“It sounds like a mouse!” Judy said. Frank cracked up.
She picked up the sax. Awk! Squawk! It sounded like a pet-store parrot.
“How about the trombone?” said Frank, making a sliding motion with his hand.
Judy tried the trombone. She blew into the end of the slide. Pfft! All that came out was spit. She moved the slide and tried again. Pfft! More spit! She tried one more time. Spit flew across the room.
“Play it, don’t spray it,” Frank teased.
When Judy tried the clarinet, it let out a sneeze. When she tried the French horn, it wheezed. She said “Oh, no” to the oboe. She said “Lump it” to the trumpet.
At last, Frank held out his tuba. “Here, try the tuba. I’m telling you — it’s really fun. I’ll show you.”
“But it’s bigger than me!” said Judy.
“The great part is that you can sit down while you play,” said Frank. He sat down and played “My Hat, It Has Three Corners.”
“Hey! That’s good!” said Judy.
“Your turn,” said Frank. He showed her how to hold it in her lap. He showed her where to put her fingers. “Now, fill your cheeks with air and blow into this tube.”
Judy sat with the tuba in her lap. She put her fingers on the buttons. Frank got ready to give her a big thumbs-up!
She blew.
Moo! Mooooo! It sounded like a cow. “My hat, it has three cows,” said Judy. They could not/couldn’t help cracking up.
Pretty soon, Judy had tried nearly every instrument in the room. So far, all they did was eek, moo, cough, and sneeze. Not one note. Not one musical sound.
“Forget it,” Judy said to Frank. “I’ll kick the bucket for real before I ever get to cross this off my kick-the-bucket list!”
“There has to be something here you can play,” said Frank, looking around. “Hey! How about the triangle!”
“Hello! Preschool! Everybody knows the triangle is for babies.”
Just then, Mr. Nulty came back from the office. “How’s it going?” he asked.
“Not so great,” said Judy. “Did you know your clarinet has a cold?” She picked up the French horn next to it. “And this one has a cough.”
He chuckled. “I did not know that,” he said. “Have you tried everything?”
“Um, what’s this?” Judy asked, pointing to a big round rubber disk that looked like a target.
“That is a practice pad for the drums.”
Drums! Ba-dum-pum! Judy liked the sound of that. “Really?”
Mr. Nulty nodded and held out a pair of drumsticks.
Frank bounced on his toes. Judy picked up the drumsticks. Mr. Nulty showed her how to hold them. She heard a beat in her head. “And a one, and a two, and a three . . .” She pounded out a beat. Ba-da-bum, ba-da-bum, ba-da-bum-bum-bum. Rappa-tap, rappa-tap-tap-tap.
At last, she had made a sound. A for-real musical beat. No spit came out. And it did not sound like a squeaky mouse or a grumpy parrot.
Judy gave a thumbs-up to drums. “Check me out!” said Judy.
“You’re a drummer,” said Mr. Nulty.
“Drumroll, please,” said Frank. Ba-dum-bum-CHING!
Judy Moody was a hip cat. Judy Moody was a cool cat. Judy Moody was her own one-man band. One-girl band.
Mr. Nulty had let Judy borrow a pair of drumsticks. She drummed down the hallway. Ba-dee-da-da. She drummed on Frank’s backpack. Badda-bo-bee.
Once Judy started, she couldn’t stop drumming. She drummed on the backseat of the Pearls’ car all the way home.
She drummed on the door to Stink’s room. Stink came out holding his ears. “What’s with the drumsticks?” Stink asked.
“I’m a drummer now,” said Judy. “It’s my thing. It’s my scene.”
“Do Mom and Dad know?” Stink asked. Judy shook her head no.
“Judy’s drumming on the cat!” Stink yelled for Mom and Dad to hear.
“Stink, don’t be jive. Being uncool is so fin. As in lame-o.”
Stink raced downstairs to tell Mom and Dad. Judy followed. She drummed on the kitchen table. Judy drummed on the cereal box. Judy drummed on the cookie jar.
“What’s this all about?” asked Dad.
“New thing,” said Judy. “For my bucket list. I tried all the instruments at school, and Mr. Nulty says I’m a drummer.”
Judy drummed on the cookie sheet. She drummed on the dishwasher.
“I’ll take that,” said Mom, whisking away the lid to the spaghetti pot.
“I’m gonna polish with my deck sticks, hitting the skins,” Judy told them.
Stink covered his ears. “Make her stop. I’m going bongos.”
“Bongos. Ha! That’s a drum. Good one, Stink.”
“I mean bonkers. Why are you talking funny, too?”
“Mr. Nulty let me read his hip cat dictionary,” said Judy, grinning.
“I was a little bit bossa nova myself,” said Dad. “Back in my middle-school days. Yep. I played drums in a band. Tom Turkey and the Electric Drumsticks.”
Mom laughed. “Were you Tom Turkey?”
“Nope,” said Dad. “I was lead Electric Drumstick.” Everybody cracked up.
Dad took up Judy’s drumsticks and showed her a few licks on the kitchen table. Stink got into the jam with a pair of chopsticks. They hit the skins, feeling the rhythm and groovin’ to the beat, until Mom clanged the cymbals (pot lids), signaling that it was time to shut ’er down and slap on the hogs.
Ba-dee-do-dum. Pum-pum.
On Friday after school, Judy was just about to cross off Learn a musical instrument from her list in pen when Stink said, “Stop! You can’t actually cross that one off.”
“Why not?”
“Because no way is the kitchen table an instrument.”
ROAR!
Was Stink right? It was true-not-false that she had not/hadn’t played an actual drum. But if she couldn’t cross this one off, her kick-the-bucket list was a big fat flop so far. “I’m calling Grandma Lou,” she told him.
Judy told Grandma Lou all about her list. Even though she had gotten triple stickers on her homework, learning to cartwheel was a bust, she was nowhere near going to Antarctica, and she hadn’t actually played a drum.
Grandma Lou reminded Judy that a bucket list takes time. “I’m helping to raise money for books at the library. They lost a lot of kids’ books when the library flooded during the hurricane. I’ve been working on it for a long time, but we haven’t reached our goal yet. So don’t give up, Jelly Bean. I bet you’ll be playing a real drum in no time.”
“Don’t give up. Got it,” said Judy.
“The thing about a bucket list is . . . getting there is half the fun. It’s not just about crossing things off the list.”
“Have fun. Got it,” said Judy.
“Tell you what,” said Grandma Lou. “There’s a dude ranch not far from where I live. Why don’t I pick you up Saturday and take you there for a horseback ride?”
“Saturday? As in the day after today? As in tomorrow?”
“As in tomorrow.”
Judy put down the phone and tried to cartwheel through the house. Wheee . . . oops! Plop. Rats! It was more like an uncartwheel.
Judy told Mom and Dad about the dude ranch. Bad move. Stink wanted to go, too.
Judy tried to protest. “But it’s for my kick-the-bucket list.”
“So?” said Stink. “Who wouldn’t want to go to a dude ranch and dress up in cowboy boots and a ten-gallon hat and . . . Grandma Lou’s my grandma, too.”
It was no use. Stink called Grandma Lou and before you could say horse feathers, Stink was going, too.
Once they got upstairs, Judy said, “Listen, Stinkerbell, since you’re coming to Grandma Lou’s, you have to call me Queen Judy all weekend.”
“Not!” said Stink.
“Then I bet you five dollars toward my Antarctica trip that I can get you to call me Queen Judy three times before the weekend is up. Starting right now.”
??
?No way am I ever calling you Queen Judy!”
“That’s one,” said Judy, grinning. “You already owe me one dollar and sixty-six cents.”
Saturday at last! Dude Ranch Day. Ride-a-Horse and Kick-the-Bucket-List Day.
All morning, Stink galloped around on a broom and made annoying giddy-up noises. Judy snorted. “I’m the one riding a horse, Stink. You’ll be riding a puny pony. You have to be at least four feet tall to ride a real horse.”
“Says who?”
“Says the brochure.” Judy waved a pamphlet at him. “Mom found this in the kitchen drawer.”
Stink galloped over to her. Judy held it high in the air so Stink could not reach it. He jumped up. He jumped up again.
“Sorry, Shortypants,” said Judy.
Toot-a-loo! Judy heard a car horn. “Grandma Lou’s here!” She grabbed her stuff and yelled, “I call shotgun!”
“No fair,” said Stink. “You have to be outside to call shotgun.”
Judy ran out the door. “Shotgun!” she called again.
Stink ran past her and slapped his hand against the door handle of Grandma Lou’s Mini. “Shotgun! Actually, it’s whoever touches the car-door handle first.”
“But you don’t have your shoes on. So actually — you have to go back inside. I win.” She pulled up the car-door handle just as Grandma Lou was unlocking it. The door would not/wouldn’t open.
“Ha-ha. Shotgun Suicide!” said Stink, cracking up. “I win!”
“Who died and made you Quick Draw McGraw, Stink?” said Judy.
“Who died and made you queen, Judy?”
“Ha! You just said Queen Judy. That’s two. Now you owe me three dollars and thirty-two cents. Sweet!”
Grandma Lou rolled down the window. “Nobody’s riding shotgun. Sorry, kiddos. Backseat for both of you.”
“I call right side!” said Judy.
“No fairsies,” said Stink.
“Stink, you like the left. Left is for lefties,” said Grandma Lou.
“Oh yeah,” said Stink. “I do like the left. Wait!” He dashed into the house and came back with two pet carrying cases. He buckled himself in. “Phew. I almost forgot Toady and Astro!”
“Stink, why did you have to bring —”
Grandma Lou turned around. “Before we start, let’s talk about some rules for the day.”
Grandma Lou said no fighting. Grandma Lou said no picking on each other in the car. Grandma Lou said they had to show her that they could get along if they wanted to go to the dude ranch. She promised it was going to be fun.
Judy stared out the window. If only Stink was not/wasn’t being a fun sponge.
Stink had his nose in the brochure all the way to the dude ranch. He could not stop yak-yak-yakking. “Did you know they have hayrides? Can we go on a hayride?”
“Grandma Lou —” Judy started.
“Maybe I’ll be a sheriff. No, a cowboy. No, a sheriff.”
“Guess what, Grandma Lou,” said Judy.
“And get this,” said Stink. “They have archery. Can we shoot a bow and arrow?”
“Grandma Lou, guess what,” Judy tried again. “After I —”
“Says here they have a FREE airport shuttle and Swiss mattresses. Whatever that means,” said Stink.
Boy howdy! Judy was not/wasn’t happy about Stinkerbell coming along. She did not/didn’t want to be in the backseat with him. And now they had to stop at Grandma Lou’s to drop off his pets.
Judy closed her eyes and thought about horses. She might be feeling down, but soon she’d be saddling up. She was chomping at the bit to ride a horse. If she ever got out of the car, that is!
“Grandma Lou,” said Judy, “after I ride a horse I can cross it off my list. But I promise to have fun first.”
Judy pictured a beautiful black stallion with a mane so shiny it was almost blue. She imagined bouncing and riding atop a horse like Black Beauty, running wild, running free. She could almost feel the wind in her hair.
Poetry in motion, just like the brochure said.
“They even have porch rockers for you, Grandma Lou,” Stink teased.
“No porch rocking for this granny,” said Grandma Lou. “I brought Gertrude.” She stuck her hand out the window and patted the red kayak on the car roof. “I’ll be row-row-rowing my boat gently down the stream while you cowpokes are eating desert dust.”
Yippee-ki-yay! At last, they were out of the hot car. At last, they were at the Majestik — a for-real-and-absolute-positive dude ranch.
“Hey, Judy,” said Stink. “Let’s pretend it’s the O.K. Corral.”
“Okay,” said Judy. “I’ll be Doc Holliday and you can be Wyatt Twerp.”
“Hardee-har-har,” said Stink. “Never mind. I’ll be Wild Bill Hiccup and you can be Calamity Judy.”
Judy and Stink took one look around. All they saw was dust. Dust, dust, and more dust. And dirt. And mud. The smell of hay tickled Judy’s nose.
Stink pointed to an old Conestoga wagon with a ripped-up canvas and busted wheels. Rusted trucks and tractors collected behind a falling-down silo. “Are you sure this is it?” He held up the brochure to compare. It showed a herd of horses running wild against a blue sky. “It sure doesn’t look like the picture.”
“This is it!” said Grandma Lou, pointing to the sign over the entrance. But instead of the Majestik, all it said was MAJEST.
“Ick,” said Judy. “They forgot the I-K.”
“Not so majestic, is it?” said Grandma Lou. “I think maybe this place has seen better days.”
Hundreds of noisy black starlings and grackles lined fences, tree branches, and telephone wires, cawing and cackling up a storm. Stink covered his ears. “What is this, a bird farm? It’s so loud.”
“Who cares,” said Judy, playing keepaway with a bad mood. “All that matters is that I get to ride a horse, right, Grandma Lou? Let’s head to the stables.”
They walked under a giant M at the entrance to the ranch and down a dirt path, past a swimming pool that was green with leaves and gunk.
“P.U. Hold your nose,” said Stink.
It was hot, and there were piles of horse poop everywhere. And where there was poop, there were flies. Tons of flies. Big fat horseflies buzzed Stink’s head. Judy swatted one that landed in her hair.
“You could make a million dollars as a Pooper Scooper here,” said Stink.
“Here’s the horse poop, but where are the horses?” Judy asked. “I don’t see any horses.”
“And where are all the dudes?” Stink asked. “This is a dude ranch, right?”
“They should call it a dud ranch,” said Judy.
Grandma Lou couldn’t help chuckling. “Look, kids, we don’t have to stay —”
“But we came to ride a horse,” said Judy. “I can’t leave until I ride a horse!”
When they got to the stables, two cowhands in jeans, plaid shirts, and cowboy boots told Grandma Lou they’d take care of her young riders.
“Okay, kiddos. Sounds like you’re in good hands. I have to go pay at the office, but I’ll be back to check on you.” Grandma Lou headed for the office in the barn.
“I’m Whip,” said one of the cowhands. “Whip Watson. And my buddy here is Lash LaRue.”
“Whip and Lash?” said Judy. “Oh, whiplash! Get it, Stink? Together they are/they’re WhipLash.”
“Smart kid,” said Whip, pointing to his brain.
“Yeah, we, um, never heard that one before,” said Lash. He and Whip exchanged a look.
“So you want to ride, eh?” asked Whip. “We’ll have you two in apple-pie order in no time.”
“You buckaroos got here just in time,” said Lash. “We have two animals left that aren’t out on the trail.” He checked his clipboard. “Looks like Tumbleweed and Tamale are still available.”
Tumbleweed and Tamale! Lame-o! “Don’t you have any horses named Stormy or Shadowboxer?” Judy asked. “Or Diablo?”
“Or Lightning or Thunderbolt?” asked Stink.
/> Stink climbed up on the bottom rung of the gate and peered into the paddock at the two animals. “I call the horse!” said Stink.
“What do you mean?” Judy asked, rushing over to peer into the stalls. “Aren’t they both horses?” All Judy could see of one horse was a black tail. The other looked more like some kind of donkey.
Stink pointed to a sign over the first stall. HI. I’M TAMALE. I’M A HINNY! “That one’s a hiney,” said Stink. “No way am I riding anything called a hiney.”
“Stink, stop saying hiney,” Judy told him, flushing red.
“Cowgirl’s right,” said Lash LaRue, leading the hinny/hiney over on a pink rope. “This here’s what you call a hinny. A hinny is half horse and half donkey.”
“He looks like Eeyore,” said Stink. “Hee-haw!” The hinny whinnied and kicked up his hiney. Stink jumped out of the way.
Judy tugged at Stink’s sleeve, pulling him aside. She took out her bucket list and unfolded it. “Stink. You gotta let me ride the horse. See what it says right here on my list? It says Ride a horse. It does not/doesn’t say Ride a hinny.
“Second of all, you aren’t even supposed to be here. This was supposed to be my thing with Grandma Lou. And don’t forget you’re a shrimpy pants. You have to be four feet tall to ride the horse anyway.”
“Shh! I’m only a few inches short.” Stink turned to Whip and Lash. “Got any ten-gallon hats around here?”
“Nope, but you can borrow my hat,” said Whip, pulling it off his head and dropping it onto Stink’s head. “Now you’re looking real cowboy.”
Stink tugged on the brim of his hat and turned to Judy. “Fine. I’ll ride the hinny. Just don’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t tell anyone you rode a hiney,” said Judy. “Now vamoose!”
Whip led Stink over to the next corral. At last, it was time to ride! She turned to Lash LaRue. “Let’s hit the trail!” she said.
“Slow down there, Missy. Have you ridden a horse before?”
“Well, um . . . not unless the horses on the merry-go-round at the state fair count.”