare me with that eye. Stop laughing at me! It's not funny!

I don't know why people find it funny when I suffer.

I've reached the nurse, and she looks at me like I'm a piece of dirt. "Oh, it's you."

How can I help it that I've been to her at least twice a month? It's not my fault.

Ok, I admit all those times I decided to try to beat Monique, the hugest snob in the school, at gymnastics—it was sort of my fault. She calls herself a cheerleader—a perfect gymnast for God's sakes! She just said that she could beat me at any gymnastics. I took her bet. She told me she bet I couldn't do a cartwheel, and then a handstand with my feet balancing against a fence. I told her I could. I practiced a two times—I fell, both times, and then I made it two times. I told her, "You know what? I'm ready." She looked at me like I was a piece of dirt. I swear, I get that look a lot. And then she said, "Who thinks I'll win?" Nobody answered, and I tried not to laugh. They just sort of looked at the ground the way Cody looks when he's trying to lie. And then I managed to do it, but she fell. Everybody started clapping for me—that was the greatest part of all.

So I won. The next day, she came to me and said, "How about we do it again? This time we have to do a double cartwheel," or something like that. I said, "I don't even know what that is." She was like, "I don't either." I, trying to be reasonable, asked nicely, "Monique, how can we do it if we both don't know what it is?" And then she got all mad and said, "Do you think you're better than me? Let's try it at lunch."

It turned out that she did know what she was talking about, but being the sore loser that she is, she lied to me. So she went out there and did something crazy, messed up, and tried to cover it up by doing the splits. And then she said, "I bet you can't do that."

Of course I couldn't do it. What type of normal male child can do the splits without causing himself severe pain? So I said, "No, Monique. I can't do that," because it was the truth.

And then she got all snobby was like, "See, I told you I was better in gymnastics than you."

Of course she is! Why should I care? When did I tell her that I was better? I swear, sometimes girls are the strangest people. Monique, especially.

She went on and on about how much better she was than me, so I got really mad. I had to do something. So, I did a cartwheel, (yeah, I can do one—I'm not completely inflexible), messed up, and did not do the splits, but sprained my ankle in an attempt to sort of do them. I did something funny to my pelvis too, because it kept hurting for like a week, but then it went away. That was really stupid of me, I know. And it's not funny—don't laugh! It was almost—not quite—as stupid as the time I broke my leg when I tripped over a manhole, (how do you do that?), and the time when I jumped off the top of a building and broke my arm. I was just trying to fly.

Anyway, it wasn't really special that I was at the nurse's office again. She poked my throat with a stick, and almost made me throw up again. I personally don't think she has any credentials whatsoever. She kept me there for a longer time than necessary—she made me change into my emergency clothing, take a couple of Tylenols, tried to force me to take a nap, and then finally decided to let me go.

By the time I got out, it was almost lunchtime. I cut the end of my history class, and waited for Cody to come out. If Mrs. Thompson asked, I could always just tell her I was at the nurse.

Anyway, I was really excited and made Cody hurry as fast as he could to get to lunch. Today's hotdog day.

My golly, you must be thinking. Crazy Tapeworm and his hotdogs.

Well, you're right. I LOVE HOTDOGS! I could live on hotdogs alone. I could eat one everyday.

I finger the money in my pocket. My mom always gives me eight dollars before I go to school so I can buy something from the cafeteria. She's too lazy to make me a lunch. Usually, the food in the cafeteria is complete junk, but on hotdog day, I'm always first in line.

I get in line, and Mr. Mush, the cafeteria man, gives me a lopsided smile. (Usually people always have cafeteria ladies, but I have a cafeteria man). I fork over my money, and he gives me two cartons of milk, a branch of exactly ten grapes, two of those plastic packs with sporks and straws, two packaged brownies, two packages of "apples in a bag", and two hotdogs, even though I only have enough money for one. Mr. Mush knows how much I love hotdogs. (My mom always gives me more than actually needed—which is four dollars, because I have to get two of everything, or else I can't eat or think about anything else. She learned that in fourth grade—when I sort of actually got it—when she gave me only one peanut butter sandwich and I didn't do anything for the whole day but think about it. That included eating, sleeping, doing my homework—anything).

Well, who doesn't love hotdogs?

I flash him a smile that says thank you, and he nods, with that sort of crazy look on his face.

At school, they only have those weird packaged ketchups and no relish or onions or mustard, but it's ok. I grab two of the ketchup packets. Hotdogs would be good even plain, in my opinion. I sit down next to Cody at one of those hard metal tables, and he looks at me sort of weird. I think Cody gets tired of my hotdogs all the time. Not that I really care, of course.

"Tapeworm," he starts, brushing back his blonde bangs from his forehead. "Don't you ever get tired of eating those things?"

"He didn't mean that baby," I say, making a face of adoration at one of my hotdogs. "I swear, he didn't. I love you, little baby. I bet you would taste so good with some onions," I say, picking my other hotdog and kissing it.

Cody laughs. I, on the other hand, really don't see what's so funny. I don't like it when Cody insults my hotdogs.

"What?" I ask, wondering what on earth's so funny.

Cody keeps laughing, and then I laugh too, because Cody looks so funny when he laughs. But then all of the sudden Cody's not laughing anymore and he's coughing and his face is turning all strangled looking and then I'm starting to get scared.

Cody's wheezing and gasping, and he falls on the ground, and then finally I realize that he's having an asthma attack. Cody has really bad asthma, and sometimes I think that's why he's so bad at sports. He gets tired when he has to run too hard, and usually can't come into my room, because it's full of dust bunnies. (He came in and had allergies to the dust, so he had an asthma attack. At the time I was twelve, so I had no idea what was happening, so Cody ended up paying a visit to the emergency room). That's sort of also why he's such a neat freak. I need to find his inhaler, only it's in his backpack which is back at his locker. I'm thinking about whether or not I should go for the locker, but then Cody starts pulling along with his hand at the pocket of his jacket.

I put my hand in his pocket and pull out this inhaler like magic. At first I'm so shocked it's there, so I just stand there like an idiot, but then I realize what to do with it, and shove it in Cody's mouth. I push down on the little bottle thing a couple of times, and pretty soon Cody's not so white and he's not choking and wheezing anymore. He just looks a bit pale.

"Thanks Tapeworm," he manages to wheeze. I give him a couple of more puffs on the inhaler to make sure he's ok.

"No problem," I grin back at him. "Take it easy little buddy."

Cody laughs weakly. "Go eat your hotdogs Tapeworm."

"Right!" I cry. "Hotdogs!"

You know how I told you I have OCD? I have to eat each hotdog a certain way or else I feel like the end of the world is coming. First I have to kiss the each end two times. Then I have to spread ketchup on. If I don't have any other toppings, it's ok. But I have to spread the ketchup out with my index finger on my right hand, and that finger only. I have to finish each hotdog in an even number of bites, or else it doesn't work. (The time Zack dared me to do it, I finished each hotdog in two bites each). Or else I feel like Cody having an asthma attack.

Anyway, I pull Cody up from the floor. He sits down, drained, next to me, and gets ready to watch my hotdog ritual. He finds it actually entertaining, and I don't really mind. It makes me feel like I'm not that different or messed up.

But when I get back to my tray, my blood almost freezes.

One of my hotdogs is gone.

One of my hotdogs is gone.

I hear someone laugh, and I look up. It's Zack.

He has one quarter of my hotdog left in his hand. His cheeks are covered in ketchup. He ate my hotdog.

Review? Haha. You were supposed to laugh.