Fudge-a-Mania Read online

  “That’s great!” I said. Maybe three weeks in Maine wouldn’t be as bad as I’d thought.

  The Most Disgusting of Them All

  It took ten hours to drive to Southwest Harbor, Maine. Ten hours in the backseat of an old Blazer with Fudge, Tootsie, Turtle and Uncle Feather, who wouldn’t shut up. Some myna birds don’t talk at all but Uncle Feather’s not one of them. He’ll repeat anything you say. Finally, I dropped the cover over his cage, hoping he’d think it was nighttime. “Go to sleep, stupid!” I told him. Stupid is one of his favorite words.

  But that didn’t work either. “Go to sleep, stupid . . .” he chanted, until even Turtle lost patience and started barking. Grandma is really smart, I thought. She’s flying up to Maine.

  As we got closer to our destination, Mom started reading to us from a guidebook. “Southwest Harbor is on an island called Mount Desert.” She pronounced it de-sert.

  “Ice cream, cookies, brownies, pudding . . .” Fudge sang.

  Mom kept right on reading. I don’t know why she thinks Fudge pays any attention to her lectures on history. He hears only what he wants to hear. Everything else goes right by him.

  “Founded in 1905, the town of Southwest Harbor . . .” You call this a town? I thought, as we drove through it. There was one street with a couple of shops. And that was about it. But I could tell Mom was really excited. She put down her guidebook and smiled at my father. “Oh, it’s so quaint,” she said. “Isn’t it quaint, Warren?”

  And my father smiled back and said, “It’s perfect, honey.”

  Fudge chucked Tootsie under her chin. “It’s perfect, honey,” he said, imitating my father.

  Then Uncle Feather started. “Honey . . . honey . . . honey.” For some reason Tootsie thought that was wildly funny, and she laughed until she got the hiccups. Mom passed a bottle of water to the backseat and I stuck it in Tootsie’s mouth.

  “Take a left here, Warren,” Mom said to Dad. We turned onto a dirt road, then pulled into a gravel driveway and parked in front of an old, weathered wood house. The first person I saw was the Queen of Cooties herself. She was standing on the seat of a rope swing. It hung from the branch of a big tree in the front yard.

  She was swinging pretty high when I opened the back door of the Blazer and Turtle jumped out. It had been almost four hours since I’d walked him and he really had to go. He raced for the woods behind the house but Sheila thought he was heading straight for her.

  “Help!” she screamed, wobbling on the swing. “Somebody please heeelp!” She lost her balance and fell to the ground. What a dork!

  Mom jumped out of the car and ran to her rescue. “It’s all right,” she said, helping Sheila to her feet. “Turtle just had to wee-wee.” How could Mom have used such an embarrassing expression?

  By then Mr. and Mrs. Tubman, who had also heard Sheila’s screams, came running out of the house. “Are you okay?” Mrs. Tubman asked Sheila.

  “I’m fine,” Sheila said, brushing herself off. “It was just that disgusting dog!”

  Before I had the chance to tell her who was really disgusting, a man with white hair called, “Lemonade . . .” We all headed for the house and gathered around the table on the porch. “I’m Buzz Tubman’s father,” the white-haired man said. He poured each of us a glass of lemonade. “Call me Buzzy Senior.”

  I polished off my drink really fast. Buzzy Senior poured me another. I gulped it down. “Long trip up here, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Ten hours,” I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. He filled my glass again.

  I didn’t even notice Fudge watching until then. “You must be really thirsty, Pete.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Remember that time you drank too much Island Punch and you . . .”

  I clamped my hand over his mouth. He still doesn’t get the difference between stories you tell to strangers and stories you keep to yourself. I looked at Buzzy Senior. “Fudge knows a lot about dinosaurs,” I said, hoping to change the subject.

  But as soon as I took my hand away from his mouth Fudge laughed. “And Pete knows all about cooties.”

  “Well, you can’t know too much about cooties, can you, Pete?” Buzzy Senior said, smiling at me.

  “And guess what else?” Fudge said. “I’m getting married under the trees.”

  “Do I know the bride?” Buzzy Senior asked.

  “It’s Sheila Tubman!” Fudge said.

  “Oh, my granddaughter,” Buzzy Senior said.

  “Sheila’s your granddaughter?” Fudge asked.

  Buzzy Senior nodded. “Have you popped the question yet?”

  “How do you pop a question?” Fudge said.

  “You have to ask if she wants to marry you,” Buzzy Senior explained.

  “Why wouldn’t she want to marry me?”

  “It’s something you have to decide together,” Buzzy Senior said.

  “Okay . . .” Fudge said. He turned toward Sheila, who was sitting in a rocking chair. “Hey, Sheila . . . you want to marry me . . . right?”

  Sheila laughed so hard she nearly fell off the chair.

  “See . . .” Fudge said. “I popped the question and she wants to marry me.”

  “Congratulations,” Buzzy Senior said. “You’re a lucky man.”

  Lucky? I thought. That’s not what I’d call it.

  The screen door opened and Libby stepped out onto the porch. Libby is Sheila’s older sister. She’s almost sixteen but no one would make the mistake of calling her sweet. She was carrying a small white-and-brown puppy.

  Sheila jumped. I expected her to run for her life. Instead, she cooed, “Oooh . . . my baby . . . my precious furry baby . . .” She kissed the puppy about twenty times.

  “You have a dog?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Sheila said proudly. “Her name is Jake and we just got her. Isn’t she adorable?”

  “I thought you’re afraid of dogs.”

  “She is,” Libby said.

  “I’m not afraid of Jake!”

  “She’s afraid of dogs, in general,” Libby told me.

  “That is sooo unfair!” Sheila said.

  “But it’s true, isn’t it?” Libby asked in her most obnoxious voice.

  “I just don’t like big, smelly, disgusting dogs,” Sheila said, looking directly at me.

  “Are you calling my dog smelly and disgusting?” I asked.

  Sheila folded her arms and smiled. “Turtle is the most disgusting dog ever born!”

  “You want to see disgusting . . . look in the mirror,” I told her. “You want to smell disgusting . . . smell yourself!”

  “Are you two going to argue for three weeks?” Libby asked. “Because that could get to be a real bore.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “So why don’t you just tell me where our house is and that’ll be the end of it.”

  “This is your house,” Sheila said.

  “I thought this was your house.”

  “It’s two houses, but they’re connected.”

  “What do you mean connected?” I asked.

  “Didn’t you learn anything in sixth grade, Peter? Connected means attached . . . joined together . . .”

  “I know what the word means,” I told her.

  “Don’t worry,” Sheila said, “there’s an inside door that separates your house from ours.”

  An inside door? I thought. How am I going to explain this to Jimmy Fargo? I promised him a forest between our houses . . . not an inside door!

  Suddenly we heard a rustling sound and a minute later Turtle came tearing out of the woods. A terrible smell followed him. I mean really bad.

  “Eeeuuuw . . .” Sheila cried, holding her nose. “Whath that thmell?”

  “I
th thkunk!” Dad said, holding his. “Turtle’th been thprayed by a thkunk.”

  “Oh no!” Mom said. She held her nose, too. “Not thkunk!”

  They all sounded as if they had the worst colds. I would have laughed, except for the smell. It was so strong I had to hold my nose, just like the rest of them.

  “Thith ith too nautheating for wordth!” Libby said, grabbing Jake and running back into the house.

  “Do thomething, Peter!” Sheila yelled.

  “What am I thuppoth to do?”

  “He’th your dog, ithn’t he?”

  “Leth not panic,” Mr. Tubman said. “Leth think thith through in a logical way.”

  “Thith ithn’t the time for logic!” Mrs. Tubman said. “Thith ith the time for action!”

  “Tomato juith!” Buzzy Senior said. “Put him in a tub of tomato juith.”

  “Where am I thuppoth to get enough tomato juith to cover him?” Mrs. Tubman asked.

  “I’ll take care of it, Jean!” Dad said. “Don’t worry.” He headed for the Blazer.

  Fudge chased Dad. “Wait for me!”

  “Where are you going, Warren?” Mom called.

  “For tomato juith!” Dad called back.

  All this time Turtle was rolling over and over in the grass, trying to get rid of the awful smell. He knew he was in big trouble.

  “I alwayth knew your dog wath the thmellieth dog in the entire world,” Sheila said. “And thith provth it!”

  For once I had to agree.

  The Worst News of the Century

  I wasn’t surprised that our first hour in Maine was a disaster. I knew if Sheila Tubman was involved it would be. I begged Mom and Dad to leave right after Dad scrubbed Turtle with this special shampoo called Skunked. But by then, hamburgers were cooking on the grill. So I begged them to leave right after supper. But they wouldn’t listen.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” I told them.

  “I guess we’re willing to take our chances,” Dad said. “Now let’s get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”

  We carried our bags through the inside door separating our house from Sheila’s. But on the other side there was just a staircase leading to three bedrooms and one bathroom.

  “This is it?” I said. “This is our house?”

  “Yes,” Mom said. “Isn’t it nice?”

  “Where’s the living room?” I asked. “Where’s the kitchen?”

  “We’re sharing the living room and kitchen with the Tubmans,” Dad said.

  “Sharing!” I could hardly get the word out. “We’re sharing with the Tubmans?”

  “Learn to share,” Fudge said, “and you’ll be a very happy person.”

  “Don’t give me any of your kindergarten philosophy,” I told him. “This is serious!”

  Upstairs, Mom and Dad looked over the three bedrooms. They chose the one with the double bed for themselves. The second bedroom had a single bed plus a crib. Grandma would share that with Tootsie. Which left the smallest bedroom for Fudge and me. “You two should be comfortable in here,” Dad said.

  I looked round. There were two camp beds so close together you could kick the person in the other bed. That should be useful if Fudge talks in his sleep, I thought. There was also a lamp and a low chest with two drawers. And the ceiling sloped on one side of the room so when I stood up straight I banged my head on it.

  “What about when Jimmy comes?” I asked Mom.

  “We’ll work it out,” she said. “Don’t worry.”

  But how could I not worry?

  At least Mom was able to convince Fudge that Uncle Feather would be happier downstairs. “We’ll put his cage in front of the picture window in the living room so he can watch what’s happening,” she said.

  “Suppose he has a bad dream?” Fudge said.

  “Does he usually have bad dreams?” Mom asked, as if Fudge were an expert.

  “Sometimes he dreams of scary monsters,” Fudge said, “especially if he has to sleep all alone in a strange place.”

  “When you cover his cage he won’t know he’s in a strange place,” I said.

  “He’ll know,” Fudge said.

  “He’s a very well-adjusted bird,” I argued. “He’ll be fine.” I wasn’t about to share a room with Fudge and Uncle Feather.

  Even Fudge was too tired to argue. “Okay,” he said, yawning. Then he flopped on his bed and was out cold before I turned off the light.

  * * *

  We went to town the next afternoon. The gears on Dad’s bike were stuck so he dropped it off at Bicycle Bob’s shop for repairs. Bicycle Bob is a big, friendly guy who wears a T-shirt that says I’d Rather Be Biking. Then we went to Sawyer’s Market for groceries and to the library to get our cards and to Oz Books, where Fudge and I each got two paperbacks. After that we headed for the airport.

  Grandma’s plane was right on time. As soon as we got home she shook hands with each of the Tubmans and said, “Call me Muriel.” Then she turned four cartwheels on the front lawn. I could tell the Tubmans were impressed.

  “Muriel . . .” Sheila called, chasing Grandma. “Could you teach me to turn cartwheels?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Grandma said, breathing hard. “I ran a gymnastics camp for years.”

  “Oh, I’d just love to turn cartwheels,” Sheila gushed. “My friend Mouse Ellis can turn cartwheels.”

  “You have a friend named Mouse?” I asked.

  “Mouse . . . mice . . . creepy, crawly lice,” Fudge sang, pleased with his rhyme.

  “Fudgie!” Sheila scolded. “That’s not exactly nice!” Then she turned back to me with her hands on her hips. “My friend Mouse is coming here in ten days.”

  “But that’s when Jimmy Fargo’s coming!” I heard my voice crack but I didn’t care.

  “Jimmy Fargo’s coming here?” Sheila’s voice sounded funny, too.

  “Yeah . . . for a week . . . at least.”

  “That’s the worst news of the century!” Sheila cried.

  “The worst news of the century,” Fudge said, doing a perfect imitation of Sheila. “The worst news of the century . . .”

  “Stop that, Fudgie!” Sheila picked him up and shook him.

  “Is that any way to treat your future husband?” I asked.

  “Yeah . . .” Fudge said. “Mommy never shakes Dad.”

  “We’re never getting married if you act that way!” Sheila told him. “Say you’re sorry or the wedding’s off.”

  “Are you going to let her boss you around like that?” I asked Fudge.

  “Just stay out of this, Peter!” Sheila said.

  “Yeah, Pete,” Fudge said.

  “Fine,” I told him. “You want to cook your own goose . . . go ahead.”

  Fudge started laughing. “I don’t have a goose, Pete.”

  Uncle Feather’s Adventure

  The next day, when I got up, Fudge’s bed was empty. He doesn’t know you’re supposed to sleep late when you’re on vacation. I pulled on my jeans, which I’d left on the floor. They felt cold and damp. I forgot about the sloped ceiling until I stood up and whacked my head. That made me so mad I kicked the wall. So before the day even started, I had a bump on my head and a pain in my foot. As I pulled on my sweatshirt, I heard foghorns in the distance. I took a look out the window. Nothing but white. We were completely fogged in.

  I hope Grandma’s making cocoa, I thought, on my way downstairs. She likes to get up early. She says at her age you really appreciate morning and there’s no point in wasting it. So I wasn’t surprised to hear her laughing as I came through the inside door.

  The kitchen and the living room are really one big room, with a stone fireplace in the center. Buzzy Senior was having breakfast with Grandma
. They’d really hit it off last night. At supper they’d laughed so hard you’d have thought they were old friends.

  At the same time, Grandma was trying to feed Tootsie oatmeal. But Tootsie likes to feed herself so she grabbed the spoon out of Grandma’s hand and wound up with a blob of oatmeal in her hair.

  “Pee,” Tootsie said, when she spotted me.

  “You have to go potty?” Grandma asked, as if Tootsie is toilet trained, which she definitely is not.

  “She’s trying to say Pete,” Fudge explained. He was at the table counting Cheerios. He counts out exactly two hundred before he starts to eat. It takes forever because half the time he gets his numbers mixed up. Mom says it’s just another phase and he’ll get over it. He better or he’ll never make it to school on time.

  Then Sheila waltzed in wearing a fuzzy pink robe and bunny slippers. You’d think she’d be embarrassed to be seen that way but I guess nothing embarrasses the Cootie Queen. When Jimmy finds out he has to see her first thing in the morning he’ll be on the next plane back to New York.

  Sheila opened all the windows in the living room on her way to the table.

  “What are you doing, Sheila?” Grandma said. “You’re freezing us out.”

  “I can’t stand the smell,” Sheila said.

  “It’s a Maine smell,” Buzzy Senior said. “It’s the dampness and the mildew.”

  “Doggie-do is more like it!” Sheila said.

  “Maybe your dog goes inside but my dog doesn’t!” I told her.

  “Close the windows, Sheila, please . . .” Grandma said. “The baby could catch a chill.”

  Sheila muttered to herself but she closed the windows. When she got to the one in front of Uncle Feather’s cage she peered inside and said, “Where’s your bird, Fudge?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I mean . . . Uncle Feather’s not in his cage,” Sheila said.

  I looked over at Fudge but he kept counting his Cheerios. “Eighty-two . . . eighty-three . . .”

  “His bird is gone?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Sheila said. “Gone . . . as in not present . . . as in disappeared from view . . .”