Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing

  “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 Pe
ter’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.

  “That’s right, Fudge,” I said. “Just like mine.” You sure can fool little kids easy!

  “Wear or wrap?” Mr. Berman asked my mother, while Fudge walked around in his new shoes.

  “Wrap, of course!” she said.

  I wondered what my mother would tell Fudge tomorrow when I wore my new loafers. Oh well, that really wasn’t my worry. It was her idea!

  When Fudge was back in his old shoes and our package was ready, Mr. Berman gave my brother a striped balloon. He offered one to me too. I refused. How could he think a person in fourth grade might want a shoe store balloon?

  “That wasn’t so terrible, was it, Peter?” my mother said, as we left the store.

  “It wasn’t?” I asked.

  “Well, it could have been worse!” my mother said.

  “I suppose,” I answered.

  We went to Hamburger Heaven for lunch. We sat in a booth. Fudge tossed his balloon around while my mother ordered for him and then for herself. I ordered my own lunch—a hamburger with everything on it and a chocolate milk shake. Fudge was getting a kiddie special, meaning a hamburger without the roll, some mashed potatoes, and a side order of green peas.

  When our lunch was served my mother cut Fudge’s hamburger into tiny pieces which he shoved into his mouth with his fingers. Then she handed him a spoon and told him to eat his mashed potatoes. But instead of eating them he smeared them on the wall. “See,” he said.

  “I thought you told me he wouldn’t behave like that anymore!” I said to my mother.

  “Fudgie! That’s naughty. You stop it right now!” my mother said.

  But Fudge sang, “Eat it or wear it!” and he dumped the whole dish of peas over his head.

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. He looked so silly with the peas falling from his hair. And when I eat and laugh at the same time I choke. So I choked on my pickle and my mother had to whack me on the back, which gave Fudge another chance to spread mashed potatoes on the wall.

  That’s when the waitress asked my mother did we want anything else.

  “No thank you,” my mother said. “We have more than enough now!” She wiped off the wall with her napkin and told Fudge he was very, very naughty.

  “Not me,” Fudge said. “Not me!”

  “Yes, you!” my mother told him. “Why can’t you eat like Peter? See how nice Peter eats?”

  Fudge didn’t say anything. He just stuck his fork into his balloon. It popped and he screamed. “All gone! Want more balloon! MORE.”

  “Shut up!” I told him. “Can’t you ever act human?”

  “That’s enough, Peter!” my mother said.

  She should have slugged him. That would teach that brother of mine how to behave in Hamburger Heaven!

  We took a cab home. Fudge fell asleep on the way. He had his fingers in his mouth and made his slurping noise. My mother whispered to me, “Our day wasn’t that bad, was it, Peter?” I didn’t answer. I just looked out the taxi window and decided that I would never spend a day with Farley Drexel Hatcher again.

  7

  The Flying Train Committee

  In January our class started a project on The City. Mrs. Haver, our teacher, divided us up into committees by where we live. That way we could work at home. My committee was me, Jimmy Fargo, and Sheila. Our topic was Transportation. We decided to make my apartment the meeting place because I’m the only one of the three of us who’s got his own bedroom. In a few weeks each committee has to hand in a booklet, a poster, and be ready to give an oral report.

  The first day we got together after school we bought a yellow posterboard. Jimmy wanted a blue one but Sheila talked him out of it. “Yellow is a much brighter color,” she explained. “Everything will show up on it. Blue is too dull.”

  Sheila thinks she’s smarter than me and Jimmy put together—just because she’s a girl! So right away she told us she would be in charge of our booklet and me and Jimmy could do most of the poster. As long as we check with her first, to make sure she likes our ideas. We agreed, since Sheila promised to do ten pages of written work and we would only do five.

  After we bought the yellow posterboard we went to the library. We took out seven books on transportation. We wanted to learn all we could about speed, traffic congestion, and pollution. We arranged to meet on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons for the next two weeks.

  Our first few committee meetings turned out like this: We got to my place by three-thirty, had a snack, then played with Dribble for another half hour. Sheila gave up on cooties when Fudge lost his front teeth. But it still isn’t much fun to have her hanging around. She’s always complaining that she got stuck with the worst possible committee. And that me and Jimmy fool more than we work. We only put up with her because we have no choice!

  Sheila and Jimmy have to be home for supper before five-thirty. So at five o’clock we start cleaning up. We keep our equipment under my bed in a shoe box. We have a set of Magic Markers, Elmer’s glue, Scotch tape, a really sharp pair of scissors, and a container of silver sparkle.

  Sheila carries our committee booklet back and forth with her. She doesn’t trust us enough to leave it at my house! The posterboard fits under my bed, along with our supplies. We stack the library books on my desk. The reason I make sure we clean up good is that my mother told me if I left a mess we’d have to find some place else to work.

  By our third meeting I told Jimmy and Sheila that I’d figured out the solution to New York City’s traffic problems. “We have to get rid of the traffic,” I said. “There shouldn’t be any cars or buses or taxis allowed in the city. What we really need is a citywide monorail system.”

  “That’s too expensive,” Sheila said. “It sounds good but it’s not practical.”

  “I disagree!” I told Sheila. “It’s very practical. Besides getting rid of traffic it’ll get rid of air pollution and it’ll get people where they’re going a lot faster.”

  “But it’s not practical, Peter!” Sheila said again. “It costs too much.”

  I opened one of my books on transportation and read Sheila a quote. “‘A monorail system is the hope of the future.’” I cleared my throat and looked up.

  “But we can’t write a report just about the monorail,” Sheila said. “We’ll never be able to fill twenty written pages with that.”

  “We can write big,” Jimmy suggested.

  “No!” Sheila said. “I want a good mark on this project. Peter, you can write your five pages about the monorail system and how it works. Jimmy, you can write your five pages about pollution caused by transportation. And I’ll write my ten pages on the history of transportation in the city.” Sheila folded her arms and smiled.

  “Can I write big?” Jimmy asked.

  “I don’t care how big you write as long as you put your name on your five pages!” Sheila told him.

  “That’s not fair!” Jimmy said. “This is supposed to be a group project. Why should I have to put my name on my five pages?”

  “Then don’t write BIG!” Sheila shouted.

  “Okay. Okay . . . I’ll write so small Mrs. Haver will need a microscope to see the letters.”

  “Very funny, “ Sheila said.

  “Look,” I told both of them, “I think all our written work should be in the same handwriting. That’s the only fair way. Otherwise Mrs. Haver will know who did what. And it won’t be a group project.”

  “Say, that’s a good idea,” Jimmy said. “Which one of us has the best handwriting?”

  Me and Jimmy looked at Sheila.

  “Well, I do have a n
ice even script,” Sheila said. “But if I’m going to copy over your written work you better give it to me by next Tuesday. Otherwise, I won’t have enough time to do the job. And you two better get going on your poster.” Sheila talked like she was the teacher and we were the kids.

  Me and Jimmy designed the whole poster ourselves. We used the pros and cons of each kind of transportation. It was really clever. We divided a chart into land, sea, and air and we planned an illustration for each—with the airplane done in silver sparkle and the letters done in red and blue Magic Marker. We got halfway through the lettering that day. We also sketched in the ship, the plane, and the truck.

  When Sheila saw it she asked, “Is that supposed to be a train?”

  “No,” I told her. “It’s a truck.”

  “It doesn’t look like one,” she said.

  “It will,” Jimmy told her, “when it’s finished.”

  “I hope so,” Sheila said. “Because right now it looks like a flying train!”

  “That’s because the ground’s not under it yet,” Jimmy said.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “See, we’ve got to make it look like it’s on a street. Right now it does kind of look like it’s up in space.”

  “So does the ship,” Sheila said.

  “We’ll put some water lines around it,” I told her.

  “And some clouds around the plane,” Sheila said.

  “Listen,” Jimmy hollered, “did anybody ever tell you you’re too bossy? This poster is ours! You do the booklet. Remember . . . that’s the way you wanted it!”

  “See . . . there you go again!” Sheila said. “You keep forgetting this is a committee. We’re supposed to work together.”

  “Working together doesn’t mean you give the orders and we carry them out,” Jimmy said.

  My feelings exactly! I thought.

  Sheila didn’t answer Jimmy. She picked up her things, got her coat, and left.

  “I hope she never comes back,” Jimmy said.

  “She’ll be back,” I told him. “We’re her committee.”

  Jimmy laughed. “Yeah . . . we’re all one happy committee!”

  I put our poster under the bed, said good-bye to Jimmy, then washed up for supper.