Double Fudge Page 4

  “Yes, please,” Richie said. “I’d like lightly steamed florets.”

  Mom seemed really surprised. “I don’t think we have any broccoli in the house, but we do have carrots.”

  “Carrots are good,” Richie said. “Dipped in either hummus or tahini.”

  Now Mom was really surprised. “We don’t have hummus or tahini. But we have peanut butter and that tastes a lot like tahini.”

  “Don’t you have a cook?” Richie asked.

  “No, I’m afraid we don’t,” Mom said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Richie said. “I didn’t know you were poor.”

  “We’re hardly poor,” Mom said, serving him a bowl of baby carrots with a side of peanut butter. “We just don’t have a cook.”

  Fudge watched as Richie took a carrot and swirled it in peanut butter. “Can I have peanut butter and banana?” he asked Mom.

  “You know where the bananas are,” she told him, pouring them each a glass of milk. “You can help yourself.”

  “Carrots are hard to eat with loose teeth,” Richie told Fudge, as he wiggled his front top tooth. “Soon I’ll look like you.”

  “What do you mean?” Fudge asked.

  Richie pointed to his mouth. “No teeth on top.”

  That’s when it dawned on me that Fudge’s classmates are finally catching up to him. They’re losing their teeth.

  “Know how much I got from the tooth fairy when I lost my first tooth?” Richie asked.

  “How much?” Fudge said.

  “Twenty dollars. And that was just from the tooth fairy. My grandma gave me another twenty and my twin uncles gave me twenty apiece.”

  Eighty dollars a tooth! I was thinking.

  “How much did I get, Mom?” Fudge asked.

  “Well, Fudge . . .” Mom began, “you didn’t lose your teeth in the usual way.”

  “How’d he lose them?” Richie asked.

  “He was trying to fly off the top of the climbing bars,” I said.

  “Fly?” Richie asked.

  “He was only three,” Mom explained.

  “So what happened?” Richie asked.

  “What do you think?” I answered. “He crash-landed and knocked out his top front teeth.”

  “But I didn’t lose them,” Fudge said. “I swallowed them.”

  “At least that’s what we think happened,” Mom said. “We’re really not sure.”

  “So no tooth fairy came?” Richie asked.

  “Mom . . .” Fudge began, “how come the tooth fairy . . .”

  Mom answered quickly. “You were so young when you lost your teeth the tooth fairy put your money in the bank.”

  I gave Mom a look. She shot me one right back.

  “So that means I have money in the bank?” Fudge asked.

  “You certainly do.”

  “How much?”

  “Let’s talk about it later,” Mom said.

  “My mom doesn’t like to talk about money,” Fudge told Richie.

  “My mom loves to talk about money,” Richie said, sporting a milk moustache. “She’s a designer. You can get clothes with her name on it. She’s very famous. So’s my father. He builds office buildings. And my grandma’s filthy rich.”

  “You mean from counting her money?” Fudge asked.

  “I don’t know,” Richie said. “Maybe.”

  “She should take her money to the bank to get it washed,” Fudge told him.

  “That’s a good idea.” Richie bit into a carrot with his back teeth.

  “I have a lot of good ideas,” Fudge said.

  “I know,” Richie said. “That’s why I want to be your friend.”

  * * *

  The next day Richie Richest was back. “So, where’s the toy room?”

  “What toy room?” Fudge asked.

  “You know,” Richie said, “the room where you keep all your toys.”

  “I keep my toys in my room.”

  “That’s it? That’s all the toys you have?”

  “He has more than he needs,” Mom told Richie. She was getting Tootsie up from her nap.

  Richie shook his head. “I can have any toy I want whenever I want it.”

  “Even LEGO Panorama?” Fudge asked.

  Richie shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “Did you hear that?” Fudge said. “He can have any toy he wants whenever he wants it.”

  “Yes,” Mom said and she took a deep breath. “I certainly did hear that.”

  “But I’m not spoiled,” Richie said. “There’s a difference between having everything you want and being spoiled.”

  “Is there, Mom?” Fudge asked.

  “I suppose it’s possible,” Mom said.

  “We have a house at the beach,” Richie announced. “Do you?”

  “No, we don’t,” Mom said.

  “Our house is on the ocean side but we keep our boat in the bay. I have two half-brothers who are also rich and famous. You’ve probably heard of them. Jeffrey and Colin Potter. They make movies.”

  “Pete,” Fudge said, “if I cut you in half then I’d have a half-brother! And Tootsie could have the other half.”

  “That’s not exactly what a half-brother is,” I told him.

  “Jeffrey and Colin are from my father’s first marriage,” Richie told Fudge. “After his divorce he married my mother and they had me. My mother is twenty years younger than my father. She says I’m very smart. And extremely handsome. Do you think I’m handsome?”

  The kid was on a roll. There was no stopping him now.

  “Why, yes,” Mom said, “you and Fudge are both handsome.”

  “Which of us is more handsome?” Richie asked.

  “I wouldn’t want to have to choose,” Mom said.

  “What is this, a beauty contest?” I asked.

  That got Fudge and Richie laughing so hard Richie had to dig out his inhaler and take a couple of puffs.

  * * *

  That night at dinner Mom told Dad, “Fudge has an interesting new friend.”

  “Interesting friends are better than boring ones,” Dad said.

  We were having pasta primavera. That’s spaghetti with a bunch of vegetables on top. I asked Mom if I could have my pasta with just plain tomato sauce but Mom said, “Vegetables are very important.”

  “Richie Potter likes broccoli,” Fudge said.

  “We know,” I told him.

  “It makes his pee smell funny.”

  “Fudge,” Mom said, “we don’t talk about what we do in the bathroom at mealtimes.”

  “Why not?” Fudge asked.

  “Anyway, it’s asparagus that makes pee smell funny,” I told him, “not broccoli.”

  “Peter . . .” Dad warned.

  “Broccoli, too,” Fudge said. “I know because he let me smell it.”

  “That’s enough, boys,” Dad said, which got Tootsie going.

  “Eeee . . . eee . . . eee . . .” she shrieked.

  “Fudge’s new friend brags about everything,” I said.

  “He even brags about his poops,” Fudge told us.

  “I’m not surprised,” I said.

  “But, Pete . . . if you saw what he made you’d understand. It was thiiiiis long.” Fudge held out his hands showing me exactly how long.

  “That’s it!” Mom said. “I don’t want to hear another inappropriate word at this meal.”

  Bye-Bye, Sue!

  Jimmy asked me to come down to see his new place. I convinced Dad to take me on Saturday afternoon. The downside was, we had to bring Fudge and Tootsie with us because Mom was at work. She says her new job with Dr. Julie is the best she’s ever had.

  As soon as we were throug
h the turnstile at the subway station, a train came along. We got lucky and found seats together. Sometimes the subway cars are so crowded you have to stand squeezed between strangers—like sardines in a can—as Grandma would say. Personally, I hate the idea of being compared to a sardine. The smell reminds me of cat food, even though Grandma says sardines are good for your bones. Probably cat food is, too.

  It wasn’t until we got off the subway at Spring Street that I noticed Fudge was wearing just one shoe. On his other foot he had on only his yellow-and-black striped bumblebee sock. “Where’s your shoe?” I asked him.

  “What shoe?”

  “The one that’s not on your foot.”

  “Oh, that shoe.”

  Dad said, “Put on your other shoe, Fudge.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?” Dad asked.

  “I took it off to itch my foot and now it’s gone.”

  “Gone?” Dad said.

  “Yes,” Fudge said.

  “That was one of your new shoes,” Dad told him.

  “I know, Dad.”

  “And now you’ve lost it.”

  “I didn’t lose it. I know where it is. It’s on the subway.”

  “The subway?” Dad said.

  “Yes,” Fudge said.

  I should have convinced Dad to let me take the subway to Jimmy’s on my own. There’s no such thing as a simple trip downtown with my brother. He turns everything into a major production.

  Dad spotted a transit cop and waved her over, calling, “Excuse me . . .”

  “Can I help you?” the transit cop asked.

  “Yes,” Dad said. “I’d like to report a missing shoe.”

  She looked surprised. “A missing shoe?”

  “That’s right,” Dad told her. “Fudge . . . show the policewoman your shoe.”

  “How can I show it to her if it’s missing?” Fudge asked.

  “Show her the shoe that’s not missing.” Dad was definitely losing patience.

  “Ohhh . . . that shoe.” Fudge held up his foot.

  The transit cop whipped out a small notebook and jotted down all the information. “Black with silver trim . . . child’s size. Lost on the A train on Saturday, September 14.” She looked at Dad. “What time would you say?”

  “Somewhere between 2:00 and 2:30 P.M.,” Dad told her. “Somewhere between Seventy-second Street and here.”

  When she was done taking notes she closed her notebook and shoved it into her pocket. “We’ll do our best but I wouldn’t count on getting it back.”

  “I have to get it back,” Fudge said. “I need it for school.”

  The cop shrugged.

  “I told Mom I needed two pairs but she wouldn’t listen.”

  “I don’t blame her,” the cop said, “with what shoes cost nowadays.”

  “I have plenty of money.” He pulled a wad of Fudge Bucks out of his pocket and waved it around.

  “You keep those for an emergency,” the cop told him.

  “This is an emergency,” Fudge said.

  “You want my advice? Next time, keep on both your shoes.”

  “Even if my foot itches?”

  “Especially then,” the cop said. “Otherwise, you’re going to be kissing more than one shoe good-bye.”

  “Bye-bye, sue!” Tootsie sang, blowing kisses.

  The transit cop did a double take. “How does she know my name?”

  “Your name is Shoe?” Fudge asked.

  “No, it’s Sue!”

  No way was I going to tell the cop my sister can’t pronounce the sh sound.

  * * *

  Finally, finally, I got to Jimmy’s. The streets in SoHo are narrow and paved with cobblestones. It’s a really old part of the city. The buildings used to be factories but now most of them have stores or art galleries on the first floor and lofts upstairs. Dad said he’d be back for me in an hour and a half. I told him to take his time.

  The Fargos’ loft is a huge open space, with an old wooden floor and a pressed tin ceiling. “Pretty cool, huh?” Jimmy asked. “You know how many windows we have? Sixteen. Want to count them?”

  “I believe you,” I said. They were gigantic floor-to- ceiling windows.

  “Know how high the ceiling is?” Jimmy asked. He didn’t wait for me to guess. “Sixteen feet. Want to measure it yourself?”

  “That’s okay. I can see it’s really high.” I looked around. “You could set up a bowling alley in here,” I told him.

  “Yeah,” Jimmy said. “Or a basketball court.”

  “You could blade.”

  “Or flood it and play ice hockey,” Jimmy said.

  “Ice hockey?”

  “Gotcha!” he said, laughing and sticking a finger in my gut.

  “I hate when you do that,” I told him.

  “I know . . . that’s why I do it. Come on, I’ll show you around.”

  There wasn’t much to see. Frank Fargo’s canvases were stacked against one wall. There were two paint- splattered worktables. Old coffee cans held brushes. It smelled good, like the art room at school. There was no regular furniture, but that was no surprise, since they didn’t have any before either. At the opposite end of the loft was a kitchen. There were no doors anywhere, except for the bathroom.

  “And right about here,” Jimmy said, standing in front of an X that had been chalked on the floor, “we’re going to build two bedrooms . . . one for me, and the other for my dad and . . .” He stopped for a minute to look out the window. Then he looked back at the floor. “Oh yeah . . . and we’re adding another bathroom, so we don’t have to share.”

  I wouldn’t mind having a bathroom all to myself instead of sharing with Fudge and Tootsie. At least Fudge uses the toilet. Not that he remembers to flush half the time, but it’s better than a potty. Not that Tootsie actually uses her potty for anything except a place to sit, but someday she will and then . . .

  “And I’m getting a bunk bed,” Jimmy said, “so you can stay over. We might get a dog, too.”

  “A dog?” I was surprised. Mr. Fargo’s never really liked Turtle and Turtle isn’t crazy about Mr. Fargo either. “What kind of dog?”

  “A Yorkie, I think.”

  “A Yorkie? But they’re so small.”

  “I know.”

  I tried to imagine Jimmy and his father with a Yorkie but I couldn’t.

  “So how about a game of sock hockey?” Jimmy asked.

  Sock hockey’s a game we invented. “Yeah . . . sure,” I told him, kicking off my shoes. Jimmy passed me a broom, grabbed another for himself, threw down a box of Jell-O for the puck, and the game began. We’ve never had such a great place to play. You could run and slide from one end of the loft to the other without worrying about knocking over lamps or furniture, not just because there weren’t any, but because the place was so big.

  We were totally into our game when we heard banging on the door. “Uh-oh . . .” Jimmy said. He wiped his sweaty face with the bottom of his T-shirt and went to the door. “Who is it?” he called.

  “This is Goren . . . your downstairs neighbor.” He spoke slowly, in an accent I couldn’t place.

  “Don’t open it,” I whispered.

  “But Goren is our downstairs neighbor,” Jimmy said. “I met him this morning.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t unlock the door.”

  “My dad will be back in a few minutes,” Jimmy called out through the locked door. Actually, he had no idea when Frank Fargo would be home.

  “So what’s going on?” Goren asked from the other side of the door. “All that pounding—it sounds like the ceiling’s going to cave in. How am I supposed to concentrate?”

  “Uh . . . sorry,” Jimmy said. “We were just uh . . .”
>
  “Moving stuff around,” I called, finishing for him.

  “Oh,” Goren said. “I thought maybe you were playing sock hockey.”

  Jimmy and I looked at each other. If we invented the game, how could this guy possibly know about it? “We’ll try to be more careful with our . . . uh . . . cartons,” Jimmy told him.

  “Fair enough,” Goren said. “And I’ll try to get back to work.”

  When he was gone Jimmy let out a whew . . . and we put away the brooms.

  * * *

  By the time we got back from SoHo Mom was home. “How was your day?” she asked.

  “Very nice,” Dad told her. “We had a good time, didn’t we, boys?”

  “I had fun at Jimmy’s,” I said.

  “And I had fun on the subway,” Fudge told her. “So did Tootsie.”

  “I guess that makes it unanimous,” Mom said, “because I had a good day at work.”

  “Yay . . . it’s unanimous!” Fudge sang.

  That’s when Mom looked down and noticed that Fudge was wearing one shoe and one fringed and beaded moccasin. “Where did you get that moccasin?” she asked.

  “From the store,” Fudge said. “The man took it out of the window. It was a real bargain. Right, Dad?”

  Dad nodded.

  “But where’s your other shoe, Fudgie?” Mom said.

  Fudge didn’t answer.

  Dad put his arm around Mom’s shoulder. “It’s a long story, honey.”

  “Reaallly long!” Fudge added, laughing.

  * * *

  The next day, when the transit police still hadn’t found the missing shoe, Mom went back to Harry’s, this time without Fudge. She bought another pair of shoes, the exact same ones he got the first time. So in case Fudge grows a third foot he’ll be all set. And with my brother, nothing is impossible!

  Mr. Money

  Instead of taking picture books to bed, the way he used to, Fudge is thumbing through catalogs. He’s choosing presents for Christmas and birthdays. He’s working so far ahead he’s already circled what he wants when he’s twelve. Underwater watches, home entertainment systems with huge TV screens, digital cameras, telescopes so powerful you can see Venus. A water trampoline bigger than his room and mine put together.