Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing Page 4

  Sam cried, “Too dark! Too dark!” So Grandma had to turn on the kitchen lights before Fudge blew out his candles. When he was finished blowing he reached out and grabbed a rose off his cake. He shoved it into his mouth.

  “Oh, Fudge!” my mother said. “Look what you did.”

  But Grandma said, “It’s his birthday. He can do whatever he wants!”

  So Fudge reached over and grabbed a second rose.

  I guess fat Ralph couldn’t stand seeing Fudge eat those yellow roses because he grabbed one, too. By that time the cake looked pretty messy. My mother, finally coming to her senses, took the cake away and sliced it up.

  Each kid got a Dixie Cup, a small piece of cake, and some milk. But Jennie hollered, “Where’s my rose? Want one too!” Because her slice of birthday cake didn’t happen to have one.

  My mother explained that the roses were only decorations and there weren’t enough to go around. Jennie seemed to accept that. But when Grandma stood over her to help open her Dixie, Jennie bit her on the hand.

  “She bit me!” Grandma cried.

  “Did it break the skin?” my mother asked.

  “No . . . I don’t think so,” Grandma said, checking.

  “Good. Then it’s nothing to worry about,” my mother told her.

  Grandma went into the bathroom to put some medicine on it anyway. She wasn’t taking any chances.

  Ralph was the first one to finish his food. “More . . . more . . . more!” he sang, holding up his empty plate.

  “I don’t think you should give him any more,” I whispered to my mother. “Look how fat he is now!”

  “Oh, Peter . . . this is a party. Let him eat whatever he wants.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Why should I care how fat he gets?”

  My mother served Ralph a second piece of cake. He threw up right after he finished it.

  Me and Grandma took the kids into the living room while my mother cleaned up the mess.

  Grandma told Fudge he could open his presents while his friends watched. Jennie brought him a musical jack-in-the-box. When you turn the handle around it plays “Pop Goes the Weasel.” When you reach the part of the song about Pop, the top opens and a funny clowns jumps up. Fudge loved it. He clapped his hands and laughed and laughed. But Sam started to scream, “No! No more. Take it away!” He hid his face in his hands and wouldn’t look up until Grandma promised to put the jack-in-the-box in another room.

  Fudge opened Ralph’s present next. It was a little windup car that ran all over the floor. I kind of liked it myself. So did Ralph. Because he grabbed it away from Fudge and said, “MINE.”

  “No!” Fudge shouted. “MINE.”

  When my mother heard the racket she ran in from the kitchen. She explained to Ralph that he had brought the car to Fudge because it was his birthday. But Ralph wouldn’t listen. I guess my mother was afraid he might throw up again, and this time on the living room rug. So she begged Fudge to let Ralph play with the car for a few minutes. But Ralph kept screaming it was his car. So Fudge started to cry. Finally, my mother took the car away and said, “Let’s see what Sam brought you.”

  Fudge liked that idea. He forgot about the little car as he ripped the paper and ribbon off Sam’s package. It turned out to be a big picture dictionary. The same kind the Yarbys brought me a couple of months ago. Fudge got mad when he saw it.

  “No!” he yelled. “NO MORE BOOK!” He threw it across the room.

  “Fudge! That’s terrible,” my mother said. “You mustn’t do that to the nice book.”

  “No book!” Fudge said.

  Sam cried, “He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like my present. I want to go home . . . I want to go home!”

  Grandma tried to comfort Sam while my mother picked up the book. She gathered the wrapping paper and ribbons and cards together. Fudge didn’t even look at any of the birthday cards. Oh well, he can’t read, so I guess it doesn’t make any difference.

  “Peter,” my mother said, “let’s start the games . . . now . . . quick!”

  I checked the time. I hoped the party was almost over. But no, it was only one-thirty. Still an hour to go. I went into my room where I had blown up a lot of balloons. My mother had the party book and it says three-year-olds like to dance around with balloons. When I got back to the living room Mom started the record player and I handed each kid a balloon.

  But they just stood there looking at me. I thought, either the guy who wrote that party book is crazy or I am!

  “Show them how, Peter,” my mother said. “Take a balloon and demonstrate.”

  I felt like one of the world’s great living fools dancing around with a balloon, but it worked. As soon as the kids saw me doing it, they started dancing too. And the more they danced the more they liked it. Until Jennie’s balloon popped. That nearly scared Sam right out of his mind. He started yelling and crying. Fortunately I had blown up two dozen balloons. I was hoping they’d dance around the rest of the afternoon.

  Fudge got the idea of jumping up and down on the furniture. The others liked that too. So instead of dancing with their balloons, that’s what they did. And soon they were running from room to room, yelling and laughing and having a great time.

  Then the doorbell rang. It was Mrs. Rudder. She lives in the apartment right under us. She wanted to know what was going on. She said it sounded like her ceiling was about to crash in on her any second.

  My mother explained that Fudge was having a little birthday party and wouldn’t she like to stay for a piece of cake? Sometimes my mother is really clever! So Grandma entertained Mrs. Rudder in the kitchen while Fudge and his buddies jumped up and down on his new bed.

  It was delivered this morning. Fudge hasn’t even slept in it yet. So naturally when my mother found out what they were up to, she was mad. “Stop it right now!” she said.

  “New bed . . . big boy!” Fudge told her. Was he proud!

  “You won’t have a new-big-boy-bed for long if you don’t stop jumping on it,” my mother told him. “I know . . . let’s all sit down on the floor and hear a nice story.” My mother selected a picture book from Fudge’s bookshelf.

  “I heard that one!” Jennie said when she saw the cover.

  “All right,” my mother told her, “let’s hear this one.” She held up another book.

  “I heard that one too,” Jennie said.

  I think my mother was starting to lose her patience. But she chose a third book and said, “We’ll all enjoy this one even if we know it by heart. And if we do know it by heart . . . well, we can say it together.”

  That’s just what Jennie did. And when my mother skipped a page by mistake Jennie was right there to remind her. If you ask me, my mother felt like biting Jennie by that time!

  When the story was over it was two o’clock and Ralph was sound asleep on the floor. My mother told me to put him up on Fudge’s new bed while she took the rest of the children back to the living room.

  I tried and tried but I couldn’t lift Ralph. He must weigh a ton. So I left him sleeping on Fudge’s floor and closed the door so he wouldn’t hear any noise. On my way back to the living room I wished the others would fall asleep too.

  “Peter,” my mother suggested, “why don’t you show them Dribble?”

  “Mom! Dribble’s my pet.” You don’t go around using a pet to entertain a bunch of little kids. Didn’t my mother know that?

  “Please, Peter,” my mother said. “We’ve still got half an hour left and I don’t know what to do with them anymore.”

  “Dribble!” Fudge hollered. “Dribble . . . Dribble . . . Dribble!”

  I guess Sam and Jennie like the way that sounded because they started to shout, “Dribble . . . Dribble . . . Dribble!” even though they didn’t know what they were talking about.

  “Oh . . . all
right,” I said. “I’ll show you Dribble. But you’ve got to promise to be very quiet. You mustn’t make a sound. You might scare him . . . okay?”

  They all said “Okay.” My mother went into the kitchen to chat with Grandma and Mrs. Rudder. I went into my room and came back carrying Dribble in his bowl. I put my finger over my lips to remind Fudge and his friends to be quiet. It worked. At first nobody said a word.

  I put Dribble down on a table. Fudge and Sam and Jennie stood over his bowl.

  “Oh . . . turtle!” Jennie said.

  “Yes, Dribble’s a turtle. My turtle,” I said in a soft voice.

  “See . . . see,” Fudge whispered.

  “They can all see,” I told Fudge.

  “Nice turtle,” Sam said.

  I wondered why he wasn’t afraid this time.

  “What does Dribble do?” Jennie asked.

  “Do? He doesn’t do anything special,” I said. “He’s a turtle. He does turtle things.”

  “Like what?” Jennie asked.

  What was with this kid, anyway? “Well,” I said, “he swims around a little and he sleeps on his rock and he eats.”

  “Does he make?” Jennie asked.

  “Make?” I said.

  “Make a tinkle?”

  “Oh, that. Well, sure. I guess so.”

  Jennie laughed. So did Sam and Fudge.

  “I make tinkles too. Want to see?” Jennie asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “See . . . see,” Fudge laughed, pointing at Jennie.

  Jennie had a big smile on her face. Next thing I knew there was a puddle on the rug.

  “Mom!” I hollered. “Come quick!”

  My mother dashed in from the kitchen. “What, Peter? What is it?”

  “Just look at what Jennie did,” I said.

  “What is that?” my mother asked, eyeing the puddle.

  “She made on the floor,” I said. “And on purpose!”

  “Oh, Jennie!” my mother cried. “You didn’t!”

  “Did too,” Jennie said.

  “That was very naughty!” my mother told her. “You come with me.” She scooped up Jennie and carried her into the bathroom.

  After that Mom mopped up the puddle.

  Finally the doorbell rang. It was two-thirty. The party was over. I could hardly believe it. I was beginning to think it would never end.

  First Ralph’s mother came. She had to wake him up to get him out of the apartment. I guess even she couldn’t carry him.

  Next Jennie’s mother came. Mom gave her Jennie’s wet pants in a Baggie. That was all she had to do. Jennie’s mother was plenty embarrassed.

  Sam’s mother came last. But he didn’t want to go home. Now that he was used to us I guess he liked us. He cried, “More party . . . MORE!”

  “Another time,” his mother said, dragging him out of our apartment by the arm.

  My mother flopped down in a chair. Grandma brought her two aspirins and a glass of water. “Here, dear,” she said. “Maybe these will help.”

  My mother swallowed the pills. She held her head.

  “Three is kind of young for a party,” I told my mother.

  “Peter Warren Hatcher . . .” my mother began.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “You are absolutely right!”

  I flopped down next to my mother. She put her arm around me. Then we both watched Fudge work his new jack-in-the-box.

  Later, when my father came home, he said, “How did Fudge’s party go?”

  My mother and I looked at each other and we laughed.

  6

  Fang Hits Town

  Fudge liked his new bed a lot. There was just one problem. He fell out of it every night. By the fourth night my mother and father got smart. They pushed the bed against the wall and surrounded the other side with chairs. Now there was no place for Fudge to fall.

  But every morning my mother found him curled up in one of the chairs. My father said they could have saved their money, since Fudge was so happy sleeping in an old chair!

  On Saturday we had to go to the dentist. He wanted to check Fudge’s mouth again. To make sure everything healed all right since his flying experience. Dr. Brown is an old friend of my father’s. They went to school together. He’s always saying he takes special good care of me and Fudge because we’re chips off the old block (the old block being my father). His office is on the other side of the park. It’s near Madison Avenue. My mother said we’d make a day of it. And wouldn’t that be fun!

  “I’d rather go to the movies with Jimmy Fargo,” I told her.

  “But we’ll have such a good time,” my mother said. “The three of us will go out for lunch and then we’ll get new shoes for you and Fudge.”

  “I’ve been out to lunch with Fudge,” I reminded her.

  “He’s growing up, Peter. He knows how to behave now.”

  “I’d still rather go to the movies with Jimmy.”

  “Well, you’re coming with me. And that’s that!”

  I wasn’t looking forward to my day. And Saturday morning is always the best day of the week. Every Saturday morning I clean out Dribble’s bowl. Sometimes, if Fudge is very good, I let him watch. I do it in the bathroom. First I take Dribble out of his bowl and let him crawl around in the tub. I’m afraid to put him down on the floor—somebody might step on him. But in the tub I know he’s safe.

  Next, I take the rocks out of his bowl and wash them. The last thing I do is wash the bowl itself. I really scrub it. I even rinse it two or three times to make sure all the soap is out. When I’m done with that I put the rocks back in and fill it with just the right amount of water. After I put Dribble back in his bowl I feed him. Usually he goes right to sleep on his favorite rock. I guess running around in the bathtub really makes my turtle tired.

  Today, I finished with Dribble just in time. My mother was rushing, mumbling about getting us to Dr. Brown’s office in time for our appointment.

  When we were outside we took the crosstown bus, then walked a few blocks to his office.

  As soon as the nurse saw Fudge she said, “How’s my favorite patient?” She gave him a hug and a little book to read. To me she said, “Good morning, Peter.”

  It burns me up the way people treat Fudge. He’s not so special. He’s just little, that’s all! But some day he’s going to be nine years old too. I can’t wait until he is. Then he’ll know there’s nothing so great about him after all.

  Soon the nurse said, “Fudge, Dr. Brown is ready for you. Come with me now.” Fudge took the nurse’s hand. Dr. Brown has this rule about mothers in the examining room with kids—they’re not allowed! Mothers are a big problem, Dr. Brown told me once. I agreed.

  I looked through a National Geographic magazine while I waited. After a few minutes the nurse came out and whispered something to my mother. I looked up, wondering what the big secret was.

  Then my mother said, “Peter, Dr. Brown would like you to help him with Fudge.”

  “Help him?” I said. “I’m no dentist!”

  The nurse said, “Peter, dear . . . if you’ll just come with me I’m sure everything will work out fine.”

  So I went with the nurse. “What do I have to do?” I asked her.

  “Oh, not much. Dr. Brown just wants you to show Fudge how you open your mouth and how he checks your teeth.”

  “What do I have to do that for?” I asked. “I don’t need a checkup yet. I just had one last month.”

  “Your brother won’t open his mouth this morning,” the nurse whispered.

  “He won’t?” I whispered back.

  “No, he won’t!” she said again.

  I thought that was pretty funny. I never considered refusing to open my mouth
at the dentist’s office. When he says “Open”—I open!

  When we reached the examining room Fudge was sitting in the big chair. He had a towel around his neck and he looked all ready for action.

  Dr. Brown was showing him lots of little things and explaining what he does with each one. Fudge kept nodding but he wouldn’t open his mouth.

  “Ah . . . Peter!” Dr. Brown said when he saw me. “Would you open your mouth so I can count your teeth?”

  That’s what he tells little kids he’s doing—counting their teeth. Little kids will believe anything!

  I went along with Dr. Brown’s joke. I opened my mouth very wide. Much wider than when I’m the real patient. He put his mirror in and said, “Wonderful teeth. Just beautiful. A regular chip off the old block! Such a shame your brother can’t open his mouth the way you do.”

  “Can so,” Fudge said.

  “No,” Dr. Brown told him, “you can’t open your mouth nearly as good as Peter.”

  “Can so . . . see!” Fudge opened his mouth.

  “No, I’m sorry, Fudge,” Dr. Brown said, “it’s still not as good as Peter.”

  So Fudge opened his mouth really wide. “Count teeth!” he said. “Count Fudgie’s teeth!”

  “Well. . . .” Dr. Brown pretended to think about it.

  “COUNT!” Fudge shouted.

  “Well. . . .” Dr. Brown said again, scratching his head. “I guess as long as you’re here I might as well count your teeth.” So he checked Fudge’s mouth.

  When he was through Fudge said, “See . . . see . . . just like Pee-tah!”

  “Yes,” Dr. Brown said, smiling. “I can see that. You’re just like Peter.” He gave me a wink.

  I liked the way Dr. Brown tricked Fudge into opening his mouth. So when he was through examining him I whispered, “Couldn’t you make Fudge some false teeth . . . until his grown-up ones come in?”

  “No. He’ll just have to wait,” Dr. Brown said.