Hold the Pickles
“Frank?”
I blinked a few times, and this beautiful teenage girl appeared through the black screen of my goofy grin. She was leaning over me, looking into my eyes—or what she no doubt thought were my eyes. Her long brown hair swept across Frank’s face. She was wearing pink lip gloss. She smelled like roses. It was almost too good to be true.
“Are you all right? Frank?”
She probably thought I was unconscious, but that wasn’t the reason I didn’t answer. The truth was, I was in shock. No one that good-looking had ever spoken to me in my entire life.
The old lady said, “Maybe we should call nine-one-one…”
My heart started pounding. I pictured paramedics pulling me out of the hotdog by my feet—and the beautiful girl realizing with horror that Frank Lee Better was actually Puny Little Me.
I couldn’t let that happen.
“Ah…” I said.
“He’s trying to talk!” She leaned in closer. I smelled her rose perfume again. That’s when I remembered something really important.
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