Double Fudge Page 5

“Look at this, Pete,” he said one night.

  It was a rope bridge, forty feet long. It cost thousands of dollars. “That’d be useful,” I told him.

  “I know,” he said. “Uncle Feather would really like it.”

  Lucky for us Fudge doesn’t know how to go on-line.

  * * *

  The first time Fudge went to Richie Potter’s for a play date, he came home full of ideas. “We need a bigger apartment.”

  “A bigger apartment would be nice,” Mom said, “but we’re very lucky we have what we do.”

  “But Mom . . . I need two rooms. One for me and one for my toys,” Fudge said. “If you and Dad slept in the living room, I could sleep in your room and keep my toys in my room.”

  “Keep dreaming, Fudge!” I said.

  “I’m not dreaming, Pete. I’m wide-awake.”

  Later he came to my room. I was instant messaging with Jimmy Fargo when I was supposed to be making a journal entry for humanities. I’d be in big trouble if Mom or Dad knew. The computer goes back in the living room if I don’t keep up my grades.

  “The problem with our family is,” Fudge said, “we don’t have enough money. We need to get more. And fast.”

  “Cheer up,” I said, “maybe we’ll win the lottery.”

  His eyes lit up. “The lottery! That’s it.”

  But when he told Dad his brilliant idea, Dad said, “Buying lottery tickets is just a way to waste money.”

  “No,” Fudge argued. “It’s a way to get rich fast!”

  “Fudge,” Mom said, “we’re happy the way we are. We’re grateful for all the good things we have. Like each other and our health and . . .”

  “That’s you,” Fudge said. “Not me!”

  “This is getting out of hand,” Mom said to Dad.

  “I’m inclined to agree,” Dad said.

  By the third week of school Fudge had homework. I don’t remember ever having homework in kindergarten, or even in first grade. He was working on the floor, in front of the TV, while Mom and Dad watched the evening news. “Let me see that,” I said, grabbing his paper.

  FILL IN THE BLANKS

  I really like .

  is good.

  is fun.

  I dream about .

  I like to read about .

  I like to draw .

  A good name for me is .

  “How’s he supposed to fill in the blanks when he can’t even write?” I asked my parents.

  “I can write,” Fudge said.

  “Yeah . . . three words.”

  “I don’t need more than that,” he told me, grabbing back his paper.

  He whipped right through it, saying, “This is so easy.” Then he proudly handed his paper back to me.

  FILL IN THE BLANKS

  I really like money .

  money is good.

  mOney is fun.

  I dream about money .

  I like to read about money .

  I like to draw money .

  A good name for me is mr. money .

  Two days later Fudge was sent to the school counselor to be evaluated.

  “It was so fun,” he told us that night. “We played games and drew pictures. Guess what I drew?” He didn’t wait for us to guess. “Money . . . money . . . money. And I made dollar signs with wings. Lots and lots of them.”

  “Mun-eeee . . .” Tootsie sang.

  Mom and Dad got a call from the school counselor, who asked to meet with them. They went on Wednesday afternoon. Grandma baby-sat for Tootsie. When they got back Mom was really upset. “Do you know what the counselor asked us?” Mom said to Grandma. “She asked if we’re having a problem at home. If we’ve lost our jobs or need financial help. It was so embarrassing.”

  Grandma made Mom a cup of tea. “You can’t take it personally, Anne,” Grandma said. “She’s just doing her job.”

  “That’s not all,” Mom continued. “She suggested that instead of buying things for our children we could stress all the good things in life that are free. As if we don’t.” Mom choked up. “I just don’t know what to do about this.”

  “It’ll pass, honey,” Grandma said.

  “What if it doesn’t?” Mom asked.

  “Let’s not worry about that before we have to,” Grandma said.

  * * *

  That night, when Mom came to my room to say good night, she sat on the edge of my bed. “Peter, I’ve been wondering . . . have Dad and I taught you that the best things in life are free . . . like good health and love and friendship? That’s what we stress in our family, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, Mom . . . sure.”

  “And you understand that no matter how much money you have you aren’t necessarily happy? You know that, don’t you, Peter?”

  “Sure, Mom. I know that. It’s like no matter how much money Jimmy might have he can’t make his parents get back together. He can’t even make them like each other.”

  Mom got teary eyed.

  “But just so you know, Mom . . . I don’t think about that stuff every day.”

  “Don’t think about what?”

  “It’s not like I get up in the morning and say to myself, Wow . . . the best things in life are free!”

  “What do you think about?”

  “First thing in the morning, you mean?”

  Mom nodded.

  “I don’t know. Usually I wish I could sleep later. Or I wonder if I studied enough for the Spanish test. Or I think about the Mets or the Knicks or the Rangers, depending on the season.”

  “But you don’t get up in the morning and think about money, do you?”

  “No, Mom. I mean, maybe if we were seriously deprived and we didn’t have enough to eat . . . but then I guess I’d wake up thinking about food, not money.”

  “Just so long as money isn’t number one in your thoughts,” Mom said. “Or even number twenty.”

  “Probably if I made a list, it wouldn’t be,” I told her.

  “Thank you, Peter. That makes me feel much better.”

  The Green Stuff

  It was Grandma’s idea to take Fudge to Washington, D.C., to the Bureau of Printing and Engraving. “Let him see the green stuff hot off the press,” she said to Dad, while the two of them were doing the dinner dishes.

  “What green stuff?” Fudge asked. They thought he was safely tucked away in bed but I’d seen him crawl under the kitchen table, where he was listening to every word.

  “Fudge, what are you doing under the table?” Mom asked on her way back from putting Tootsie to sleep. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”

  “I can’t go to bed until I know about the green stuff.”

  “What green stuff?” Mom asked.

  “I don’t know,” Fudge said. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “The green stuff is money,” Grandma explained.

  “Oh, money,” Fudge said. “I love money!”

  “We know,” I told him.

  “Are you going to cook some money?” he asked Grandma, laughing.

  Grandma laughed with him and shook her head. “You don’t cook it. The government prints it.”

  “I can print,” Fudge said. “I can print the whole alphabet.”

  “We know,” I said.

  “Fudge,” Mom said, “come out from under the table right now. Otherwise we won’t have time for a story.”

  “I want Grandma to read tonight.”

  “I’d be honored,” she told him.

  “Will you read me a story about the green stuff?”

  “I’m not sure you have any books about the green stuff,” Grandma said. “But maybe I can make up a story about a little boy who liked money so much . .
.”

  “So much . . . what?” Fudge asked. “So much he ate it?”

  “You’ll find out when you’re in bed and I tell you the whole story,” Grandma said. From the way she pressed her lips together, I could tell she was wondering how she was going to get out of this one.

  The next morning Grandma reported that Fudge had been engrossed by her story about a boy who went to Washington to learn how money was made. Mom and Dad took that as an omen.

  “A trip certainly couldn’t hurt,” Mom said. “Remember when you took me on that tour?” she asked Grandma.

  “Yes, I do,” Grandma said.

  “It might even help Fudge understand,” Dad agreed. “Good idea, Muriel!”

  Grandma beamed.

  “We haven’t been to Washington in ages,” Mom said.

  “I’ve never been there,” I told them. “Jimmy Fargo says the Air and Space Museum is so cool. Can we check it out?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Dad said.

  Grandma volunteered to stay at our apartment with Tootsie, Turtle, and Uncle Feather.

  And a week later, when school was closed for two days because of teachers’ meetings, we headed for Washington, D.C.

  * * *

  We started out early and ate breakfast on the train. Fudge was really impressed by the snack car. As soon as we carried our food to our seats, he was ready to go back for more. Mom and Dad were sitting in the row in front of us, so I was the one he kept annoying. “Come on, Pete . . . let’s go back to the snack car.”

  “I’m still eating,” I told him, slurping up the last of my juice.

  He was quiet for about two minutes. Then he asked, “Are we almost there, Pete?”

  “No, we’re not almost there. We’re not even close. It takes three hours to get to Washington, so why don’t you look at your books, or draw a picture or something.”

  I got out my Electroman Advanced Plus. But just as I started a game Fudge covered the screen with his hand. “Will you take me back to the snack car now?”

  “If I do, will you leave me alone?”

  “Sure, Pete.”

  I asked Dad for money. He reminded me not to get Fudge any candy, as if I needed reminding. He was already flying high. “A banana would be good,” Dad said. “And juice, not soda.”

  The snack car was three cars forward. Fudge had already learned to open the doors between the cars by kicking the open door plate at the bottom of each door. He liked the whoosh of air as he raced from car to car. “This is so fun, Pete! I wish I could ride the train every day.”

  “We ride the subway,” I reminded him.

  “But there’s no snack car on the subway and the seats aren’t soft and when you look out the window it’s all dark.”

  “That’s because the subway is an underground train.”

  “Wow, Pete . . . I never knew that!”

  “Well, now you know.”

  “William says, learn something new every day.”

  I snorted.

  “William is smart, Pete. He’s the smartest teacher in the world.”

  Sure he is, I thought.

  Fudge got a banana and a juice box at the snack car. While I paid, Fudge peeled all the skin off his banana and shoved half of it into his mouth. His cheeks puffed out and he couldn’t talk his mouth was so full. He insisted on carrying the little cardboard box that held the rest of his banana and his juice box. But on the way back from the snack car the train swerved and Fudge lost his balance. He flew into the lap of a woman in a red suit and coughed out the gooey, half-chewed banana all over her clothes.

  “Get off me!” she shouted. “Someone get him off me!” She shoved Fudge off her lap as if he were a slobbering dog, or worse. “Ohhhh,” she cried, “look what you’ve done. You’ve ruined my suit.” She turned to the man across the aisle. “Can you believe this? And I’ve got an appointment at the White House!” Then she glared at Fudge, who was picking himself up off the floor. “You know who lives at the White House?” she asked him.

  “The President,” Fudge said.

  “That’s right! And I’m going to tell him exactly how I got these stains on my suit.” She jumped up and marched to the rear of the car, where there was a rest room.

  “Tell him it was a banana,” Fudge called. “And tell him my name, too. It’s Farley Drexel Hatcher, but he can call me Fudge.”

  I grabbed him and pulled him back to our seats. No way was I ever taking him to the snack car again.

  * * *

  When we finally got to Washington our first stop was a tour of the Bureau of Printing and Engraving. That’s where the green stuff is printed. There were about twenty other people in our group. Our tour guide’s name was Rosie. She had dark eyes, reddish hair, and big teeth.

  Before our official tour began, Rosie told us some of what we’d see during our tour. Fun Facts, she called them. I decided to write her Fun Facts in my notebook in case any of my teachers ever assigned a report on U.S. currency.

  “Fun Fact Number One,” Rosie said. “The Bureau of Printing and Engraving produces 37 million notes a day, worth about $696 million.”

  Fudge raised his hand and asked, “Are notes the same as bucks?”

  Rosie told him they were. “They’re called bills, dollars, bucks . . .”

  Some guy shouted out, “How about moola?” A couple of people laughed. A few more groaned.

  “Well, yes,” Rosie said. “I suppose some people refer to money as moola or even as dough.”

  “How about green stuff?” Fudge shouted. “That’s what my grandma calls it.”

  This time almost everyone in our group laughed. Any minute I thought Fudge would take a bow. But Rosie kept checking her watch and asked the group to hold their questions and comments until she was finished running through all her Fun Facts. Then she led us through the metal detector. Fudge asked if we were getting on a plane. Rosie explained that we weren’t, but because this is a federal building they had to make sure no one was carrying a weapon.

  “A weapon?” Fudge said, right before Dad set off the alarm. Nobody would have paid any attention except that Fudge shouted, “Dad! Are you carrying a weapon?” That got everyone’s attention.

  “It’s his belt buckle, Turkey Brain,” I said.

  Rosie took a deep breath and checked her watch a couple of times. She was still smiling but she didn’t look that happy. She led us down a long hallway. We followed her single file through narrow corridors that twisted and turned. The old wooden floor squeaked under us. Every few minutes we’d stop in front of glass walls that looked down into rooms where we could see the green stuff in production. As the crowd pressed forward to the window wall, Fudge worked his way up front, wedging himself between people’s legs if he had to, to get a better view. Then he waved to the workers in the rooms below. I heard him singing under his breath, “Oh, money, money, money . . . I love money, money, money . . .”

  I couldn’t believe my parents thought bringing him here was a good idea.

  We saw the green stuff as it was printed, cut, stacked, and counted. Toward the end of the tour Rosie invited Fudge to walk with her since he was so interested. “I love money!” he told her.

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Rosie said.

  “Want to see mine?” He pulled out a jumble of Fudge Bucks. “I make it myself. Pretty good, huh?”

  “Play money is fine,” Rosie told him, “as long as you don’t try to use it or pass it off as real because then you could get in big trouble.”

  “Why?” Fudge asked.

  “Because that’s the rule,” Rosie said, firmly, which shut him up until the end of the tour. That’s when Rosie asked our group if anyone had any special questions. Fudge’s hand shot up first. Rosie didn’t look thrilled but she had no choice. She
had to call on him.

  “I still need to find out how you get a lot of it all at once,” Fudge said.

  “A lot of . . .” Rosie sounded confused.

  “Money!” Fudge shouted.

  Mom stepped in and tried to explain. “Fudge has become very curious about money,” she told Rosie. “And we thought that by bringing him here . . .”

  “I hear what you’re saying,” Rosie said to Mom. “But somebody has to set him straight.”

  “I’ll set him straight,” a tall man with silver hair said. “First of all, young man, you need to get a good education. Then, when you’re grown up, you need a good job. Then you save something from your salary every week. You invest carefully. You let your money work for you. And by the time you’re my age, with luck, you’ll have a nice little nest egg for your retirement.”

  Our group applauded.

  But Fudge still wasn’t satisfied. “Or else someone can just give it to you,” he said.

  You could hear the tongues clucking and the whispers in the crowd. I heard someone say, “This kid is hopeless.”

  That’s when Rosie announced that the next tour was about to begin and we could all proceed to the gift shop. “You’re going to love the gift shop,” she told Fudge. “All the children do.”

  “Gift shop?” Mom said. “Warren, did you know there was a gift shop?”

  Dad groaned.

  Cousin Coincidence

  Rosie was right. Fudge loved the gift shop. Everything in sight had a money motif. Everything. Shirts, socks, ties; pencils, notepads, snow globes; you name it—it was done up as money.

  “This is better than the tour!” Fudge sang, racing all around. He was fascinated by a five-pound bag of shredded money containing a minimum of ten thousand dollars. You could buy it for forty-five dollars. “Pete, look . . . ten thousand dollars all in one little bag.”

  “Yeah . . . but it’s shredded, so it’s totally useless.”

  “I could try to glue it back together. Then we could buy every toy in the world.”

  “Even if you could glue it back together, it’d be counterfeit,” I told him. “If you tried to use it, you’d go to jail.”