Judy Moody Declares Independence (4 page)

“Besides, we have to get an early start in the morning, Judy. It’s back home to Virginia tomorrow,” Dad said.

“Please-please-pretty-please with sugar packets on top?” Judy begged. “This is our one and only chance. We might never see each other again ever. Please? It would be brilliant!”

Mom shook her head no.

“Not even on account of the Revolution? I’m American and she’s British and it’s really good if we’re friends. We could change history!”

“We said no, honey,” Dad said.

“Well,” said Tori’s mom, “it’s been lovely meeting you and your family, Judy. Hasn’t it, Tori?”

“Crumb cakes!” said Tori. She hung her head. She kicked at a stone.

“Now, don’t get in a nark,” said Tori’s mom.

“Who’s going in an ark?” asked Stink.

“A nark,” said Tori’s mom. “It means a bad mood.”

“Ohh. My sister has narks ALL the time,” said Stink.

“Maybe when Tori gets back to London and we get home,” said Mom, “you two can write to each other. Like pen pals!”

“That would be lovely,” said Tori’s mom. “Wouldn’t it, Tori?” Tori didn’t answer. “Well, we’d better nip off,” said her mother.

“Here, you can have these,” Tori told Judy. “To remember me by.” She gave Judy her Bonjour Bunny ears.

Judy gave Tori a whole pack of gum. “You can start your own ABC collection,” said Judy.

Tori wrote down her address in London. Judy gave Tori her address in Virginia. “We can send each other sugar packets!” Tori whispered. “It’ll be the bee’s knees!”

Judy did not feel like the bee’s knees.

She, Judy Moody, was in a nark. Not a good nark. A bad nark.

Judy was in a nark for four hundred forty-four miles. She was in a nark all the way through Rhode Island, Connecticut, New York, and Pennsylvania. (She slept through Maryland.) She was even in a nark through Home of the Presidents, Washington, D.C.

Judy Moody was in a nark for seven hours and nineteen minutes. A Give-Me-Liberty nark.

“Mom! Judy won’t play car games with me.”

Stink wanted to count cows. Stink wanted to play the license plate game. Stink wanted to play Scrabble Junior.

“Judy,” said Mom. “Play Scrabble with your brother.”

“It’s
baby
Scrabble!” said Judy. “I know. Let’s play the silent game. Where you see how long you can go without talking.”

“Hardee-har-har,” said Stink.

“I win!” said Judy.

“Hey, you two,” said Mom.

“It’s her fault,” said Stink.

“Judy, you’re not still in a mood about Tori, are you?” asked Mom.

“You never let me do stuff,” said Judy. “You should hear all the stuff Tori gets to do in England! She has tons of sleepovers. She even has her own phone. And her own bathroom! And she gets pounds of allowance. You think I’m still a baby or something.”

“Or something,” said Stink.

“Judy, if you want us to treat you like you’re more grown-up, and if you want a raise in your allowance, then you’ll have to show us that you can be more responsible.”

“And not always get in a mood about everything,” said Dad.

“I’ve never even had a sleepover before!” said Judy.

“Maybe when we get home, you can have a sleepover with Jessica Finch,” said Mom.

“When cows read,” said Judy. She, Judy Moody, was moving to England. She chewed two pieces of ABC gum, loud as a cow. She blew bubbles.
Pop! Pop! Pop-pop-pop!

“She’s still in a mood!” announced Stink.

In her mood journal, Judy made up nicknames for Stink all the rest of the way home.

When Judy got home, she dragged her tote bag upstairs to her room.
Thwump, thwump, thwump
. She dragged her backpack, her blanket, her pillow, and her sock monkey. And her stuff from the gift shop. She shut the door and climbed up into her secret hideaway (her top bunk).

She, Judy Moody, was supposed to be writing her makeup book report, as in not waiting till the very, very last minute. Instead, she declared freedom from homework.

Then she, Judy Moody, had an idea. A freedom idea. A John Hancock idea. A Declaration of Independence idea.

She did not even stop to call Rocky and tell him about the Boston Tea Party Ship and the Giant Milk Bottle that sold star-spangled bananas. She did not even stop to call Frank and tell him about Mother Goose’s grave and the musical toilet.

That could wait till tomorrow.

But some things could not wait.

Judy gazed in awe at the copy of the Declaration of Independence she’d gotten in Boston. It was on old-timey brown paper with burned edges that looked like tea had been spilled on it. Judy squinted to try to read the fancy-schmancy handwriting.

When in the bones of human events . . . blah blah blah . . . we hold these truths . . . more blah blah . . . alien rights . . . Life, Liberty, and the Purse of Happiness.

She, Judy Moody, would hereby, this day, make the Judy Moody Declaration of Independence. With alien rights and her own Purse of Happiness and everything.

Judy pulled out the paper place mat she had saved from the Milk Street Cafe. The back was brown from chocolate-milk spills. Perfect! At last, Judy Moody knew what Ben Franklin meant when he said
Don’t cry over spilled milk.

The real Declaration of Independence was written with a quill pen. Luckily, she, Judy Moody, just happened to have a genuine-and-for-real quill pen from the gift shop.

Look out, world! Judy mixed some water into the black powder that came with the pen, dipped the feather pen into the ink, and wrote:

She signed it in cursive with fancy squiggles, just like Mr. Revolution Himself, First Signer of the Declaration, John Hancock. And she made it big so Dad could see it without his reading glasses, just like they did for King George.

Judy ran downstairs wearing her tricorn hat. Where was Mouse? Judy found her curled up in the dirty-laundry pile. She jingled her cat like a bell. “Hear ye! Hear ye!” she called. Mom, Dad, and Stink came into the family room.

“I will now hereby read my very own Judy Moody Declaration of Independence, made hereby on this day, the 4th of Judy. I hereby stand up for these alien rights — stuff like Life, Liberty, and definitely the Purse of Happiness.” Judy cleared her throat. “Did I say
hereby
?”

“Only ten hundred times,” said Stink.

Judy read the list aloud, just like a town crier (not town crybaby). At the end, she took off her tricorn hat and said, “Give me liberty or give me death!”

“Very funny,” said Dad.

“Very clever,” said Mom.

“No way do you get to stay up later than me,” said Stink.

“So you agree?” Judy asked Mom and Dad. “I should get all these freedoms? And a bunch more allowance?”

“We didn’t say that,” said Dad.

“We’ll think it over, honey,” said Mom.

“Think it over?” said Judy. Thinking it over was worse than maybe. Thinking it over meant only one thing — N-O.

Then Dad started talking like a sugar packet. “Freedom doesn’t come without a price, you know,” he told Judy.

“Dad’s right,” said Mom. “If you want more freedom, you’re going to have to earn it — show us you can be more responsible.”

Judy looked over her list. “Can I at least have Alien Right Number One? If I didn’t have to brush my hair every day, I’d have more time to be responsible.”

“Nice try,” said Dad.

Parents! Mom and Dad were just like King George, making up Bad Laws all the time.

“You guys always tell me it’s good to stand up for stuff. Speak up for yourself and everything.” Judy held up her Declaration. “That’s what I just did. But I’m not even one teeny bit more free. That really stinks on ice!”

“Tell you what.” Mom looked over the list. “You can have your own washcloth.” Dad started to laugh but turned it into a cough.

“Tori has her own phone AND her own bathroom. And pounds of allowance. She can buy all the Bonjour Bunny stuff she wants, without even asking. And she drinks tea. And wakes herself up with her own alarm clock. And she has sleepovers in her flat that’s not a tire.”

“We’re not talking about Tori,” said Mom. “We’re talking about you.”

Crumb cakes! She, Judy Moody, did not have any new freedoms at all. Not one single alien right from her list. All she had was a lousy washcloth.