Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing (4 page)

“Do? He doesn't do anything special,” I said. “He's a turtle. He does turtle things.”

“Like what?” Jennie asked.

What was with this kid, anyway? “Well,” I said, “he swims around a little and he sleeps on his rock and he eats.”

“Does he make?” Jennie asked.

“Make?” I said.

“Make a tinkle?”

“Oh, that. Well, sure. I guess so.”

Jennie laughed. So did Sam and Fudge.

“I make tinkles too. Want to see?” Jennie asked.

“No,” I said.

“See . . . see,” Fudge laughed, pointing at Jennie.

Jennie had a big smile on her face. Next thing I knew there was a puddle on the rug.

“Mom!” I hollered. “Come quick!”

My mother dashed in from the kitchen. “What, Peter? What is it?”

“Just look at what Jennie did,” I said.

“What is that?” my mother asked, eyeing the puddle.

“She made on the floor,” I said. “And on purpose!”

“Oh, Jennie!” my mother cried. “You didn't!”

“Did too,” Jennie said.

“That was very naughty!” my mother told her. “You come with me.” She scooped up Jennie and carried her into the bathroom.

After that Mom mopped up the puddle.

Finally the doorbell rang. It was two-thirty. The party was over. I could hardly believe it. I was beginning to think it would never end.

First Ralph's mother came. She had to wake him up to get him out of the apartment. I guess even
she
couldn't carry him.

Next Jennie's mother came. Mom gave her Jennie's wet pants in a Baggie. That was all she had to do. Jennie's mother was plenty embarrassed.

Sam's mother came last. But he didn't want to go home. Now that he was used to us I guess he liked us. He cried, “More party . . . MORE!”

“Another time,” his mother said, dragging him out of our apartment by the arm.

My mother flopped down in a chair. Grandma brought her two aspirins and a glass of water. “Here, dear,” she said. “Maybe these will help.”

My mother swallowed the pills. She held her head.

“Three is kind of young for a party,” I told my mother.

“Peter Warren Hatcher . . .” my mother began.

“Yes?” I asked.

“You are absolutely right!”

I flopped down next to my mother. She put her arm around me. Then we both watched Fudge work his new jack-in-the-box.

Later, when my father came home, he said, “How did Fudge's party go?”

My mother and I looked at each other and we laughed.

Fang Hits Town

Fudge liked his new bed a lot. There was just one problem. He fell out of it every night. By the fourth night my mother and father got smart. They pushed the bed against the wall and surrounded the other side with chairs. Now there was no place for Fudge to fall.

But every morning my mother found him curled up in one of the chairs. My father said they could have saved their money, since Fudge was so happy sleeping in an old chair!

On Saturday we had to go to the dentist. He wanted to check Fudge's mouth again. To make sure everything healed all right since his flying experience. Dr. Brown is an old friend of my father's. They went to school together. He's always saying he takes special good care of me and Fudge because we're chips off the old block (the old block being my father). His office is on the other side of the park. It's near Madison Avenue. My mother said we'd make a day of it. And wouldn't that be fun!

“I'd rather go to the movies with Jimmy Fargo,” I told her.

“But we'll have such a good time,” my mother said. “The three of us will go out for lunch and then we'll get new shoes for you and Fudge.”

“I've been out to lunch with Fudge,” I reminded her.

“He's growing up, Peter. He knows how to behave now.”

“I'd still rather go to the movies with Jimmy.”

“Well, you're coming with me. And that's that!”

I wasn't looking forward to my day. And Saturday morning is always the best day of the week. Every Saturday morning I clean out Dribble's bowl. Sometimes, if Fudge is very good, I let him watch. I do it in the bathroom. First I take Dribble out of his bowl and let him crawl around in the tub. I'm afraid to put him down on the floor—somebody might step on him. But in the tub I know he's safe.

Next, I take the rocks out of his bowl and wash them. The last thing I do is wash the bowl itself. I really scrub it. I even rinse it two or three times to make sure all the soap is out. When I'm done with that I put the rocks back in and fill it with just the right amount of water. After I put Dribble back in his bowl I feed him. Usually he goes right to sleep on his favorite rock. I guess running around in the bathtub really makes my turtle tired.

Today, I finished with Dribble just in time. My mother was rushing, mumbling about getting us to Dr. Brown's office in time for our appointment.

When we were outside we took the crosstown bus, then walked a few blocks to his office.

As soon as the nurse saw Fudge she said, “How's my favorite patient?” She gave him a hug and a little book to read. To me she said, “Good morning, Peter.”

It burns me up the way people treat Fudge. He's not so special. He's just little, that's all! But some day he's going to be nine years old too. I can't wait until he is. Then he'll know there's nothing so great about him after all.

Soon the nurse said, “Fudge, Dr. Brown is ready for you. Come with me now.” Fudge took the nurse's hand. Dr. Brown has this rule about mothers in the examining room with kids—they're not allowed! Mothers are a big problem, Dr. Brown told me once. I agreed.

I looked through a
National Geographic
magazine while I waited. After a few minutes the nurse came out and whispered something to my mother. I looked up, wondering what the big secret was.

Then my mother said, “Peter, Dr. Brown would like you to help him with Fudge.”

“Help him?” I said. “I'm no dentist!”

The nurse said, “Peter, dear . . . if you'll just come with me I'm sure everything will work out fine.”

So I went with the nurse. “What do I have to do?” I asked her.

“Oh, not much. Dr. Brown just wants you to show Fudge how you open your mouth and how he checks your teeth.”

“What do I have to do that for?” I asked. “I don't need a checkup yet. I just had one last month.”

“Your brother won't open his mouth this morning,” the nurse whispered.

“He won't?” I whispered back.

“No, he won't!” she said again.

I thought that was pretty funny. I never considered refusing to open my mouth at the dentist's office. When he says “Open”—I open!

When we reached the examining room Fudge was sitting in the big chair. He had a towel around his neck and he looked all ready for action.

Dr. Brown was showing him lots of little things and explaining what he does with each one. Fudge kept nodding but he wouldn't open his mouth.

“Ah . . . Peter!” Dr. Brown said when he saw me. “Would you open your mouth so I can count your teeth?”

That's what he tells little kids he's doing—counting their teeth. Little kids will believe anything!

I went along with Dr. Brown's joke. I opened my mouth very wide. Much wider than when I'm the real patient. He put his mirror in and said, “Wonderful teeth. Just beautiful. A regular chip off the old block! Such a shame your brother can't open his mouth the way you do.”

“Can so,” Fudge said.

“No,” Dr. Brown told him, “you can't open your mouth nearly as good as Peter.”

“Can so . . . see!” Fudge opened his mouth.

“No, I'm sorry, Fudge,” Dr. Brown said, “it's still not as good as Peter.”

So Fudge opened his mouth really wide. “Count teeth!” he said. “Count Fudgie's teeth!”

“Well. . . .” Dr. Brown pretended to think about it.

“COUNT!” Fudge shouted.

“Well. . . .” Dr. Brown said again, scratching his head. “I guess as long as you're here I might as well count your teeth.” So he checked Fudge's mouth.

When he was through Fudge said, “See . . . see . . . just like Pee-tah!”

“Yes,” Dr. Brown said, smiling. “I can see that. You're just like Peter.” He gave me a wink.

I liked the way Dr. Brown tricked Fudge into opening his mouth. So when he was through examining him I whispered, “Couldn't you make Fudge some false teeth . . . until his grown-up ones come in?”

“No. He'll just have to wait,” Dr. Brown said.

“But he looks like he has fangs,” I told him.

“You'd better not say that in front of your mother,” Dr. Brown said.

“I know it. She's not too big on fangs!”

Dr. Brown thanked me for helping him. My mother made another appointment for Fudge. The nurse kissed my brother good-bye and we left.

“That wasn't so bad, was it, Peter?” my mother said.

“It could have been worse,” I admitted.

We headed for Bloomingdale's, where we get our shoes. There are five salesmen in the children's shoe department. Two of them my mother doesn't like. She thinks they don't measure my feet carefully. That all they care about is selling shoes, even if they don't have the right sizes in stock. The other ones my mother thinks are okay. There's one she likes a lot. His name is Mr. Berman. I like him too—because he's funny. He usually makes believe that the right shoe goes on the left foot or that Fudge's shoes are really for me. Anyway, when Mr. Berman waits on us, buying shoes is almost fun.

Today Mr. Berman spotted us right away. He always remembers our name. “Well, if it isn't the Hatcher boys,” he said.

“In the flesh,” I told him.

Fudge opened his mouth for Mr. Berman. “See . . . see . . . all gone!”

“His teeth,” my mother explained to Mr. Berman. “He knocked out his top two front teeth.”

“Well, congratulations!” Mr. Berman said. “That calls for a celebration.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two lollipops. He handed one to me and one to Fudge.

“Ohhh,” Fudge said. “Lolly!”

Mine was root-beer flavored. I hate root beer. But I thanked Mr. Berman anyway. “I'll save it for after lunch,” I told him, handing it to my mother. She put it into her purse. Fudge got a lemon lolly. He ripped off the paper and started sucking right away.

“Now then . . . what'll it be, boys?” Mr. Berman asked.

My mother answered. “Brown-and-white saddles for Fudge and loafers for Peter.”

“Okay, Peter . . . let's see how those feet have grown.”

I slipped out of my old shoes and stood up. I stuck my left foot into Mr. Berman's foot measure. Then he turned it around and I put my right foot in. That's another reason why my mother thinks Mr. Berman is good at selling shoes. He measures both feet. Some other salesmen only measure one. My mother says feet can be different sizes, even on the same person. And it's important to make sure the size fits the biggest foot.

“What color loafers, Peter?” Mr. Berman asked.

“Brown,” I said. “Same as my old ones.”

When Mr. Berman went into the back to look for shoes for me my mother noticed a hole in the toe of my sock.

“Oh, Peter! Why didn't you tell me you had a hole in your sock?”

“I didn't know I had one,” I said.

“Oh . . . I'm so embarrassed!”

“It's my sock, Mom. Why should you be embarrassed?” I asked.

“Well, it looks terrible. I mean, to come shopping for shoes with a hole in your sock! That's just awful. Can't you hide it a little?”

“Where should I hide it?”

“Try to get the hole in between your toes, so it doesn't show,” my mother said.

I wiggled my sock around trying to rearrange my hole. My mother sure worries about silly things!

Mr. Berman came out with two pairs of loafers. He likes to try different sizes to make sure I'm getting the right one. One pair was much too big. The other pair fit fine.

“Wear or wrap?” Mr. Berman asked my mother.

“Wrap, please,” she said. “We'll wear the old ones home.”

I have never been allowed to wear new shoes home from the store. Don't ask me why. But my mother always has the new pair wrapped up and I can't wear them until the next day.

When I was finished Mr. Berman untied Fudge's shoes and measured his feet.

“Brown-and-white saddle shoes,” my mother reminded him.

Mr. Berman went into the back and returned with two shoe boxes. But when he opened the first box and Fudge saw the saddle shoes he said, “No!”

“No what?” my mother asked him.

“No shoes!” Fudge said. He started kicking his feet.

“Don't be silly, Fudgie! You need new shoes,” my mother told him.

“NO! NO! NO!” he hollered. Everybody in the shoe department looked over at us.

“Here's the perfect size,” Mr. Berman told Fudge, holding up one shoe. “Wait till you see how nice these new shoes will feel.”

Fudge kicked some more. It was impossible for Mr. Berman to get the shoes on his feet. He screamed, “
No shoes!
NO! NO! NO!”

My mother grabbed hold of him but he was wiggling all around. He managed to give Mr. Berman a kick in the face. Lucky for him Fudge only had on socks.

“Now look, Fudge,” my mother said, “you must get new shoes. Your old ones are too small. So what kind do you want?”

I don't know why my mother bothered to talk to him like he was a regular person. Because when Fudge gets himself into a temper tantrum he doesn't listen to anything. By that time he had thrown himself onto the floor where he beat his fists against the rug.

“What kind do you want, Fudge? Because we're not leaving here until you have new shoes!” my mother said, like she meant it.

I figured we'd be there for the rest of the day . . . or maybe the week! How could my mother have been embarrassed over a little hole in my sock and then act like nothing much was happening when her other son was on the floor yelling and screaming and carrying on!

“I'm going to count to three,” my mother told Fudge. “And then I want you to tell me which shoes you want. Ready? One . . . two . . . three. . . .”

Fudge sat up. “Like Pee-tah's!” he said.

I smiled. I guess the kid really looks up to me. He even wants to wear the same kind of shoes. But everybody knows you can't buy loafers for such a little guy.

“They don't come in your size,” Mr. Berman told Fudge.

“YES! YES! YES! LIKE PEE-TAH'S!” Fudge hollered.

Mr. Berman held up his hands and looked at my mother, as if to say,
I give up
.

But my mother said, “I have an idea.” She motioned for me and Mr. Berman to come closer.

I had the feeling I wasn't going to like her idea. But I listened anyway. “I think we'll have to play a little joke on Fudge,” she said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well . . . suppose Mr. Berman brings out a pair of saddle shoes in your size and. . . .”

“Oh no!” I said. “You're not going to get me to wear saddle shoes. Never!”

“Let me finish,” my mother said. “Mr. Berman can bring them out and you can try them on and then Fudge will think that's what you're getting. But when we leave we'll take the loafers.”

“That's mean,” I said. “You're taking advantage of him.”

“Since when do you worry about that?” my mother asked.

“Since now,” I told her.

“Look, Peter,” my mother said, checking her watch, “it's twelve o'clock. I'm starved.”

“Me too,” I said.

“Well then, if you ever want to get some lunch let's try my idea.”

“Okay . . . okay,” I said.

I sat back in my chair while Mr. Berman hurried to the stockroom again.

Fudge looked up at me from his position on the floor. “Like Pee-tah's!” he said.

“Yeah . . . sure, Fudge,” I told him.

Mr. Berman came back with a pair of brown-and-white saddle shoes in my size. I tried them on. Did they look ugly!

“See Peter's nice saddle shoes,” my mother said. “Now Fudgie tries on his nice saddle shoes.”

Fudge let Mr. Berman get him into his new pair of shoes.

“See,” he said. “See . . . like Pee-tah's.” He held up a foot.