Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing

We live on the west side of the park. If I want to get to the zoo and the pony carts I have to walk all the way through to the east side. Sometimes my mother walks across the park with Fudge. He likes the animals a lot. Especially the monkeys. He also likes the helium-filled balloons. But as soon as my mother buys him one he lets it go. I think he likes to see it float up in the sky. My mother says that’s a waste of money and she’s not going to buy him any more balloons until he promises not to let go.

  On Sundays the park is closed to traffic and you can ride your bicycle all over without worrying about being run down by some crazy driver. Even Fudge can ride. He has a little blue Toddle-Bike, a present from my father’s client. And when he’s riding he makes motorcycle noises. “Vroom—vroom—vroom!” he yells.

  In the fall the leaves turn darker and drop off the trees. Sometimes there are big leaf piles on the ground. It’s fun to jump around in them. I never saw bright red, yellow, and orange leaves until the day my father took us for a drive in the country. The reason the leaves don’t turn bright colors in New York is the air pollution. And that’s too bad. Because yellow and orange and red leaves really look neat!

  One nice sunny afternoon I called for Jimmy Fargo and we went to the park. Jimmy is the only kid on my block who’s in my class at school. Unless you count Sheila. And I don’t! She lives in my building, on the tenth floor. Henry, the elevator operator, is always making jokes about me and Sheila. He thinks we like each other. The truth is, I can’t stand her. She’s a real know-it-all. But I’ve discovered that most girls are!

  The worst thing about Sheila is the way she’s always trying to touch me. And when she does she yells, “Peter’s got the cooties! Peter’s got the cooties!” I don’t believe in cooties anymore. When I was in second grade I used to examine myself to see if I had them. But I never found any. By fourth grade most kids give up on cooties. But not Sheila. She’s still going strong. So I have to keep a safe distance from her.

  My mother thinks Sheila is the greatest. “She’s so smart,” my mother says. “And some day she’s going to be a real beauty.” Now that’s the funniest! Because Sheila looks a lot like the monkeys that Fudge is so crazy about. So maybe she’ll look beautiful to some ape! But never to me.

  Me and Jimmy have this special group of rocks where we like to play when we’re in the park. We play secret agent up there. Jimmy can imitate all kinds of foreign accents. Probably because his father’s a part-time actor. When he’s not acting he teaches a class at City College.

  Today, when we got to our rocks, who should be perched up there but Sheila. She was pretending to read a book. But I think she was just waiting for me and Jimmy. To find out what we’d do when we found her on our own personal rocks.

  “Hey, Sheila!” I said. “Those are our rocks.”

  “Says who?” she asked.

  “Come on, Sheila,” Jimmy said, climbing up. “You know me and Peter hang out here.”

  “Too bad for you!” Sheila said.

  “Oh, Sheila!” I shouted. “Go and find yourself another rock!”

  “I like this one,” she said, as if she owned the park. “So why don’t you two go find another rock?”

  Just then who should come tearing down the path but Fudge. My mother was right behind him hollering, “Fudgie . . . wait for Mommy!”

  But when Fudge gets going he doesn’t wait for anybody. He was after some pigeons. “Birdie . . . here birdie,” he called. That brother of mine loves birds. But he can’t get it through his head that the birds aren’t about to let him catch them.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said.

  My mother stopped running. “Peter! Am I glad to see you. I can’t keep up with Fudge.”

  “Mrs. Hatcher . . . Mrs. Hatcher,” Sheila called, scrambling down from our rock, “I’ll watch Fudge for you. I’ll take very good care of him. Can I, Mrs. Hatcher? Oh please!” Sheila jumped up and down and begged some more.

  Jimmy gave me an elbow in the ribs. He thought that my mother would let Sheila watch Fudge and then we’d be rid of her. We’d be free to play secret agent. But Jimmy didn’t know that my mother would never trust Sheila with her dear little boy.

  Fudge, in the meantime, was screaming. “Come back, birdies . . . come back to Fudgie!”

  Then my mother did a strange thing. She checked her watch and said, “You know, I do have to run back to the apartment. I forgot to turn on the oven. Do you really think you could keep an eye on Fudge for just ten minutes?”

  “Of course I can, Mrs. Hatcher,” Sheila said. “I know all about baby-sitting from my sister.”

  Sheila’s sister Libby is in seventh grade. She’s about as beautiful as Sheila. The only difference is, she’s bigger.

  My mother hesitated. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never left Fudge before.” She looked at me. “Peter. . . .”

  “What?”

  “Will you and Jimmy help Sheila watch Fudge while I run home for a minute?”

  “Oh, Mom! Do we have to?”

  “Please, Peter. I’ll be right back. I’ll feel better if all three of you are watching him.”

  “What do you say?” I asked Jimmy.

  “Sure,” he answered. “Why not?”

  “But I’m in charge of Fudgie, aren’t I?” Sheila asked my mother.

  “Well, I guess so,” my mother said to Sheila. “You probably do know more about baby-sitting. Why don’t you all take Fudge over to the playground? Then I’ll know where to find you.”

  “Swell, Mrs. Hatcher!” Sheila said. “Don’t you worry. Fudgie will be just fine.”

  My mother turned to Fudge. “Now you be a good boy for ten minutes. Mommy will be right back. Okay?”

  “Good boy!” Fudge said. “Good . . . good . . . good. . . .”

  As soon as my mother was gone Fudge took off. “Can’t catch me!” he hollered. “Can’t catch Fudgie!”

  “Go get him, Sheila,” I said. “You’re in charge, remember?”

  Me and Jimmy horsed around while Sheila ran after Fudge.

  When she caught him we decided we’d better go to the playground like my mother said. It was a lot easier to keep an eye on him in a smaller place. Anyway, Fudge likes to climb on the jungle gym and that way he can’t get lost.

  As soon as we got to the playground Sheila started chasing me. “Peter’s got the cooties! Peter’s got the cooties!” she yelled.

  “Cut that out!” I said.

  So she chased Jimmy. “Jimmy’s got the cooties! Jimmy’s got the cooties!”

  Me and Jimmy decided to fight back. So what if she’s a girl? She started it! We grabbed her by the arms. She squirmed and tried to get away from us, but we wouldn’t let go. We hollered really loud. “Sheila’s got the cooties! Sheila’s got the cooties!”

  All three of us were so busy fooling around that we didn’t notice Fudge up on the jungle gym until he called. “Pee-tah . . . Pee-tah. . . .” That’s how he says my name.

  “What?” I asked.

  “See . . . see. . . .” Fudge flapped his arms around. “Fudgie’s a birdie! Fudgie’s a birdie! Fly, birdie . . . fly. . . .”

  That crazy kid! I thought, running to the jungle gym with Jimmy and Sheila right behind me.

  But it was too late. Fudge already found out he didn’t have wings. He fell to the ground. He was screaming and crying and his face was a mess of blood. I couldn’t even tell where the blood was coming from at first. Then Jimmy handed me his handkerchief. I don’t know how clean it was but it was better than nothing. I mopped some blood off Fudge’s face.

  Sheila cried, “It wasn’t my fault. Honest, it wasn’t.”

  “Oh shut up!” I told her.

  “He’s really a mess,” Jimmy said, inspecting Fudge. “And his teeth are gone too.”

  “What are you talking about?” I aske
d Jimmy.

  “Look in his mouth,” Jimmy said. “Now, while he’s screaming. See . . . he’s got a big space where he used to have his front teeth.”

  “Oh no!” Sheila screamed. “He’s right! Fudgie’s teeth are gone!”

  Fudge stopped crying for a minute. “All gone?” he asked.

  “Open your mouth wide,” I said.

  He did and I looked in. It was true. His top two front teeth were missing.

  “My mother’s going to kill you, Sheila!” I said. Was I glad I wasn’t left in charge of my brother.

  Sheila cried louder. “But it was an accident. He did it himself . . . himself. . . .”

  “You better find his teeth,” I said.

  “Where should I look?” Sheila asked.

  “On the ground, stupid!”

  Sheila crawled around looking for Fudge’s teeth while I tried to clean him up some more. “See,” Fudge said, showing me all his wounds. “Boo-boo here. And here. More boo-boo here.” His knees and elbows were all scraped up.

  “I’m going to get your mother,” Jimmy hollered, running out of the playground.

  “Good idea!” I called.

  “I just can’t find them,” Sheila said.

  “Well, keep looking!” I yelled.

  “Honestly, Peter, there aren’t any teeth here!”

  “All gone?” Fudge asked again.

  “Not all,” I told him. “Just two.”

  Fudge started to scream. “Want my teeth! Want my teeth!”

  Jimmy must have met my mother on her way back to the park because it only took about two minutes for her to get there. By that time a whole crowd of kids had gathered around us. Most of them were crawling on the ground like Sheila, looking for Fudge’s teeth.

  My mother picked up Fudge. “Oh my baby! My precious! My little love!” She kissed him all over. “Show Mommy where it hurts.”

  Fudge showed her all his boo-boos. Then he said, “All gone!”

  “What’s all gone?” my mother asked.

  “His top two front teeth,” I said.

  “Oh no!” my mother cried. “Oh, my poor little angel!”

  Sheila sniffled and said, “I just can’t find them, Mrs. Hatcher. I’ve looked everywhere but Fudge’s teeth are gone!”

  “He must have swallowed them,” my mother said, looking into Fudge’s mouth.

  “Oh, Mrs. Hatcher! How awful. I’m sorry . . . I’m really very sorry,” Sheila cried. “What will happen to him?”

  “He’ll be all right, Sheila,” my mother said. “I’m sure it was an accident. Nobody’s blaming you.”

  Sheila started bawling again.

  My mother said, “Let’s go home now.”

  I thought my mother was being pretty easy on Sheila. After all, she was left in charge. When we got home Mom washed Fudge’s cuts and scrapes with peroxide. Then she called Dr. Cone. He told her to take Fudge to our dentist. So my mother called Dr. Brown’s office and made an appointment for the next day.

  When that was done she gave Fudge some socks to play with. I went into the kitchen to have a glass of juice. My mother followed me. “Peter Warren Hatcher!” she said. “I’m sorry that I can’t trust you for just ten minutes!”

  “Me?” I asked. “Trust me? What’s this got to do with me?”

  My mother raised her voice. “I left your brother with you for ten minutes and just look at what happened. I’m disgusted with you!”

  “It was Sheila’s fault,” I said. “You said Sheila was in charge. So how come you’re mad at me and not at Sheila?”

  “I just am!” my mother shouted.

  I ran to my room and slammed the door. I watched Dribble walk around on his favorite rock. “My mother’s the meanest mother in the whole world!” I told my turtle. “She loves Fudge more than me. She doesn’t even love me anymore. She doesn’t even like me. Maybe I’m not her real son. Maybe somebody left me in a basket on her doorstep. My real mother’s probably a beautiful princess. I’ll bet she’d like to have me back. Nobody needs me around here . . . that’s for sure!”

  I didn’t eat much supper that night and I had a lot of trouble falling asleep.

  * * *

  The next morning my mother came into my room and sat down on my bed. I didn’t look at her.

  “Peter,” she said.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Peter, I said some things yesterday that I didn’t really mean.”

  I looked at her. “Honest?” I asked.

  “Yes . . . you see . . . I was very upset over Fudge’s accident and I had to blame somebody. So I picked on you.”

  “Yes,” I said. “You sure did.”

  “It wasn’t your fault though. I know that. It was an accident. It could have happened even if I had been in the playground myself.”

  “He wanted to fly,” I said. “He thought he was a bird.”

  “I don’t think he’ll try to fly again,” my mother said.

  “Me neither,” I told her.

  Then we both laughed and I knew she was my real mother after all.

  5

  The Birthday Bash

  I got used to the way Fudge looked without his top front teeth. He looked like a very small first grader. Dr. Brown, our dentist, said he’d have to wait until he was six or seven to get his grown-up teeth. I started calling him Fang because when he smiles all you can see are the top two side teeth next to the big space. So it looks like he has fangs.

  My mother didn’t like that. “I want you to stop calling him Fang,” she told me.

  “What should I call him?” I asked. “Farley Drexel?”

  “Just plain Fudge will be fine,” my mother said.

  “What’s wrong with Farley Drexel?” I asked. “How come you named him that if you don’t like it?”

  “I like it fine,” my mother said. “But right now we call him Fudge. Not Farley . . . not Drexel . . . and not Fang!”

  “What’s wrong with Fang?” I asked. “I think it sounds neat.”

  “Fang is an insult!”

  “Oh . . . come on, Mom! He doesn’t even know what a fang is!”

  “But I know, Peter. And I don’t like it.”

  “Okay . . . okay. . . .” I promised never to call my brother Fang again.

  But secretly, whenever I look at him, I think it. My brother, Fang Hatcher! Nobody can stop me from thinking. My mind is my own.

  Fudge is going to be three years old. My mother said he should have a birthday party with some of his friends. He plays with three other little kids who live in our building. There’s Jennie, Ralph, and Sam. My mother invited them to Fudge’s party. Grandma said she’d come over to help. My father couldn’t make it. He had a Saturday business appointment. I wanted to go to Jimmy Fargo’s but my mother said she needed me to supervise the games. The kids were invited from one until two-thirty.

  “That’s only an hour and a half,” my mother reminded me. “That’s not so bad, is it, Peter?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I told her. “Ask me later.”

  The kitchen table was set up for the party. The cloth and napkins and paper plates and cups all matched. They had pictures of Superman on them.

  Right before party time Grandma tried to change Fudge into his new suit. But he screamed his head off about it. “No suit! No suit! NO . . . NO . . . NO!”

  My mother tried to reason with him. “It’s your birthday, Fudgie. All your friends are coming. You want to look like a big boy, don’t you?” While she was talking to him she managed to get him into his shirt and pants. But he wouldn’t let her put on his shoes. He kicked and carried on until my mother and grandmother were both black and blue. Finally they decided as long as he was in his suit his feet didn’t matter. So he
wore his old bedroom slippers.

  Ralph arrived first. He’s really fat. And he isn’t even four years old. He doesn’t say much either. He grunts and grabs a lot, though. Usually his mouth is stuffed full of something.

  So the first thing Ralph did was wander into the kitchen. He looked around for something to eat. But Grandma was guarding the place. She kept telling him “No . . . No . . . must wait until the other children come.”

  Jennie arrived next. She was wearing little white gloves and party shoes. She even carried a pocketbook. Besides that she had on dirty jeans and an old sweater. Her mother apologized for her clothes but said she couldn’t do anything with Jennie lately—especially since she had taken to biting.

  “What does she bite?” I asked, thinking about furniture or toys or stuff like that.

  “She bites people,” Jennie’s mother said. “But you don’t have to worry about it unless her teeth go through the skin. Otherwise it’s perfectly safe.”

  I thought, poor old Fudge! He can’t even bite back since he hasn’t got any top front teeth. I looked at Jennie. She seemed so innocent. It was hard to believe she was a vampire.

  Sam came last. He carried a big present for Fudge but he was crying. “It’s just a stage he’s going through,” his mother explained. “Everything scares him. Especially birthday parties. But he’ll be fine. Won’t you, Sam?”

  Sam grabbed onto his mother’s leg and screamed, “Take me home! Take me home!” Somehow, Sam’s mother untangled herself from Sam’s grip and left.

  So at five after one we were ready to begin. We had an eater, a biter, and a crier. I thought that two-thirty would never come. I also thought my mother was slightly crazy for dreaming up the party in the first place. “Doesn’t Fudge have any normal friends?” I whispered.

  “There’s nothing wrong with Fudgie’s friends!” my mother whispered back. “All small children are like that.”

  Grandma got them seated around the kitchen table. She put a party hat on each kid’s head. Sam screamed, “Get it off! Get it off!” But the others wore their hats and didn’t complain. My mother snapped a picture of them with her new camera.

  Then Grandma turned off the lights and my mother lit the candles on Fudge’s cake. It had chocolate frosting and big yellow roses. I led the singing of “Happy Birthday.” My mother carried the cake across the kitchen to the party table and set it down in front of Fudge.