Hold the Pickles by Vicki Grant

Chapter One
    A hotdog.
    No, it was worse than that. A healthy hotdog.
    A six-foot, all-natural, high-fiber, low-fat, live-in wiener. I couldn’t believe it.
    When Uncle Hammy called to ask if I’d like to work for him at the Food Fantasia Fun Fair, I was actually kind of excited. I mean, who wouldn’t be? The job offered the two things fifteen-year-old boys care most about in life: food and money.
    All I had to do was hand out samples from his hotdog stand for an afternoon. I could eat as much as I wanted from the other food stalls plus he’d pay me ten bucks an hour.
    Ten bucks an hour!
    I couldn’t believe my luck. Happy little money birds twittered around in my head. Up to that point, my luck had only come in one variety: rotten. Now it looked like something good was actually going to happen for me.
    The offer came at exactly the right moment. Just before Hammy called, I’d been having a little “discussion” with my mother. I really, really needed a personal trainer, but she refused to pay for one. She wouldn’t even talk about it.
    â€œDan,” she said and laughed into her cup of coffee. “What do you need a personal trainer for?”
    I’m sure the answer was obvious to everyone but her.
    Girls. That’s the other thing most fifteen-year-old boys care about. With the way I looked, though, I knew I didn’t stand a chance with them. I couldn’t do much about my glasses or my braces or my all-around nerdy vibe. But I figured I might be able to do something about my scrawny physique—or at least a paid professional could.
    I did the math and took the job on the spot. If I worked the whole afternoon, I figured I could afford a couple of hours of training—maybe more. After all, Hammy had mentioned the possibility of tips.
    What he apparently forgot to mention—at least until I showed up at the Metro Center a week later, all ready to go—was that I had to wear a costume.
    â€œI didn’t tell you about that?” Hammy tried to sound innocent. “Funny. You wouldn’t think I could forget something… like this !”
    He whipped a giant pink-and-yellow foam hotdog out from behind his stall. Its rubbery arms flailed at me like a little kid in a fistfight.
    My dork instinct immediately kicked in. I raised my hands up in front of my face for protection.
    â€œIt’s not going to bite you,” Hammy said. “It’s a hotdog, Dan. If anything, you bite it .” He had a good chuckle over that, but I didn’t join in.
    â€œYou must be kidding. Wear that ?” I brought my arms down and folded them across my so-called chest. “Forget it. Not a chance.”
    Hammy leaned against the hotdog and draped his hand over its sesame-seed shoulder as if they were long-lost brothers. The truth was, they did bear a remarkable resemblance to each other. They both had goofy grins, wiry red hair and mustard dribbling down their fronts. The only obvious difference was that the hotdog also came with relish.
    Hammy picked up the hotdog’s three-fingered hand and wagged it at me. “C’mon, Dan! Where’s your sense of humor?”
    Where’s my sense of humor? This was the guy who decided to call himself “Hammy” because he thought it would be funny with the last name Hogg. Trust me, the name Hogg doesn’t need any help getting laughs. I know that from personal experience.
    â€œIt’s my dignity I’m worried about!” I said. “What would my friends say if they caught me parading around dressed like an enormous frankfurter?”
    Hammy’s face went serious. “I thought about that, actually. You know what I think they’ll say?” He paused while he came up with an answer. “They’ll say you look taller.”
    I glared at him. He knows I’m sensitive about my height.
    â€œAnd stronger too!” Hammy held out one of the hotdog’s arms. “Look. Built-in