Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing Read online

  My mother was being pretty nice about our committee meetings. She arranged to have Fudge play at Ralph’s apartment on Tuesdays and at Jennie’s on Thursdays. Sam has the chicken pox, so he can’t play at all.

  I was glad that next week would be our last committee meeting after school. I was sick of Sheila and I was getting sick of Transportation. Besides, now that I knew a monorail system was the only way to save our city I was getting upset that the mayor and all the other guys that run things at City Hall weren’t doing anything about installing one. If I know that’s the best method of city transportation how come they don’t know it?

  The next day when I came home from school I went into my bedroom to see Dribble like I always do. Fudge was in there, sitting on my bed.

  “Why are you in my room?” I asked him.

  He smiled.

  “You know you’re not supposed to be in here. This is my room.”

  “Want to see?” Fudge said.

  “See what?”

  “Want to see?”

  “What? What are you talking about?” I asked.

  He jumped off my bed and crawled underneath it. He came out with our poster. He held it up. “See,” he said. “Pretty!”

  “What did you do?” I yelled. “What did you do to our poster?” It was covered all over with scribbles in every color Magic Marker. It was ruined! It was a mess and it was ruined. I was ready to kill Fudge. I grabbed my poster and ran into the kitchen to show it to my mother. I could hardly speak. “Look,” I said, feeling a lump in my throat. “Just look at what he did to my poster.” I felt tears come to my eyes but I didn’t care. “How could you let him?” I asked my mother. “How? Don’t you care about me?”

  I threw the poster down and ran into my room. I slammed the door, took off my shoe, and flung it at the wall. It made a black mark where it hit. Well, so what!

  Soon I heard my mother hollering—and then, Fudge crying. After a while my mother knocked on my bedroom door and called, “Peter, may I come in?”

  I didn’t answer.

  She opened the door and walked over to my bed. She sat down next to me. “I’m very sorry,” she said.

  I still didn’t say anything.

  “Peter,” she began.

  I didn’t look at her.

  She touched my arm. “Peter . . . please listen. . . .”

  “Don’t you see, Mom? I can’t ever do my homework without him messing it up. It just isn’t fair! I wish he was never born. Never! I hate him!”

  “You don’t hate him,” my mother said. “You just think you do.”

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “I mean it. I really can’t stand that kid!”

  “You’re angry,” my mother told me. “I know that and I don’t blame you. Fudge had no right to touch your poster. I spanked him.”

  “You did?” I asked. Fudge never gets spanked. My parents don’t believe in spanking. “You really spanked him?” I asked again.

  “Yes,” my mother said.

  “Hard?” I asked.

  “On his backside,” she told me.

  I thought that over.

  “Peter. . . .” My mother put her arm around me. “I’ll buy you a new posterboard tomorrow. It was really my fault. I should never have let him into your room.”

  “That’s why I need a lock on my door,” I said.

  “I don’t like locks on doors. We’re a family. We don’t have to lock each other out.”

  “If I had a lock Fudge wouldn’t have gotten my poster!”

  “It won’t happen again,” my mother promised.

  I wanted to believe her, but really I didn’t. Unless she tied him up I knew my brother would get into my room again.

  * * *

  The next day, while I was at school, my mother bought a new yellow posterboard. The hard part was explaining to Jimmy that we had to start all over again. He was a good sport about it. He said this time he’d make sure his truck didn’t look like a flying train. And I said, this time I’d make pencil marks first so my letters didn’t go uphill.

  Our committee met that afternoon. Sheila didn’t mention the last time. Neither did we. Me and Jimmy worked on the poster while Sheila copied our written work into the booklet. We’d be ready to give our oral report to the class on Monday. Not like some committees who hadn’t even started yet!

  By five o’clock we had finished our poster and Sheila was almost done with the cover for our booklet. Jimmy walked over and stood behind her, watching her work.

  After a minute he yelled, “What do you think you’re doing, Sheila?”

  I got up from the floor and joined them at my desk. I took a look at the cover. It was pretty nice. It said:

  TRANSPORTATION IN THE CITY

  Under that it said:

  BY SHEILA TUBMAN, PETER HATCHER, AND JAMES FARGO

  And under that in small letters it said:

  handwritten by miss sheila tubman

  Now I knew why Jimmy was mad. “Oh no!” I said, holding my hand to my head. “How could you!”

  Sheila didn’t say anything.

  “It’s not fair,” I told her. “We didn’t put our names on the poster!”

  “But the cover’s all done,” Sheila said. “Can’t you see that? I’ll never get the letters so straight again. It looks perfect!”

  “Oh no!” Jimmy shouted. “We’re not handing the booklet in like that. I’ll rip it up before I let you!” He grabbed the booklet and threatened to tear it in half.

  Sheila screamed. “You wouldn’t! I’ll kill you! Give it back to me, Jimmy Fargo!” She was ready to cry.

  I knew Jimmy wouldn’t tear it up but I didn’t say so.

  “Peter . . . make him give it back!”

  “Will you take off that line about your handwriting?” I asked.

  “I can’t. It’ll ruin the booklet.”

  “Then I think he should rip it up,” I said.

  Sheila stamped her foot. “Ooooh! I hate you both!”

  “You don’t really,” I told her. “You just think you do.”

  “I know I do!” Sheila cried.

  “That’s because you’re angry right now,” I said. I couldn’t help smiling.

  Sheila jumped up and tried to get the booklet but Jimmy held it over his head and he’s much taller than Sheila. She had no chance at all.

  Finally she sat down and whispered, “I give up. You win. I’ll take my name off.”

  “You promise?” Jimmy asked.

  “I promise,” Sheila said.

  Jimmy set the booklet down on my desk in front of Sheila. “Okay,” he said. “Start.”

  “I’m not going to make a whole new cover,” Sheila said. “What I’ll do is turn this bottom line into a decoration.” She picked up a Magic Marker and made little flowers out of the words. Soon, handwritten by miss sheila tubman, turned into sixteen small flowers. “There,” Sheila said. “It’s done.”

  “It looks pretty good,” I told her.

  “It would have looked better without those flowers,” Jimmy said. “But at least it’s fair now.”

  * * *

  That night I showed my mother and father our new poster. They thought it was great. Especially our silver-sparkle airplane. My mother put the poster on top of the refrigerator so it would be safe until the next day, when I would take it to school.

  Now I had nothing to worry about. Sheila had the booklet, the poster was safe, and our committee was finished before schedule. I went into my room to relax. Fudge was sitting on the floor, near my bed. My shoebox of supplies was in front of him. His face was a mess of Magic Marker colors and he was using my extra sharp scissors to snip away at his hair. And the hair he snipped was dropping into Dribble’s bowl—which he had in front of h
im on the floor!

  “See,” he said. “See Fudge. Fudgie’s a barber!”

  That night I found out hair doesn’t hurt my turtle. I picked off every strand from his shell. I cleaned out his bowl and washed off his rocks. He seemed happy.

  Two things happened the next day. One was my mother had to take Fudge to the real barber to do something about his hair. He had plenty left in the back, but just about nothing in front and on top. The barber said there wasn’t much he could do until the hair grew back. Between his fangs and his hair he was getting funnier looking every day.

  The second was my father came home with a chain latch for my bedroom door. I could reach it when I stood on tip-toe, but that brother of mine couldn’t reach it at all—no matter what!

  * * *

  Our committee was the first to give its report. Mrs. Haver said we did a super job. She liked our poster a lot. She thought the silver-sparkle airplane was the best. The only thing she asked us was, how come we included a picture of a flying train?

  8

  The TV Star

  Aunt Linda is my mother’s sister. She lives in Boston. Last week she had a baby girl. So now I have a new cousin. My mother decided to fly to Boston to see Aunt Linda and the new baby.

  “I’ll only be gone for the weekend,” my mother told me.

  I was sitting on her bed watching her pack. “I know,” I said.

  “Daddy will take care of you and Fudge.”

  “I know,” I said again.

  “Are you sure you’ll be all right?” she asked me.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Will you help Daddy with Fudge?”

  “Sure, Mom. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worrying. It’s just that Daddy is so . . . well, you know . . . he doesn’t know much about taking care of children.” Then she closed her suitcase.

  “We’ll be fine, Mom,” I said. I was really looking forward to the weekend. My father doesn’t care about keeping things neat. He never examines me to see if I’m clean. And he lets me stay up late at night.

  On Friday morning all four of us rode down in the elevator to say good-bye to my mother.

  Henry looked at the suitcase. “You going away, Mr. Hatcher?” he asked.

  My mother answered. “No, I am, Henry. My sister just had her first baby. I’m flying to Boston for the weekend . . . to help out.”

  “New baby,” Fudge said. “Baby baby baby.”

  Nobody paid any attention to him. Sometimes my brother just talks to hear the sound of his own voice.

  “Have a nice visit, Mrs. Hatcher,” Henry told my mother when we reached the lobby.

  “Thank you, Henry,” my mother said. “Keep an eye on my family for me.”

  “Will do, Mrs. Hatcher,” Henry said, giving my father a wink.

  Outside my father hailed a taxi. He put the suitcase in first, then held the door for my mother. When she was settled in the cab my father said, “Don’t worry about us. We’ll be just fine.”

  “Just fine . . . just fine, Mommy,” Fudge yelled.

  “Bye, Mom. See you Sunday,” I said.

  My mother blew us kisses. Then her cab drove away.

  My father sighed while Fudge jumped up and down calling, “Bye, Mommy . . . bye bye bye!”

  I had no school that day. The teachers were at a special meeting. So my father said he’d take me and Fudge to the office with him.

  My father’s office is in a huge building made of almost all glass. It’s really a busy place. You never see people just sitting quietly at desks. Everyone’s always rushing around. A person could get lost in there. My father has a private office and his own secretary. Her name is Janet and she’s very pretty. I especially like her hair. It’s thick and black. She has the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen. Once I heard my mother say, “Janet must have to get up at the crack of dawn to put on her face.” My father just laughed when my mother said it.

  Janet’s seen me before but this was her first meeting with Fudge. I was glad his hair was finally growing back. I explained right off about his teeth. “He’ll look a lot better when he’s older,” I said. “He knocked out his front two, but when he’s six or seven he’ll get new ones.”

  “See,” Fudge said, opening his mouth. “All gone.”

  My father said, “Janet, the boys are going to be here for the morning. Can you amuse them while I clear up some work?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Hatcher,” Janet said. “You go ahead into your office and I’ll take the boys on a tour of the rest of the agency.”

  As soon as my father went into his private office Janet took out her pocketbook. She reached in and came up with a hairbrush, some lipstick, and a bag of crackers. “Want some?” she asked me and Fudge.

  “Okay,” I said, taking a handful. Fudge did the same. The crackers were shaped like little goldfish. I nibbled while Janet fixed herself up. She had a big folding mirror in her desk drawer. She set it on top of her desk and went to work on herself. When she was finished she looked exactly the same as when we came in. But I guess she didn’t think so because she said, “That’s much better.” Then she put all her stuff away and took me by one hand and Fudge by the other.

  We walked down a long hall through a doorway and into another section of the agency. We came to a room where there were a bunch of kids with mothers. I guess there were at least fifty of them. Most of the kids were kind of small, like Fudge. Some were crying.

  “Is this a nursery school or what?” I asked Janet.

  She laughed. “They’re here to try out for the new Toddle-Bike commercial.”

  “You mean they all want to be the kid who rides the Toddle-Bike on TV?”

  “Yes. At least their mothers want them to be picked,” Janet said. “But we can only use one.”

  “You mean only one out of all these kids is going to be picked?”

  “That’s right,” Janet said.

  “Who picks him?” I asked.

  “Your father and Mr. Denberg are doing it. But of course Mr. Vincent, the president of the Toddle-Bike company, has to approve.”

  Just then a door opened and a secretary came out. “Next,” she called to the waiting kids.

  “My Murray’s next!” a mother said.

  “Oh no he’s not!” another mother called. “Sally is next.”

  “Ladies . . . please! You’ll all have a turn,” the secretary said.

  Murray got to be next. He was a little redheaded kid. He wasn’t in the other room for two minutes when the door opened and a big man with a cigar in his mouth came out. “No, no, no!” he shouted. “He’s not the type at all.”

  Murray was crying. His mother yelled at the big man. “What do you know, anyway? You wouldn’t know a treasure if you found one!” She shook her fist at him.

  Janet whispered to me. “That’s Mr. Vincent, the president of Toddle-Bike.”

  Mr. Vincent walked to the center of the room. He looked around at all the kids. When he looked over at us he pointed and called. “There he is! That’s the kid I want!”

  I thought he meant me. I got excited. I could just see myself on TV riding the Toddle-Bike. All my friends would turn on their sets and say, “Hey, look! There’s Peter.”

  While I was thinking about what fun it would be Mr. Vincent came over to us and grabbed Fudge. He lifted him up. “Perfect!” he cried. “He’s perfect.”

  The mothers who were waiting packed up their kids and left right away.

  Mr. Vincent took off with Fudge in his arms. Janet chased him. She called, “But, Mr. Vincent . . . you don’t understand. . . .”

  I ran after Janet.

  Mr. Vincent carried Fudge into the other room. He announced, “I found him myself! The perfect kid to ride the Toddle-Bike in my new com
mercial.”

  Mr. Vincent put Fudge down and took the cigar out of his mouth. There were two other men in the room. One of them was Mr. Denberg. The other one was my father.

  “Hi, Daddy,” Fudge said.

  “George,” my father told Mr. Vincent, “this is my son! He’s no actor or model. He can’t make your Toddle-Bike commercial.”

  “He doesn’t have to be an actor or a model. He’s perfect the way he is!” Mr. Vincent insisted.

  “Now look, George . . . we want to make the best possible commercial for your company. But Fudge can’t be the boy to ride the Toddle-Bike.”

  “Now you listen, Hatcher!” Mr. Vincent raised his voice.

  I wondered why he called my father Hatcher—just like Mr. Yarby did.

  Mr. Vincent pointed to Fudge. “Either that kid rides my Toddle-Bike or I take my account to another advertising agency. It’s that simple.”

  My father looked at Mr. Denberg.

  “It’s your decision, Warren,” Mr. Denberg told my father. “I don’t want to be the one to tell you what to do.”

  My father picked up Fudge and held him on his lap. “Would you like to ride the Toddle-Bike, Fudge? It’s just like the one you have at home.”

  “Why are you asking him?” I said. “What does he know about making commercials?”

  My father acted like he’d forgotten I was even around. “I’m thinking, Peter,” he said. “Please be quiet.”

  “Well, Hatcher,” Mr. Vincent said. “What’ll it be? This kid of yours or do I move to another agency?”

  I remembered how my father lost the Juicy-O account because of Fudge. Now maybe he’d lose this one too. And I don’t think he can afford that.

  Finally my father said, “All right, George. You can use him . . . on one condition, though.”

  “What’s that, Hatcher?” Mr. Vincent asked.

  “The commercial has to be made this afternoon. After today my son Fudge won’t be available.”

  “That’s fine with me, Hatcher,” Mr. Vincent said.

  “Is he going to get paid?” I asked my father.

  “I’ll worry about that, Peter,” my father said. That probably meant yes. He’d be paid and have lots of money in the bank. I’d have nothing. And some day I’d have to borrow from him. No—wait a minute—never! I’ll never borrow money from Fudge. I’ll starve first! “Can I at least watch when you make the commercial?” I asked.