Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing (2 page)

My father came running into my room. He was still in his pajamas.

He whispered, “What's going on in here?”

I pointed at Fudge and he pointed at me.

My father picked up my brother and carried him off. “Go back to sleep, Peter,” he said. “It's only six o'clock in the morning.”

I fell asleep for another hour, then woke up to an awful noise. It was Fudge playing with his new train. It woke up everybody, including the Yarbys. But this time there was nobody they could blame. They were the ones who gave Fudge the train in the first place.

Breakfast was a very quiet affair. Nobody had much to say. Mr. Yarby drank two glasses of Juicy-O. Then he told my father that he and Mrs. Yarby had their suitcase packed. They were leaving for a hotel as soon as breakfast was over.

My father said he understood. That the apartment was too small for so many people. My mother didn't say anything.

When Mr. Yarby went into Fudge's bedroom to pick up his suitcase his voice boomed. “HATCHER!”

My father ran toward the bedroom. My mother and Mrs. Yarby followed him. I followed them. When we got there we saw Fudge sitting on the Yarbys' suitcase. He had decorated it with about one hundred green stamps. The kind my mother gets at the supermarket.

“See,” Fudge said. “See . . . pretty.” He laughed. Nobody else did. Then he licked the last green stamp and stuck it right in the middle of the suitcase. “All gone!” Fudge sang, holding up his hands.

It took my mother half an hour to peel off her trading stamps and clean up the Yarbys' suitcase.

*  *  *

The next week my father came home from the office and collected all the cans of Juicy-O in our house. He dumped them into the garbage. My mother felt bad that my father had lost such an important account. But my father told her not to worry. Juicy-O wasn't selling very well at the stores. Nobody seemed to like the combination of oranges, grapefruits, pineapples, pears, and bananas.

“You know, Dad,” I said. “I only drank Juicy-O to be polite. I really hated it!”

“You know something funny, Peter?” my father said. “I thought it was pretty bad myself!”

The Family Dog

Nobody ever came right out and said that Fudge was the reason my father lost the Juicy-O account. But I thought about it. My father said he was glad to be rid of Mr. Yarby. Now he could spend more time on his other clients—like the Toddle-Bike company. My father is in charge of their new TV commercial.

I thought maybe he could use me in it since I know how to stand on my head. But he said he wasn't planning on having any head-standers in the commercial.

My grandma taught me to stand on my head when I spent the night at her house. I can stay up for as long as three minutes. I showed my mother, my father, and Fudge how I can do it right in the living room. They were all impressed. Especially Fudge. He wanted to do it too. So I turned him upside down and tried to teach him. But he always tumbled over backwards.

Right after I learned to stand on my head Fudge stopped eating. He did it suddenly. One day he ate fine and the next day nothing. “No eat!” he told my mother.

She didn't pay too much attention to him until the third day. When he still refused to eat she got upset. “You've got to eat, Fudgie,” she said. “You want to grow up to be big and strong, don't you?”

“No grow!” Fudge said.

That night my mother told my father how worried she was about Fudge. So my father did tricks for him while my mother stood over his chair trying to get some food into his mouth. But nothing worked. Not even juggling oranges.

Finally my mother got the brilliant idea of me standing on my head while she fed Fudge. I wasn't very excited about standing on my head in the kitchen. The floor is awfully hard in there. But my mother begged me. She said, “It's very important for Fudge to eat. Please help us, Peter.”

So I stood on my head. When Fudge saw me upside down he clapped his hands and laughed. When he laughs he opens his mouth. That's when my mother stuffed some baked potato into it.

But the next morning I put my foot down. “No! I don't want to stand on my head in the kitchen. Or anywhere else!” I added, “And if I don't hurry I'll be late for school.”

“Don't you care if your brother starves?”

“No!” I told her.

“Peter! What an awful thing to say.”

“Oh . . . he'll eat when he gets hungry. Why don't you just leave him alone!”

That afternoon when I came home from school I found my brother on the kitchen floor playing with boxes of cereals and raisins and dried apricots. My mother was begging him to eat.

“No, no, no!” Fudge shouted. He made a terrible mess, dumping everything on the floor.

“Please stand on your head, Peter,” my mother said. “It's the only way he'll eat.”

“No!” I told her. “I'm not going to stand on my head anymore.” I went into my room and slammed the door. I played with Dribble until suppertime. Nobody ever worries about me the way they worry about Fudge. If I decided not to eat they'd probably never even notice!

That night during dinner Fudge hid under the kitchen table. He said, “I'm a doggie. Woof . . . woof . . . woof!”

It was hard to eat with him under the table pulling on my legs. I waited for my father to say something. But he didn't.

Finally my mother jumped up. “I know,” she said. “If Fudgie's a doggie he wants to eat on the floor! Right?”

If you ask me Fudge never even thought about that. But he liked the idea a lot. He barked and nodded his head. So my mother fixed his plate and put it under the table. Then she reached down and petted him, like he was a real dog.

My father said, “Aren't we carrying this a little too far?”

My mother didn't answer.

Fudge ate two bites of his dinner.

My mother was satisfied.

After a week of having him eat under the table I felt like we really did have a family dog. I thought how great it would be if we could trade in Fudge for a nice cocker spaniel. That would solve all my problems. I'd walk him and feed him and play with him. He could even sleep on the edge of my bed at night. But of course that was wishful thinking. My brother is here to stay. And there's nothing much I can do about it.

Grandma came over with a million ideas about getting Fudge to eat. She tricked him by making milk shakes in the blender. When Fudge wasn't looking she threw in an egg. Then she told him if he drank it all up there would be a surprise in the bottom of the glass. The first time he believed her. He finished his milk shake. But all he saw was an empty glass. There wasn't any surprise! Fudge got so mad he threw the glass down. It smashed into little pieces. After that Grandma left.

The next day my mother dragged Fudge to Dr. Cone's office. He told her to leave him alone. That Fudge would eat when he got hungry.

I reminded my mother that I'd told her the same thing—and for free! But I guess my mother didn't believe either one of us because she took Fudge to see three more doctors. None of them could find a thing wrong with my brother. One doctor even suggested that my mother cook Fudge his favorite foods.

So that night my mother broiled lamb chops just for Fudge. The rest of us ate stew. She served him the two little lamb chops on his plate under the table. Just the smell of them was enough to make my stomach growl. I thought it was mean of my mother to make them for Fudge and not me.

Fudge looked at his lamb chops for a few minutes. Then he pushed his plate away. “No!” he said. “No chops!”

“Fudgie . . . you'll starve!” my mother cried. “You
must
eat!”

“No chops! Corn Flakes,” Fudge said. “Want Corn Flakes!”

My mother ran to get the cereal for Fudge. “You can eat the chops if you want them, Peter,” she told me.

I reached down and helped myself to the lamb chops. My mother handed Fudge his bowl of cereal. But he didn't eat it. He sat at my feet and looked up at me. He watched me eat his chops.

“Eat your cereal!”
my father said.

“NO! NO EAT CEREAL!” Fudge yelled.

My father was really mad. His face turned bright red. He said, “Fudge, you will eat that cereal or you will wear it!”

This was turning out to be fun after all
, I thought. And the lamb chops were really tasty. I dipped the bone in some Ketchup and chewed away.

Fudge messed around with his cereal for a minute. Then he looked at my father and said, “NO EAT . . . NO EAT . . . NO EAT!”

My father wiped his mouth with his napkin, pushed back his chair, and got up from the table. He picked up the bowl of cereal in one hand, and Fudge in the other. He carried them both into the bathroom. I went along, nibbling on a bone, to see what was going to happen.

My father stood Fudge in the tub and dumped the whole bowl of cereal right over his head. Fudge screamed. He sure can scream loud.

My father motioned for me to go back to the kitchen. He joined us in a minute. We sat down and finished our dinner. Fudge kept on screaming. My mother wanted to go to him but my father told her to stay where she was. He'd had enough of Fudge's monkey business at meal times.

I think my mother really was relieved that my father had taken over. For once my brother got what he deserved. And I was glad!

The next day Fudge sat at the table again. In his little red booster chair, where he belongs. He ate everything my mother put in front of him. “No more doggie,” he told us.

And for a long time after that his favorite expression was “eat it or wear it!”

My Brother the Bird

We live near Central Park. On nice days I like to play there after school. I'm allowed to walk over by myself as long as I'm going to be with friends. My mother doesn't want me hanging around the park alone.

For one thing, Jimmy Fargo has been mugged three times—twice for his bicycle and once for his money. Only he didn't have any to give the muggers.

I've never been mugged. But sooner or later I probably will be. My father's told me what to do. Give the muggers whatever they want and try not to get hit on the head.

Sometimes, after you're mugged, you get to go to police headquarters. You look at a bunch of pictures of crooks to see if you can recognize the guys that mugged you.

I think it would be neat to look at all those pictures. It's not that I want to get mugged, because that could be really scary. It's just that Jimmy Fargo's always talking about his visit to police headquarters.

My father got mugged once in a subway by two girls and a guy. They took his wallet and his briefcase. He still travels around by subways but my mother doesn't. She sticks to buses and taxis.

Both my mother and my father are always warning me never to talk to strangers in the park. Because a lot of dope-pushers hang around there. But taking dope is even dumber than smoking, so nobody's going to hook me!

We live on the west side of the park. If I want to get to the zoo and the pony carts I have to walk all the way through to the east side. Sometimes my mother walks across the park with Fudge. He likes the animals a lot. Especially the monkeys. He also likes the helium-filled balloons. But as soon as my mother buys him one he lets it go. I think he likes to see it float up in the sky. My mother says that's a waste of money and she's not going to buy him any more balloons until he promises not to let go.

On Sundays the park is closed to traffic and you can ride your bicycle all over without worrying about being run down by some crazy driver. Even Fudge can ride. He has a little blue Toddle-Bike, a present from my father's client. And when he's riding he makes motorcycle noises. “Vroom—vroom—vroom!” he yells.

In the fall the leaves turn darker and drop off the trees. Sometimes there are big leaf piles on the ground. It's fun to jump around in them. I never saw bright red, yellow, and orange leaves until the day my father took us for a drive in the country. The reason the leaves don't turn bright colors in New York is the air pollution. And that's too bad. Because yellow and orange and red leaves really look neat!

One nice sunny afternoon I called for Jimmy Fargo and we went to the park. Jimmy is the only kid on my block who's in my class at school. Unless you count Sheila. And I don't! She lives in my building, on the tenth floor. Henry, the elevator operator, is always making jokes about me and Sheila. He thinks we like each other. The truth is, I can't stand her. She's a real know-it-all. But I've discovered that most girls are!

The worst thing about Sheila is the way she's always trying to touch me. And when she does she yells, “Peter's got the cooties! Peter's got the cooties!” I don't believe in cooties anymore. When I was in second grade I used to examine myself to see if I had them. But I never found any. By fourth grade most kids give up on cooties. But not Sheila. She's still going strong. So I have to keep a safe distance from her.

My mother thinks Sheila is the greatest. “She's so smart,” my mother says. “And some day she's going to be a real beauty.” Now that's the funniest! Because Sheila looks a lot like the monkeys that Fudge is so crazy about. So maybe she'll look beautiful to some ape!
But never to me.

Me and Jimmy have this special group of rocks where we like to play when we're in the park. We play secret agent up there. Jimmy can imitate all kinds of foreign accents. Probably because his father's a part-time actor. When he's not acting he teaches a class at City College.

Today, when we got to our rocks, who should be perched up there but Sheila. She was pretending to read a book. But I think she was just waiting for me and Jimmy. To find out what we'd do when we found her on our own personal rocks.

“Hey, Sheila!” I said. “Those are our rocks.”

“Says who?” she asked.

“Come on, Sheila,” Jimmy said, climbing up. “You know me and Peter hang out here.”

“Too bad for you!” Sheila said.

“Oh, Sheila!” I shouted. “Go and find yourself another rock!”

“I like this one,” she said, as if she owned the park. “So why don't you two go find another rock?”

Just then who should come tearing down the path but Fudge. My mother was right behind him hollering, “Fudgie . . . wait for Mommy!”

But when Fudge gets going he doesn't wait for anybody. He was after some pigeons. “Birdie . . . here birdie,” he called. That brother of mine loves birds. But he can't get it through his head that the birds aren't about to let him catch them.

“Hi, Mom,” I said.

My mother stopped running. “Peter! Am I glad to see you. I can't keep up with Fudge.”

“Mrs. Hatcher . . . Mrs. Hatcher,” Sheila called, scrambling down from our rock, “I'll watch Fudge for you. I'll take very good care of him. Can I, Mrs. Hatcher? Oh please!” Sheila jumped up and down and begged some more.

Jimmy gave me an elbow in the ribs. He thought that my mother would let Sheila watch Fudge and then we'd be rid of her. We'd be free to play secret agent. But Jimmy didn't know that my mother would never trust Sheila with her dear little boy.

Fudge, in the meantime, was screaming. “Come back, birdies . . . come back to Fudgie!”

Then my mother did a strange thing. She checked her watch and said, “You know, I do have to run back to the apartment. I forgot to turn on the oven. Do you really think you could keep an eye on Fudge for just ten minutes?”

“Of course I can, Mrs. Hatcher,” Sheila said. “I know all about baby-sitting from my sister.”

Sheila's sister Libby is in seventh grade. She's about as beautiful as Sheila. The only difference is, she's bigger.

My mother hesitated. “I don't know,” she said. “I've never left Fudge before.” She looked at me. “Peter. . . .”

“What?”

“Will you and Jimmy help Sheila watch Fudge while I run home for a minute?”

“Oh, Mom! Do we have to?”

“Please, Peter. I'll be right back. I'll feel better if all three of you are watching him.”

“What do you say?” I asked Jimmy.

“Sure,” he answered. “Why not?”

“But I'm in charge of Fudgie, aren't I?” Sheila asked my mother.

“Well, I guess so,” my mother said to Sheila. “You probably do know more about baby-sitting. Why don't you all take Fudge over to the playground? Then I'll know where to find you.”

“Swell, Mrs. Hatcher!” Sheila said. “Don't you worry. Fudgie will be just fine.”

My mother turned to Fudge. “Now you be a good boy for ten minutes. Mommy will be right back. Okay?”

“Good boy!” Fudge said. “Good . . . good . . . good. . . .”

As soon as my mother was gone Fudge took off. “Can't catch me!” he hollered. “Can't catch Fudgie!”

“Go get him, Sheila,” I said. “You're in charge, remember?”

Me and Jimmy horsed around while Sheila ran after Fudge.

When she caught him we decided we'd better go to the playground like my mother said. It was a lot easier to keep an eye on him in a smaller place. Anyway, Fudge likes to climb on the jungle gym and that way he can't get lost.

As soon as we got to the playground Sheila started chasing me. “Peter's got the cooties! Peter's got the cooties!” she yelled.

“Cut that out!” I said.

So she chased Jimmy. “Jimmy's got the cooties! Jimmy's got the cooties!”

Me and Jimmy decided to fight back. So what if she's a girl? She started it! We grabbed her by the arms. She squirmed and tried to get away from us, but we wouldn't let go. We hollered really loud. “Sheila's got the cooties! Sheila's got the cooties!”

All three of us were so busy fooling around that we didn't notice Fudge up on the jungle gym until he called. “Pee-tah . . . Pee-tah. . . .” That's how he says my name.

“What?” I asked.

“See . . . see. . . .” Fudge flapped his arms around. “Fudgie's a birdie! Fudgie's a birdie! Fly, birdie . . . fly. . . .”

That crazy kid!
I thought, running to the jungle gym with Jimmy and Sheila right behind me.

But it was too late. Fudge already found out he didn't have wings. He fell to the ground. He was screaming and crying and his face was a mess of blood. I couldn't even tell where the blood was coming from at first. Then Jimmy handed me his handkerchief. I don't know how clean it was but it was better than nothing. I mopped some blood off Fudge's face.

Sheila cried, “It wasn't my fault. Honest, it wasn't.”

“Oh shut up!” I told her.

“He's really a mess,” Jimmy said, inspecting Fudge. “And his teeth are gone too.”

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

“Look in his mouth,” Jimmy said. “Now, while he's screaming. See . . . he's got a big space where he used to have his front teeth.”

“Oh no!” Sheila screamed. “He's right! Fudgie's teeth are gone!”

Fudge stopped crying for a minute. “All gone?” he asked.

“Open your mouth wide,” I said.

He did and I looked in. It was true. His top two front teeth were missing.

“My mother's going to kill you, Sheila!” I said. Was I glad I wasn't left in charge of my brother.

Sheila cried louder. “But it was an accident. He did it himself . . . himself. . . .”

“You better find his teeth,” I said.

“Where should I look?” Sheila asked.

“On the ground, stupid!”

Sheila crawled around looking for Fudge's teeth while I tried to clean him up some more. “See,” Fudge said, showing me all his wounds. “Boo-boo here. And here. More boo-boo here.” His knees and elbows were all scraped up.

“I'm going to get your mother,” Jimmy hollered, running out of the playground.

“Good idea!” I called.

“I just can't find them,” Sheila said.

“Well, keep looking!” I yelled.

“Honestly, Peter, there aren't any teeth here!”

“All gone?” Fudge asked again.

“Not all,” I told him. “Just two.”

Fudge started to scream. “Want my teeth! Want my teeth!”

Jimmy must have met my mother on her way back to the park because it only took about two minutes for her to get there. By that time a whole crowd of kids had gathered around us. Most of them were crawling on the ground like Sheila, looking for Fudge's teeth.

My mother picked up Fudge. “Oh my baby! My precious! My little love!” She kissed him all over. “Show Mommy where it hurts.”

Fudge showed her all his boo-boos. Then he said, “All gone!”

“What's all gone?” my mother asked.

“His top two front teeth,” I said.

“Oh no!” my mother cried. “Oh, my poor little angel!”

Sheila sniffled and said, “I just can't find them, Mrs. Hatcher. I've looked everywhere but Fudge's teeth are gone!”

“He must have swallowed them,” my mother said, looking into Fudge's mouth.

“Oh, Mrs. Hatcher! How awful. I'm sorry . . . I'm really very sorry,” Sheila cried. “What will happen to him?”

“He'll be all right, Sheila,” my mother said. “I'm sure it was an accident. Nobody's blaming you.”

Sheila started bawling again.

My mother said, “Let's go home now.”

I thought my mother was being pretty easy on Sheila. After all,
she
was left in charge. When we got home Mom washed Fudge's cuts and scrapes with peroxide. Then she called Dr. Cone. He told her to take Fudge to our dentist. So my mother called Dr. Brown's office and made an appointment for the next day.

When that was done she gave Fudge some socks to play with. I went into the kitchen to have a glass of juice. My mother followed me. “Peter Warren Hatcher!” she said. “I'm sorry that I can't trust you for just ten minutes!”

“Me?” I asked. “Trust me? What's this got to do with me?”

My mother raised her voice. “I left your brother with you for ten minutes and just look at what happened. I'm disgusted with you!”

“It was Sheila's fault,” I said. “You said Sheila was in charge. So how come you're mad at me and not at Sheila?”

“I just am!” my mother shouted.

I ran to my room and slammed the door. I watched Dribble walk around on his favorite rock. “My mother's the meanest mother in the whole world!” I told my turtle. “She loves Fudge more than me. She doesn't even
love
me anymore. She doesn't even
like
me. Maybe I'm not her real son. Maybe somebody left me in a basket on her doorstep. My real mother's probably a beautiful princess. I'll bet she'd like to have me back. Nobody needs me around here . . . that's for sure!”

I didn't eat much supper that night and I had a lot of trouble falling asleep.

*  *  *

The next morning my mother came into my room and sat down on my bed. I didn't look at her.

“Peter,” she said.

I didn't answer.

“Peter, I said some things yesterday that I didn't really mean.”

I looked at her. “Honest?” I asked.

“Yes . . . you see . . . I was very upset over Fudge's accident and I had to blame somebody. So I picked on you.”

“Yes,” I said. “You sure did.”

“It wasn't your fault though. I know that. It was an accident. It could have happened even if I had been in the playground myself.”