The Waffler
Authors: Gail Donovan
Dial Books for Young Readers
A division of Penguin Young Readers Group
Published by the Penguin Group
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Copyright © 2013 by Gail Donovan
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Donovan, Gail, date.
The waffler / by Gail Donovan. p. cm.
Summary: Fourth grader Monty can't ever make up his mind, but when a school project tests his abilities, Monty has to decideâshould he follow what his teachers say, or do what he knows is right?
ISBN 978-1-101-61267-5
I. Title.
PZ7.D7227Waf 2013 [Fic]âdc23 2012031856
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
M
onty wandered up
and down the aisles, trying to make up his mind before somebody got mad that he was taking too long.
Too late. Here came his dad.
“What do you think?” asked his dad. “Did you decide?”
“I'm trying,” said Monty.
“You know Sierra's got a game, right?”
“I know,” said Monty.
“If you want me to drop you at home before the game, we need to leave soon. So make up your mind. Seriously.”
“I
am
,” objected Monty. “That's what I'm
doing
.”
Monty's dad flipped open his cell phone. “Five minutes,” he warned, and walked away, tapping out a message on the phone.
The trouble with Monty was that he was a mind-changer. That didn't mean he changed other people's minds. It meant he changed his own. Constantly, according to his dad. And his mom. Also his stepdad. And stepmom. They all said he should stop changing his mind so much. He should be a mind-maker-upper.
Right now, what he had to make up his mind about was finding the right pet. He set out around the Pet Emporium one more time. A dog would be the best. If he could get a puppy he'd pick a Lab with chocolate-brown hair, just like him. But his dad had already said no dog, no way no how, and Monty knew that was final.
A fish? Monty wandered past the fish tanks. The whole fish area smelled like the time his mom had left the water in the wading pool too long and it got all green. Plus fish were boring. The birds were crazy loud. They made his head hurt.
Sierra came skipping up in her soccer uniform, high red socks and red shorts and a red shirt with the name of their dad's business on the back:
Pronto Painting
. Their dad's business slogan was
Do It Pronto
, which pretty much described their dad. He was in favor of making up your mind and getting things done
pronto
.
Their dad sponsored the team and helped coach, too, which Monty thought should maybe be against the rules because his dad just about had a heart attack every game. Their dad was crazy about soccer, and so was Sierra. This summer she'd been to some fancy sleepaway soccer camp. Monty wasn't crazy about soccer and he hadn't gone to any fancy camp. Instead, he'd gotten a guarantee that he could get a pet
if
he got off to a good start in fourth grade. Somehow Monty had made it through September without his teacher calling home for a “chat on what strategies will work for Monty,” like last year's teacher. So now here he was: the first Saturday in October, searching the Pet Emporium for the perfect pet.
“Dad says if we leave soon we can stop for doughnuts,” said Sierra.
“Cool,” said Monty.
“So, what are you going to get?” she asked.
Looking at Sierra was kind of like looking in the mirror. They both had chocolate-brown hair, and hers was as short as his. They both had a few freckles splattered across the bridge of their noses. And they both had blue eyes.
“I don't know,” said Monty, heading down the reptiles aisle. “Don't bug me.”
“I'm not bugging!” said Sierra, tagging along. “I'm just asking! How about a snake?”
“I'm not stupid,” said Monty. “Mom'll never say yes to a snake.”
“She'll never say yes to anything,” Sierra pointed out.
Monty's mom always said that Monty and Sierra and Aisha, who was their mom's new baby with their stepdad, were plenty of creatures in the house. She and Monty's dad had agreed that the pet would stay at his dad's house. If Monty hadn't gone alongâno pet. But Monty was hoping he could change his mom's mind, so he could bring his pet to her house, too. That meant not picking a snake.
“Tarantula?” suggested Sierra.
“No way!” said Monty. Ditto the snake problem. He started down another aisle that smelled sort of like the woods. It was the wood-shaving bedding in the Furry Friends section. “Maybe a hamster,” he said.
“Bor-ing,” said Sierra.
“How about a gerbil?” asked Monty.
“Audrey said they bite,” said Sierra.
Audrey was their stepmom's kid from before she married Dad, which was how they'd gotten a sister who was both new
and
older than them. Suddenly they had two sisters whose names started with
A
. Audrey, their big sister, and Aisha, their little sister. Monty was the one who'd come up with their nicknames, (which he and Sierra carefully used only with each other): Big A and Little A.
Monty
had
been bit by a gerbil once. He moved on to the guinea pigs. There were brown ones and white-with-black-spots ones. They reminded Monty of cows.
“Reep! Reep! Reep!”
cried the guinea pigs.
“I could get a guinea pig,” said Monty, trying the idea.
“Nah,” said Sierra. “Sounds like Little A when she's mad.”
Monty thought the guinea pig was kind of cute. “I can if I want,” he objected. “It's my decision!”
“No kidding,” said Sierra. “So make it.” She skipped off.
Sierra never had trouble making up her mind. She'd made up her mind when she was about two that all she wanted to do was kick around a soccer ball, and she'd never changed it. Their mom called Sierra focused. Their dad called her serious. Monty
wanted
to make up his mind, but it was hard. He had to try out all the choices in his mind for a little while. Except his “little while” always seemed like a long while to everybody else.
Monty looked up and saw his dad pacing down the Furry Friends aisle. Monty's dad was tall and baldâsort of. He actually had some hair, but so little he figured he might as well go for the shaved-head look. If he was going to go bald, he'd do it pronto.
“How we doing?” he asked, rubbing his bald head like it was a magic lantern and he was hoping a jinni would emerge and grant him his wish: for Monty to be a mind-maker-upper and make up his mind
now
.
Monty saw something that looked like a giant silver-gray mouse. “Can I have one of those?”
“Chinchilla,” said his father, reading the sign. “A hundred and ninety-nine dollars! For a big mouse? Sorry, that's too much.” He looked at his watch. “Montana,” he said in a warning voice, “while we're young, please?”
Montana was Monty's whole name. The story was that the doctor told his mom she was having twins: two girls. His mom and dad had picked out the names Sierra and Montana. It turned out that the doctor was right about them being twins, but wrong about the two girls part. When they were born, they were a boy and a girl. Apparently his mom decided that Montana would be just as good as a boy's name. Lots of names could be for either girls or boys. Like Brett. Dylan. Logan. Why not Montana? She liked the name and she didn't want to change. Now Monty had to go through life with what was basically a girl's name. He thought this was one situation where changing your mind would have been the right thing to do.
The puppies barked and the guinea pigs reeped. Monty kept looking. The chinchilla was cool. Maybe he should ask his dad if he could have one if he bought it with his own money. But he didn't have that much money and earning it would take time. Maybe he should look at the birds again. Quickly, he ran back to the bird room, pushed opened the heavy door, and slipped inside.
It was extra-warm in there, like a tropical jungle, and extra-noisy, too. Some cages had about twenty tiny birds in them. Finches or parakeets. Other cages had a single big parrot sitting on a perch, like a king on his throne.
Monty stopped in front of a greenwing macaw. Its body was bright red and its wings were blue and green. The pet store guy had said a macaw could take off your finger with its beak. What if he had a bird that bit off the finger of anybody who tried to hold it that wasn't him? That'd be cool. Plus, they lived a really long time, almost a hundred years. If he got the macaw he'd never have to make a decision again about what pet to choose. He'd be set for life.
Monty checked out the price tag: a thousand dollars. Same problem as the chinchilla, only worse. And he didn't want one of the little parakeets. Never mind birds. Monty left the bird room and went back to Furry Friends. He was standing in front of a big glass box full of mice, wondering if he should get a mouse just to save it from being snake food, when Sierra raced toward him in her red socks and red shorts and red shirt, like a fire engine hurtling toward an emergency.
“Dad says if you haven't decided by now it's too late!”
Monty felt the it's-too-late alarm clock go off inside him. As soon as people started getting mad that he was taking too long to make up his mind, it was like his whole heart turned into an alarm clock, screeching
too late! Too late!
Here came his dad, striding down the aisle, tapping his watch to show that time was passing. “Hey, guy,” he said, “if you're not really sure what you want, maybe we should wait and see. We can come back another day.”
Monty didn't get why grown-ups not deciding something was called waiting and seeing, and was a good thing, but him not deciding something was being indecisive. “Just five more minutes,” he said.
Monty's dad took a slow breath and put his I'm- Being-a-Patient-Dad look on his face, which always made the alarm clock in Monty's heart scream a little louder. “Do you have any idea how long we've been in the Pet Emporium?”
Monty shrugged. “Ten minutes?”
“An hour,” said his dad. “Do you know what that means?”
Was this some kind of trick question? What did an hour
mean
? Monty knew how much his dad charged people for every hour he spent painting their houses. Was that what his dad meant? “Twenty-five dollars?”
His dad sighed and shook his bald head. “I meant that Sierra's coach isn't going to wait for you to make up your mind. We have to go.
Now
. I'm sorry, but this is nonnegotiable.”
“Can we still get doughnuts?” asked Sierra, who had a wicked sweet tooth.
“Maybe,” said his dad. “If we can leave
right
now
.”
“Monty, come
on
,” she coaxed. “I'll go halvesies.”
Monty was tempted. Doughnuts were good. Their dad didn't usually buy them doughnuts, and normally Monty didn't turn the offer down. And Sierra was always nice about splitting half and half, so he didn't have to choose just one flavor.
“Okay,” he agreed. “I guess.”
“All right then,” said his dad, “sounds like a plan. Let's go.”
Wait a second. Going home without a pet today might mean never getting one. There was no way Mrs. Tuttle wasn't going to get in touch with his parents pretty soon. If she didn't call home she'd at least bring up the problem during fall conferences. “Dad, wait a sec!” said Monty. “I don't want to come back. I want to get a pet today.”
“Can we still get doughnuts?” demanded Sierra.
“I said âmaybe,'” said their dad.
But it sounded more like a probably-not “maybe” than a probably-yes, and Sierra turned to Monty with an angry look. “Monty, come
on
,” she hissed. “Don't do that!”
“Do what?” he demanded. Even though he knew exactly what: changing his mind.
“Don't go back on what you said!”
“I'm not
going back
,” he objected. “I changed my mind, is all. So what?”
“But you
said
,” she spluttered. “You said you wanted to.”
“It wasn't like a promise!” he objected. “Saying okay doesn't mean I promised.”
“Enough, you two!” snapped their dad. “Sierra, don't make a mountain out of a molehill. Just drop it already. And Monty, you're making people crazy. Don't say one thing and then ten seconds later say something else. Just make up your mind, all right?”
Monty took a step back. “I did!” he said. “I know what I want!”
“Really?” Monty's dad gave him a skeptical look. “You decided? What did you pick?”
Monty turned his head to see what was in the next big glass box. “A rat,” he said.
“A rat?” asked his dad.
“A
rat
?” asked Sierra, making a face. “Mom's not going to like that.”
Monty knew that was true. But it was double true that his dad wasn't going to let him change his mind. It was the rat, or nothing. “A rat,” he repeated. “I want a rat.”
“You sure about this?” asked his dad. “You really and truly want a rat?”
“It's nonnegotiable,” said Monty, nodding. “I want a rat.”
