6 CHICAGO READER | DECEMBER 23, 2005 | SECTION ONE

“O K, this time’sfor real,”Sheldon said.The spoonfulof freshly

stirred peanut butter quivered inhis hand, a sheen of oil runningalong his thumb.

“Laer rof semit siht ko,” Maxsaid, his freckled cheeks glowingwith anticipation.

Sheldon touched the spoon tohis lips. He paused, waiting forthe thunderclap outside to pass.

“Maybe use celery,” Max said.“Yrelec esu ebyam.”

Sheldon dropped the spoononto the Formica counter thatstood between them. “God, Ialmost had it!” he said.

“Ti dah tsomla i dog,” Maxmuttered under his breath.

Rain leaked from the exposedrafters into a bucket a few feetbehind Sheldon’s stool. The con-stant dripping was getting to him,and so was Max. Sheldon liftedthe spoon again, leaving behind acrescent of peanut butter. “If youwant to help me, just keep yourmouth shut, OK?” he said.

Max lowered his head, brightred hair combed carefully andparted down the center. “Ko tuhshtuom ruoy peek tsuj em pleh ottnaw uoy fi,” he whisperedquickly, then reached immedi-ately for the spot of peanutbutter on the countertop. Hespread out the glob with his rightindex finger, then touched it upwith his left until it looked like a butterfly.

Sheldon opened his mouthagain and this time he got thespoon past his teeth, but before hecould take a bite, he started dryheaving. It was the smell. Peanutbutter and lentils just didn’t mix.He wished his mom hadn’tcooked dal again last night.

Max put his arm across thecounter and touched Sheldon’swrist, first with one hand, thenthe other. “Wait, Shel,” he said. “Ithink you might do better withhummus. Summuh htiw rettebod thgim uoy kniht i. Lehs tiaw.”

Sheldon lowered the spoonand furrowed his brow, pushinghis long bangs out of his face. “I told you. I’m Dave now,”he said sternly.

“Won evad mi. Uoy dlot i,”Max mumbled. “Sorry . . . Dave,”he said, putting his right hand tohis lips. “Evad yrros.” He let hisright hand drop, then broughthis left to the place where hisright had been.

“Anyway, it has to be peanutbutter,” Sheldon snapped.“Nobody at school eats hummus.They don’t even know what it is.”

“Si ti tahw wonk neve tnod yeht.Summuh stae loohcs ta ydobon—”Max paused, looking lost.

“It has to be peanut butter,”Sheldon reminded him, rollinghis eyes.

Max nodded. “Rettub tunaepeb ot sah ti yawyna,” he said,picking up where he’d left off. Hesettled back down on his stoolbiting the nails on each of histhumbs, then index fingers, all

the way down the line to hispinkies. “Oh. Ho,” he said,sounding defeated.

Sheldon stifled a laugh. Heknew he wasn’t supposed tomake light of his little brother’sdisorder, but there were certainthings Max said that came out sofunny. There was a game he likedto play with Max—and Maxseemed to like it too—but theirparents had forbidden themfrom playing it anymore. Theysaid it was undermining Max’streatment. But it was a rainy day,which meant no camp, whichbasically meant vacation fromtreatment, Sheldon reasoned—and besides, their parents wereat work and would never know.Sheldon stuck the spoon in thepeanut-butter-filled tupperwarecontainer. “Straw,” he said to Maxwith a gleam in his eye.

Max grinned sheepishly.“Warts,” he said.

“Live,” Sheldon said.“Evil,” Max answered, giggling.“Stressed!” Sheldon said.“Desserts!” That was Max’s

favorite. He pressed his foreheadinto the counter, laughing. Whenhe came up for air he looked atthe handle of Sheldon’s spoon,emerging from the peanutbutter. “What about carob sauce,”he said seriously. “Ecuas boractuoba tahw.”

“That’s not one,” Sheldon said.“Eno ton staht,” Max said. “I

know. But you could try that.Taht yrt dluoc uoy tub. Wonk i.”

“Wonk i. That’s a good one.”“Eno doog a staht. I know.”

“You know, huh? Well, then you must know what Ialready told you. It’s got to bepea-nut butt-er.”

It had to be peanut butterbecause it was peanut butter thathad ruined Sheldon’s social lifefor the last seven years. Allbecause he’d forgotten his lunchone day in second grade andbought a fluffernutter. He’dnever eaten fluff or peanutbutter—or white bread, for thatmatter. His mom didn’t keepfood like that in the house. Well,she did buy peanut butter, but itwas that gross all-natural stuffwith the layer of oil floating ontop. This was different: it lookedcreamy and delicious, like some-thing from a candy shop. Whenhe sat down at the long cafeteriatable with the other boys in hisclass, he couldn’t wait to sink histeeth into his sandwich—thisthing everyone else he knew gotto eat on a regular basis. He tooka huge bite, not knowing what toexpect, and reveled in thesmooth sweetness of it all. Butwhen he tried to swallow thetrouble began. Mashed-uppeanut butter and marshmallowclung to the roof of his mouth.He tried to lick it off, but histongue just kept clicking againstthe caked-on stickiness. Hegagged over and over, a dry, stat-icky sound shooting out of hismouth. Kids watched slack-jawed, chocolate milk dribblingdown their chins. And then cameMrs. Gagliardi, lumbering overfrom her corner, throwing

Sheldon on his back, scooping out the fluffernutter, and bendingover to give him mouth-to-mouthresuscitation, which he didn’teven need. Her breath smelled ofschool kitchen and Sheldon threwup right in her face, puke drip-ping down her bloated cheeks,dangling from her hairnet.

He’d never had many friends,but from then on Sheldon couldn’tgo to recess without someonemaking choking sounds or pre-tending they were Mrs. Gagliardiwanting to make out with him.Sometimes he’d find peanut butteron his chair or in his backpack. Itwould mysteriously show up onhis clothes. Nobody wanted to sitnext to him at lunch.

By middle school kids didn’tbother him too much; he wasmostly just ignored. But now, amonth away from the beginningof high school, that was going tochange. Now he was Dave. Davewith the same long-in-front,short-in-back hairstyle all theboys had. Red hair dyed the per-fect average brown. He wasgoing to show up at freshmanorientation as a regular guy, aguy who had friends who wouldsit with him in the cafeteria. Aguy who ate peanut butter justlike everybody else.

He scooped the spoon out ofthe peanut butter container andbalanced it in front of his face.Once again he opened wide. Hepinched his nose to shut out allodors and closed his eyes. Andjust then, when he was reallysure it was going to work, he felt

Hillary Frank

Arachibutyrophobia

AN

DRE

MET

ZGER

There was a gamehe liked to playwith Max—andMax seemed tolike it too—buttheir parents hadforbidden themfrom playing itanymore. Theysaid it was under-mining Max’streatment.

CHICAGO READER | DECEMBER 23, 2005 | SECTION ONE 7

a drop of water on his head. Helooked up only to have anotherland on his cheek.

He hurled the spoon at theceiling. I hate this house! Sheldonthought. Everything about it!The leaks, the crooked doors, thewindows that always stuck in thesummer. All things that his par-ents put up with because theywanted an old rural home.

The spoon left a peanut buttermark on the rafters, right wherethe leak was coming from, andcrashed back down onto thecounter, bouncing beside hismom’s floppy beach hat. Her newname, Elata, was embroideredacross the front. How stupid,Sheldon thought, changing hername from Dierdre to Elatabecause she’d rather have a namethat means happy than sad.

Max, shoulders hunched, kepthis eyes off of Sheldon and wentto work on evening up thepeanut butter skid marks on thecounter. “Maybe you don’t needto do this,” he said timidly.“Maybe you’re just never going tobe able to eat peanut butter. Andthat’s OK.” He started to repeatthose sentences backwards, butSheldon cut him off before hecould finish. “You just don’tunderstand, do you?” he said,standing up on the rungs of hisstool, water dripping to the floorbeside him. “You’ll never under-stand. You know why? Becauseyou go to your special littleschool and your special littlecamp where everyone’s a weirdo.And if everyone’s a weirdo, thenno one’s a weirdo. So you willnever know what it feels like tobe a weirdo. If you could justspend one day at regular school,you’d get why I have to do this!”Sheldon slowed down at the endand pushed his face close toMax’s for extra emphasis.

Max sped through the last few

sentences of that speech back-wards, but got lost on the second“everyone’s a weirdo.”

Look at him, Sheldon thought.He has no idea what a freak he is.And then something occurred tohim, something he knew heshouldn’t do, something he knewhe’d regret when his parentscame home, but he was angryand jealous and it was just tootempting. A cold smile passedover his lips. “Antidisestablish-mentarianism,” he said calmly.

Max froze. “Smi-na . . .smi-nair. . . .” He started tobreathe rapidly.

“Floccinaucinihilipilification,”Sheldon said, eyes narrowing. Hedidn’t even know what the wordsmeant, but he’d memorized themthe night before in his bed whilescouring the dictionary. He’d beensent to his room for repeatedlysaying poop at the dinner table;each time he said it, Max wouldsay it back, and the two of themhad erupted in giggles over agame of poop ping-pong thatseemed as if it would never end.They’d interrupted their dadtalking about his day at work, andhow he’d seen a fascinating caseof giardia duodenalis, which, ofcourse, were words Max got stuckon. Their dad took a pad out ofhis shirt pocket and wrote theword out for Max, and explainedthat giardia duodenalis was aflagellated protozoan parasite thataffected the gastrointestinal tractand often led to yellowing of thefeces and frequent defecation.Max was so tripped up by gas-trointestinal and flagellated hecould barely get through defeca-tion. Poop, Sheldon figured,would be a much easier word forMax to say. But as usual, onlySheldon got in trouble for theirsilliness. And so, while sulkingbitterly in his room, Sheldon hadwondered: What would happen if

nobody helped Max along? Whatif they just left him there with theimpossible-to-spell wordshanging in midair? He’d laughedto himself as he gleaned the dic-tionary, looking for the longestwords he could find, imaginingthat they’d turn Max into amisfiring machine rather than hisparents’ little idiosyncratic dar-ling. He never really thought he’dtest it out, but here he was, doingit for real. And it was workingjust as he’d predicted.

Max was still stuck on antidises-tablishmentarianism and waslooking to Sheldon for help. Hewas hyperventilating and touchinghis head, his nose, his chin—firston one side, then the other.

Lightning flashed outside andthunder crackled a few secondslater. Rain slanted against thewindows and the drips quickened.

“Now you see how it is,”Sheldon said, the meannessswelling in his chest. “And if youever get better, this is what it’sgonna be like. At real school.”

“Loohcs laer ta. Ekil eb annogsti tahw si siht retteb teg reveuoy fi dna,” Max murmured,looking relieved to hear some-thing he could grasp. “Si ti wohees uoy won.”

“You know,” Sheldon said,leaning over the counter again, “Iknow what your problem is,Max.” He picked up his mom’shat and put it on Max’s head. Itwas way too big and the brim felldown over his nose. “I found it in

an encyclopedia in mom’s o∞ce.”Max repeated Sheldon’s words

backwards quietly, as if in a trance.“I mean, aside from all the other

crazy stuff you do,” Sheldon said.He pulled the hat up a little andlifted Max’s chin to look him in theeye. “You’ve got a fear of longwords, Max. You know what it’scalled?” The terrified expressionon Max’s pale face made Sheldonwant to stop, but he’d come this farand felt like he had to keep going.

The rain was coming down sohard now there were no indi-vidual drops.

“Hippopotomonstrosequipped-aliophobia,” Sheldon said with aself-satisfied smile. This one he’dbeen sure to memorize carefully,and he enunciated each syllableproudly as if reciting a poem.

Max closed his eyes, trying topicture the word. He opened hismouth, but all that came out wasa distant, scratchy sound. It gotlouder and louder until it was ayell. And then came the tearsand runny nose and red face—aslightly darker, purplish versionof Max’s hair. He pounded thecounter with his right hand, thenwith his left in the same spot.And he looked at Sheldon as if tosay, Why did you do this to me?

Sheldon jumped back and let goof Max’s face. He looked up at theantique cuckoo clock. Oh my God,he thought. Mom and dad will behome in half an hour. I’m going tobe so dead. The sound comingfrom Max’s wide open mouth was

like a siren, interrupted by quick,snorty breaths. What if he nevergets over this word? he thought.It’ll be a permanent scar on hisbrain and it’ll be all my fault.

He got off his stool and went forthe first piece of paper he saw: theshopping list pad on the fridge.He ripped a page from it, pulledthe magnetic pen off the freezerdoor, and brought them back tothe counter. He took the hat offhis screaming brother’s head andplaced it on his own. Max’s sweatand warmth seeped through tohis forehead. Then without sayinganything, so as not to make mat-ters worse, Sheldon wrote in clearcapital letters:

HIPPOPOTOMONSTROSE-QUIPPEDALIOPHOBIA

Max’s crying started to sub-side, but he was sniffling hard.He began in a cracked voice,“Aibohp-oila. . . .”

Sheldon bent down andpicked up the spoon and tossedit into the sink. He ran a spongeunder the faucet and squeezed itout, then brought it to thecounter. He started with a slow,even stroke on the far right, fol-lowed by one on the far left,working his way back and forthto the middle. When he got tothe last stripe of unwashedcounter, he handed the spongeto Max and watched him run itin a perfect straight line fromtop to bottom, erasing the lastpeanutbutterfly, one handplaced neatly over the other. v

“Arachibutyrophobia” by HillaryFrank will be included inHedonophobia and OtherShades of Fear, to be publishedby Houghton Mifflin Company,spring 2007. Frank is also theauthor of Better Than Runningat Night and I Can’t Tell You.

“You know,” Sheldon said, leaning over thecounter again, “I know what your problemis, Max.” He picked up his mom’s hat andput it on Max’s head. It was way too big andthe brim fell down over his nose. “I found itin an encyclopedia in mom’s o∞ce.”