Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing (6 page)

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 him 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?

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 commercial.”

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.

“Certainly,” my father said. “You can watch the whole thing.”

I turned to Mr. Denberg. “Will Fudge be famous?” I asked.

“No, not famous . . . but a lot of people will think he looks familiar,” Mr. Denberg said.

I turned to Mr. Vincent. “Do you know he has no front top teeth?”

“That's part of his charm,” Mr. Vincent said.

“And he cut off all his hair two months ago.”

“Well, he looks fine now,” Mr. Vincent said.

“And he can't even talk in long sentences yet,” I told everyone in the room.

“He doesn't have to say a word,” Mr. Vincent told me.

I couldn't think of any other reason why Mr. Vincent shouldn't use Fudge in his Toddle-Bike commercial. It was settled. Soon Fudge would be a famous television star and I would be plain old Peter Hatcher—fourth grade nothing.

“Let's begin right after lunch,” Mr. Denberg said. “We should get it filmed in about two hours.”

While my father and Mr. Denberg worked out all the arrangements I asked Janet where the men's room was. She walked me to it. I told her thank you and that she didn't have to wait. I'd find my own way back.

When I was safely inside I looked at myself in the mirror.
I wish Fudge had never been born
, I thought.
Everything good always happens to him! If he had to be born I wish he could be nine or ten—like me. Then Mr. Vincent wouldn't want him to be the one to ride the Toddle-Bike in his commercial.

Janet sent down to the coffee shop for some sandwiches and drinks. After we ate we all walked to another section of the agency where the cameras were set up. A make-believe street scene was the background. The Toddle-Bike was shiny red. My father told Fudge all he had to do was ride it around. Fudge liked that. He zoomed all over the place. “Vroom–vroom–vroom,” he called.

My father, Mr. Vincent, and Janet sat on folding chairs and watched the action. I sat on the floor, at my father's side. Mr. Denberg was the director. He said, “Okay, Fudge . . . we're ready to begin now. You ride the Toddle-Bike where I tell you and I'll take a picture of you doing it . . . all right?”

“No,” Fudge said.

“What does he mean, Hatcher?” Mr. Vincent asked. “Why did he say
no
?”

My father groaned. “Look, George . . . using Fudge was your idea—not mine.”

Mr. Denberg tried again. “Okay, Fudge . . . this is it. . . .”

The cameraman said, “Start riding this way . . . ready, set, go!”

Fudge sat there on the Toddle-Bike. But he wouldn't pedal.

“Come on, kid . . . let's go!” the cameraman called.

“No. Don't want to!” Fudge answered.

“What's with this kid, Mr. Hatcher?” the cameraman asked.

“Fudge,” my father said, “do what the nice man tells you to.”

“No! Don't have to!”

Janet whispered to my father. “How about some cookies, Mr. Hatcher?”

“Good idea, Janet,” my father told her.

“I have some Oreos right here,” she said, patting her pocketbook. “Shall I give them to him?”

“One at a time,” my father said.

Janet walked across the room to Fudge. He was still sitting on the Toddle-Bike. “If you do what the nice man says, you can have a cookie,” Janet told him.

“Show me,” Fudge said.

Janet held up a box of Oreos.
She was really well prepared,
I thought
. She must eat all day long, what with the crackers shaped like goldfish and a whole box of Oreos too.
I wondered what else she had in that pocketbook.

“Give me,” Fudge said.

Janet held up one cookie. Fudge reached for it, but Janet didn't let him get it. “If you do what the nice man says you can have an Oreo. Maybe even two or three Oreos.”

“First cookie,” Fudge said.

“First do what the nice man says,” Janet told him.

“No! First cookie!”

“Give him one, Janet,” Mr. Denberg called. “We haven't got all day to fool around.”

Janet gave Fudge one Oreo. He ate it up.

“Okay, kid . . . all ready now?” the cameraman said. “You ride over to me.”

Fudge didn't do it.

Mr. Vincent was losing his patience. “Hatcher,” he hollered. “You get that son of yours to ride my Toddle-Bike or I'm taking my whole account away from you and your agency!”

“Must I remind you, George . . . using Fudge was your idea—not mine!” my father said.

“Forget about whose idea it was, Hatcher. He's your kid. You better get through to him . . . now!”

“I have an idea,” my father said. He walked to a corner of the room and beckoned to the others. Mr. Denberg and Mr. Vincent gathered around him, along with the cameraman and Janet. They looked like a bunch of football players huddled together talking about the next play.