My biggest problem is my brother, Farley Drexel Hatcher.
Everybody calls him Fudge. I feel sorry for him if he’s going to grow up with a name like Fudge, but I don’t say a word. It’s none of my business.
Fudge is always in my way. He messes up everything he sees. And when he gets mad he throws himself flat on the floor and he screams. And he kicks. And he bangs his fists. The only time I really like him is when he’s sleeping. He sucks four fingers on his left hand and makes a slurping noise.
When Fudge saw Dribble he said, “Ohhhhh . . . see!”
And I said, “That’s my turtle, get it? Mine! You don’t touch him.”
Fudge said, “No touch.” Then he laughed like crazy.
“Peter’s difficulties with [Fudge] will be readily understood by children with younger brothers and sisters.” —Booklist
“[An] amusing book . . . written and illustrated with a light touch.” —BCCB
BOOKS BY JUDY BLUME
The Pain and the Great One
Soupy Saturdays with the Pain and the Great One
Cool Zone with the Pain and the Great One
Going, Going, Gone! with the Pain and the Great One
Friend or Fiend? with the Pain and the Great One
The One in the Middle Is the Green Kangaroo
Freckle Juice
THE FUDGE BOOKS
Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing
Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great
Superfudge
Fudge-a-Mania
Double Fudge
Blubber
Iggie’s House
Starring Sally J. Freedman as Herself
Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret
It’s Not the End of the World
Then Again, Maybe I Won’t
Deenie
Just as Long as We’re Together
Here’s to You, Rachel Robinson
Tiger Eyes
Forever
Letters to Judy
Places I Never Meant to Be: Original Stories by Censored Writers (edited by Judy Blume)
PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
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Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published in the United States of America by Dutton Children’s Books, 1972
Published by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2003
Reissued by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2007
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright © Judy Blume, 1972
Illustration copyright © Jules Feiffer, 2007
All rights reserved
THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE DUTTON CHILDREN’S BOOKS EDITION AS FOLLOWS:
Blume, Judy.
Tales of a fourth grade nothing / by Judy Blume.
p. cm.
Summary: Peter finds his demanding two-year-old brother an ever increasing problem.
ISBN: 0-525-40720-0 (hc)
[1. Brothers—Fiction. 2. Family life—Fiction. 3. Humorous stories.]
I. Title.
PZ7.B6265 Tal [Fic] 70-179050 CIP
This Puffin edition ISBN 9781101564073
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
For Larry, who is a combination of Peter and Fudge,
and for Willie Mae, who told me about Dribble
Contents
The Big Winner
Mr. and Mrs. Juicy-O
The Family Dog
My Brother the Bird
The Birthday Bash
Fang Hits Town
The Flying Train Committee
The TV Star
Just Another Rainy Day
Dribble!
1
The Big Winner
I won Dribble at Jimmy Fargo’s birthday party. All the other guys got to take home goldfish in little plastic bags. I won him because I guessed there were three hundred and forty-eight jelly beans in Mrs. Fargo’s jar. Really, there were four hundred and twenty-three, she told us later. Still, my guess was closest. “Peter Warren Hatcher is the big winner!” Mrs. Fargo announced.
At first I felt bad that I didn’t get a goldfish too. Then Jimmy handed me a glass bowl. Inside there was some water and three rocks. A tiny green turtle was sleeping on the biggest rock. All the other guys looked at their goldfish. I knew what they were thinking. They wished they could have tiny green turtles too.
I named my turtle Dribble while I was walking home from Jimmy’s party. I live at 25 West 68th Street. It’s an old apartment building. But it’s got one of the best elevators in New York City. There are mirrors all around. You can see yourself from every angle. There’s a soft, cushioned bench to sit on if you’re too tired to stand. The elevator operator’s name is Henry Bevelheimer. He lets us call him Henry because Bevelheimer’s very hard to say.
Our apartment’s on the twelfth floor. But I don’t have to tell Henry. He already knows. He knows everybody in the building. He’s that smart! He even knows I’m nine and in fourth grade.
I showed him Dribble right away. “I won him at a birthday party,” I said.
Henry smiled. “Your mother’s going to be surprised.”
* * *
Henry was right. My mother was really surprised. Her mouth opened when I said, “Just look at what I won at Jimmy Fargo’s birthday party.” I held up my tiny green turtle. “I’ve already named him . . . Dribble! Isn’t that a great name for a turtle?”
My mother made a face. “I don’t like the way he smells,” she said.
“What do you mean?” I asked. I put my nose right down close to him. I didn’t smell anything but turtle. So Dribble smells like turtle, I thought. Well, he’s supposed to. That’s what he is!
“And I’m not going to take care of him either,” my mother added.
“Of course you’re not,” I told her. “He’s my turtle. And I’m the one who’s going to take care of him.”
“You’re going to change his water and clean out his bowl and
feed him and all of that?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “And even more. I’m going to see to it that he’s happy!”
This time my mother made a funny noise. Like a groan.
I went into my bedroom. I put Dribble on top of my dresser. I tried to pet him and tell him he would be happy living with me. But it isn’t easy to pet a turtle. They aren’t soft and furry and they don’t lick you or anything. Still, I had my very own pet at last.
Later, when I sat down at the dinner table, my mother said, “I smell turtle. Peter, go and scrub your hands!”
* * *
Some people might think that my mother is my biggest problem. She doesn’t like turtles and she’s always telling me to scrub my hands. That doesn’t mean just run them under the water. Scrub means I’m supposed to use soap and rub my hands together. Then I’ve got to rinse and dry them. I ought to know by now. I’ve heard it enough!
But my mother isn’t my biggest problem. Neither is my father. He spends a lot of time watching commercials on TV. That’s because he’s in the advertising business. These days his favorite commercial is the one about Juicy-O. He wrote it himself. And the president of the Juicy-O company liked it so much he sent my father a whole crate of Juicy-O for our family to drink. It tastes like a combination of oranges, pineapples, grapefruits, pears, and bananas. (And if you want to know the truth, I’m getting pretty sick of drinking it.) But Juicy-O isn’t my biggest problem either.
My biggest problem is my brother, Farley Drexel Hatcher. He’s two-and-a-half years old. Everybody calls him Fudge. I feel sorry for him if he’s going to grow up with a name like Fudge, but I don’t say a word. It’s none of my business.
Fudge is always in my way. He messes up everything he sees. And when he gets mad he throws himself flat on the floor and he screams. And he kicks. And he bangs his fists. The only time I really like him is when he’s sleeping. He sucks four fingers on his left hand and makes a slurping noise.
When Fudge saw Dribble he said, “Ohhhhh . . . see!”
And I said, “That’s my turtle, get it? Mine! You don’t touch him.”
Fudge said, “No touch.” Then he laughed like crazy.
2
Mr. and Mrs. Juicy-O
One night my father came home from the office all excited. He told us Mr. and Mrs. Yarby were coming to New York. He’s the president of the Juicy-O company. He lives in Chicago. I wondered if he’d bring my father another crate of Juicy-O. If he did I’d probably be drinking it for the rest of my life. Just thinking about it was enough to make my stomach hurt.
My father said he invited Mr. and Mrs. Yarby to stay with us. My mother wanted to know why they couldn’t stay at a hotel like most people who come to New York. My father said they could. But he didn’t want them to. He thought they’d be more comfortable staying with us. My mother said that was about the silliest thing she’d ever heard.
But she fixed up Fudge’s bedroom for our guests. She put fancy sheets and a brand-new blanket on the hide-a-bed. That’s a sofa that opens up into a bed at night. It’s in Fudge’s room because that used to be our den. Before he was born we watched TV in there. And lots of times Grandma slept over on the hide-a-bed. Now we watch TV right in the living room. And Grandma doesn’t sleep over very often.
My mother moved Fudge’s crib into my room. He’s going to get a regular bed when he’s three, my mother says. There are a lot of reasons I don’t like to sleep in the same room as Fudge. I found that out two months ago when my bedroom was being painted. I had to sleep in Fudge’s room for three nights because the paint smell made me cough. For one thing, he talks in his sleep. And if a person didn’t know better, a person could get scared. Another thing is that slurping noise he makes. It’s true that I like to hear it when I’m awake, but when I’m trying to fall asleep I like things very quiet.
When I complained about having to sleep with Fudge my mother said, “It’s just for two nights, Peter.”
“I’ll sleep in the living room,” I suggested. “On the sofa . . . or even a chair.”
“No,” my mother said. “You will sleep in your bedroom. In your own bed!”
There was no point in arguing. Mom wasn’t going to change her mind.
She spent the day in the kitchen. She really cooked up a storm. She used so many pots and pans Fudge didn’t have any left to bang together. And that’s one of his favorite pastimes—banging pots and pans together. A person can get an awful headache listening to that racket.
Right after lunch my mother opened up the dinner table. We don’t have a separate dining room. When we have company for dinner we eat in one end of the living room. When Mom finished setting the table she put a silver bowl filled with flowers right in the middle. I said, “Hey, Mom . . . it looks like you’re expecting the President or something.”
“Very funny, Peter!” my mother answered.
Sometimes my mother laughs like crazy at my jokes. Other times she pretends not to get them. And then, there are times when I know she gets them but she doesn’t seem to like them. This was one of those times. So I decided no more jokes until after dinner.
I went to Jimmy Fargo’s for the afternoon. I came home at four o’clock. I found my mother standing over the dinner table mumbling. Fudge was on the floor playing with my father’s socks. I’m not sure why he likes socks so much, but if you give him a few pairs he’ll play quietly for an hour.
I said, “Hi, Mom. I’m home.”
“I’m missing two flowers,” my mother said.
I don’t know how she noticed that two flowers were missing from her silver bowl. Because there were at least a dozen of them left. But sure enough, when I checked, I saw two stems with nothing on them.
“Don’t look at me, Mom,” I said. “What would I do with two measly flowers?”
So we both looked at Fudge. “Did you take Mommy’s pretty flowers?” my mother asked him.
“No take,” Fudge said. He was chewing on something.
“What’s in your mouth?” my mother asked.
Fudge didn’t answer.
“Show Mommy!”
“No show,” Fudge said.
“Oh yes!” My mother picked him up and forced his mouth open. She fished out a rose petal.
“What did you do with Mommy’s flowers?” She raised her voice. She was really getting upset.
Fudge laughed.
“Tell Mommy!”
“Yum!” Fudge said. “Yummy yummy yummy!”
“Oh no!” my mother cried, rushing to the telephone.
She called Dr. Cone. She told him that Fudge ate two flowers. Dr. Cone must have asked what kind, because my mother said, “Roses, I think. But I can’t be sure. One might have been a daisy.”
There was a long pause while my mother listened to whatever Dr. Cone had to say. Then Mom said, “Thank you, Dr. Cone.” She hung up.
“No more flowers!” she told Fudge. “You understand?”
“No more,” Fudge repeated. “No more . . . no more . . . no more.”
My mother gave him a spoonful of peppermint-flavored medicine. The kind I take when I have stomach pains. Then she carried Fudge off to have his bath.
Leave it to my brother to eat flowers! I wondered how they tasted. Maybe they’re delicious and I don’t know it because I’ve never tasted one, I thought. I decided to find out. I picked off one petal from a pink rose. I put it in my mouth and tried to chew it up. But I couldn’t do it. It tasted awful. I spit it out in the garbage. Well, at least now I knew I wasn’t missing anything great!
Fudge ate his supper in the kitchen before our company arrived. While he was eating I heard my mother remind him, “Fudgie’s going to be a good boy tonight. Very good for Daddy’s friends.”
“Good,” Fudge said. “Good boy.”
“That’s right!” my mother told him.
I changed and scrubbed up while Fudge finished his supper. I was going to eat with the company. Being nine has its advantages!
* * *
My mother was all dressed up by the time my father got home with the Yarbys. You’d never have guessed that Mom spent most of the day in the kitchen. You’d also never have guessed that Fudge ate two flowers. He was feeling fine. He even smelled nice—like baby powder.
Mrs. Yarby picked him up right away. I knew she would. She looked like a grandmother. That type always makes a big deal out of Fudge. She walked into the living room cuddling him. Then she sat down on the sofa and bounced Fudge around on her lap.
“Isn’t he the cutest little boy!” Mrs. Yarby said. “I just love babies.” She gave him a big kiss on the top of his head. I kept waiting for somebody to tell her Fudge was no baby. But no one did.
My father carried the Yarbys’ suitcase into Fudge’s room. When he came back he introduced me to our company.
“This is our older son, Peter,” he said to the Yarbys.
“I’m nine and in fourth grade,” I told them.
“How do, Peter,” Mr. Yarby said.
Mrs. Yarby just gave me a nod. She was still busy with Fudge. “I have a surprise for this dear little boy!” she said. “It’s in my suitcase. Should I go get it?”
“Yes,” Fudge shouted. “Go get . . . go get!”
Mrs. Yarby laughed, as if that was the best joke she ever heard. “I’ll be right back,” she told Fudge. She put him down and ran off to find her suitcase.
She came back carrying a present tied up with a red ribbon.
“Ohhhh!” Fudge cried, opening his eyes wide. “Goody!” He clapped his hands.
Mrs. Yarby helped him unwrap his surprise. It was a windup train that made a lot of noise. Every time it bumped into something it turned around and went the other way. Fudge liked it a lot. He likes anything that’s noisy.