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Published by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books a division of Random House, Inc., New York
Text copyright © 1988 by Barbara Park
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eISBN: 978-0-307-79705-6
Reprinted by arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf Books for Young Readers
v3.1
To all the fans of Skinnybones
who asked for a sequel … you’ve got it!
Contents
Cover
Other Yearling Books
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
About the Author
1
Mother Nature makes mistakes. I’m sorry to say that, but it’s true. One of them sits behind me in English class. Her name is Annabelle Posey. I’d rather think that Annabelle was a mistake than believe Mother Nature made her on purpose.
Annabelle is probably the most stuck-up girl in the entire universe. Her father has his own local TV show. It’s called The Uncle Happy Show. It’s one of those little kiddie programs.
Mr. Posey is Uncle Happy. He wears a cowboy hat, a red rubber nose, and a cape. It’s the type of costume you dig up on Halloween when you’re too old for trick or treat, but you still want the candy.
Mostly all he does is show cartoons. Once in a while he has a guest appearance by this policeman called Uncle Officer. Uncle Officer talks about junk like bike safety and how you shouldn’t yell out dirty stuff to cars when they honk at you or else the driver might come back and kill you. To put it nicely, it’s not the kind of show that cleans up at the Emmy Awards.
But it doesn’t matter to Annabelle. Even though no one in Hollywood has ever even heard of The Uncle Happy Show, she still brags about all the famous people she knows.
Like one time in second grade Annabelle actually stood up and told the class that God had come to her house for Sunday supper. I’m not kidding—God. The teacher practically called her a liar, but Annabelle wouldn’t change her story. She said that he had wings, and a golden crown, and flew in her window and ate a chicken dinner.
Besides being a natural-born liar, Annabelle is also very good at making fun of people. Not everyone, exactly. Mostly just me. Like when she’s asked to list her hobbies, Annabelle probably puts “reading, swimming, and making fun of Alex ‘Skinnybones’ Frankovitch.”
Skinnybones. That’s what she usually calls me. Her and about a million other kids at school. A skinny little bag of bones. Nice, huh?
I guess that’s why I’ve got such a big mouth. Just because I’m small doesn’t mean I’m going to let jerks like Annabelle get the best of me. I get them before they get me. It sounds sort of dramatic, like a gunfight or something, but that’s how it is.
This may seem crazy, but sometimes I think having people like Annabelle Posey around can actually be good for you. They give you a reason to keep trying to make something special out of yourself. To set goals and stuff. Then, when you finally make it, you can go right up to them in a real crowded room like the cafeteria and laugh in their ugly faces. My goal is to wipe out an entire lunch line with one giant “Ha!”
That’s what was so great about my summer. I finally got my chance to make it big. Really big! And I owe it all to Kitty Fritters Cat Food Company.
Last year they sponsored a contest called the National Kitty Fritters Television Contest. You had to write an essay telling them why your cat ate Kitty Fritters. The winner got to go to New York over the summer and make a TV commercial!
I only entered as a joke. My essay was about how the fritters were real cheap and how they tasted like rubber, but who cared, because cats aren’t people anyway. It was pretty insulting if you want to know the truth.
That’s why I was so surprised when it won. I guess the contest judge must have had a good sense of humor. In the letter the company sent, they said it was the most honest essay they had ever received.
Boy, did my father pick up on that one! For two solid weeks, he walked around saying how it should prove to me that honesty is always the best policy. He said it so much, I made the mistake of believing him. The last week of school I even decided to be honest with our substitute teacher. I went up to his desk and told him that some of us felt his feet were stinking up our room. They were, too. After he came in from playground duty, two kids in the front row keeled right over onto the floor.
He sent me to the office. I had to write a letter of apology.
Anyway, when I told Annabelle that I had won the contest and was going to make a national television commercial, she practically went crazy. She just couldn’t stand the thought of someone else in town being a celebrity like her father.
“Big deal,” she said, pretending to yawn in my face. “My father’s made a million TV commercials.”
I shook my head. “No, no, no, Annabelle. You don’t seem to understand. This isn’t a local commercial like your father does. This is a national commercial with a major pet food company. It’s not the same thing as honking your nose, jumping off a chair, and shouting, “Watch The Uncle Happy Show!”
Annabelle stuck her snooty nose in the air. “So what? We’re rich, aren’t we? And besides, my father says that being a clown brings joy and laughter into the world.”
“A clown?” I asked, astonished. “You’re kidding. Is that what he’s supposed to be? He’s a clown?”
Annabelle looked annoyed. “Of course he’s a clown, stupid.” Then she paused a second and eyed me with suspicion. “Why? What else could he be?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know. I always thought he was just a lousy dresser.”
Annabelle punched me in the stomach. Hard. I wasn’t expecting it and let a loud “Oomph!” Then I doubled up into a little ball and fell over onto the basketball court. Walter Bingham strolled over and dribbled on my head.
br />
When you’re a skinny bag of bones, humiliating stuff like this happens all the time. It sounds funny. But when you’re being dribbled on, you don’t feel that much like laughing. Hardly at all, in fact.
Anyway, I was hoping a lot of that would change after I got to be a star. Being famous could really turn my life around. I dreamed about it all the time. Like about how I would get a fan club, and they would scream and faint and follow me around. And how I would make a personal appearance on The Uncle Happy Show, and Uncle Officer would salute me. And how God might drop by for a meatball sandwich.
One thing was certain. If I was ever going to become a big television star, I had to stop thinking of myself as Skinnybones and start concentrating on being a celebrity.
I began by signing autographs. Just to get the feel of it, I stood outside the market and wrote my name on people’s grocery bags as they got into their cars. You wouldn’t believe how excited some people got over a simple little autograph. One lady rolled her window up on my pen. Another guy started swatting me with his hat.
I just don’t get it. Celebrity autographs are valuable. I’ve got a pretty good collection of my own. I keep them hidden in the bottom of my dresser drawer. I used to have them on my bulletin board, but every time my cousin Leon came over, he’d put his grubby little paws all over them; so now they’re tucked away under my pajamas.
Mostly they’re autographs of famous baseball and basketball players. Also there’s one of Bugs Bunny. I was only three when I got it, so I didn’t understand it was just some man dressed up in a rabbit suit. Personally I think it’s the job of parents to keep small children from embarrassing themselves like I did. The guy actually signed my paper “BUGS.”
Anyway, just because I signed some autographs didn’t mean I thought I was as famous as Tom Cruise or anything. You don’t get to be as famous as Tom Cruise by doing one little TV commercial. Cap’n Crunch or Mrs. Butterworth is about the best you can expect. Still, they’re celebrities, aren’t they?
The thought of me being a star really drove my mother crazy. I guess she figured it would make me stuck-up or something. Every time I talked about it, I got this giant lecture on how I wasn’t a celebrity at all. How I was still “plain old Alex Frankovitch.”
“I know I’m still plain old Alex Frankovitch,” I snapped back one morning at breakfast. “But what’s that got to do with anything? I can still be a star, can’t I? I don’t have to be a giant star like with a big mansion in Hollywood. I can just live here and be a little star with a little sports car and a little English butler.”
My mother grunted and picked up the sports page.
“What d’you say, Mom?” I persisted. “A little sports car and a little butler? That’s reasonable, isn’t it?”
She didn’t even bother to look up. “Of course it is, Alex. Write down what you want. Your father and I will knock off a bank on the way home from work tonight.”
My mother’s a laugh a minute.
She wasn’t the only one trying to ruin my fun, either. My father was just as bad. Like when we flew to New York City to make the commercial, he actually asked me to carry my own bag to the taxi. I couldn’t believe it! What good was being a celebrity if you had to do stuff like that?
At first I started to laugh. “Are you kidding, Dad? This is a joke, right? You don’t actually expect me, Alex Frankovitch—winner of the National Kitty Fritters Television Contest—to pick up his own duffel bag and lug it out to the cab, do you?”
My father totally ignored me. He just grabbed a bunch of his own stuff and started toward the big sliding glass doors. My mother did the same.
“Hey! Hold it!” I called after them. “This is nuts! Think about it! How many times have you seen Cap’n Crunch hauling his own luggage through an airport?”
My father stopped dead in his tracks and whirled around. My father’s an excellent whirler. He can spin around so fast, it makes you fall down dizzy just watching. After he whirls comes the part I hate most. He heads toward me doing his Frankenstein walk. Slowly. Very slowly. Real stiff in the legs. He doesn’t smile either.
When he got to where I was standing, he glared at me a second and said, “Just out of curiosity, King Tut”—knowing very well that this wasn’t my name—“exactly who do you think is going to carry your suitcase if you don’t? Me? Your mother? The pilot of the plane? Who?”
Since I hadn’t really given this question a lot of thought, I was forced to come up with something quick.
“Let’s get a waiter over here,” I said with authority.
My father wasn’t amused. He pointed to a nearby bench. “Sit, mister,” he ordered.
The way he said it made me feel like a dog. A dog named Mister.
“Listen, Alex,” he began. “You wrote a funny essay, and your mother and I are very proud of you. You deserve to do this commercial. But that doesn’t mean that you’re suddenly a movie star. And it also doesn’t mean that you get special treatment or get to order other people around.”
Geez! What a place for a lecture. Right in the middle of the Kennedy International Airport! Filled with big ears from all over the world!
“Shhh, Dad. Could you try to tone it down a little bit? The tourists from Guatemala are starting to stare.”
“I don’t care who’s staring, Alex,” he replied, even louder than before. “All I care about is that you heard what I just said.”
“Heard?” I responded. “Of course I heard. The whole airport heard, Dad. People taking off in planes in Yugoslavia probably heard.”
“Good,” he said. “Then close your mouth, pick up your bag, and get your rear end out to the taxi.”
Great! My rear end! Big ears from all over the world, and he starts talking about my rear end!
Angrily, I grabbed my suitcase and started pulling it across the terminal. As soon as my father’s back was turned, I put the bag down and made a big face. I did the one where you stretch the sides of your mouth out with your thumbs and pull the bottoms of your eyes down. This may sound childish to a lot of people, but personally I still find making faces at my parents very satisfying.
By the time we arrived at the hotel, it was already dark. It was especially dark for me because during the taxi ride I had decided to put on my sunglasses. I don’t care what anyone says, no self-respecting celebrity in New York City ever goes out in public without his shades. Not even at night.
My dad snatched the glasses off my head and went inside the lobby. My mother just shook her head. I worry about my mother’s head. She shakes it so much, one of these days it’s going to get real loose, and she won’t be able to hold it up anymore. It’ll just roll around on her shoulders and become an embarrassment to the family.
That night, after the lights were out, I slipped my sunglasses back on. I guess you could say I was still pretty irritated about the incident at the airport. After all, what’s so wrong about wanting to act like a celebrity? Wasn’t that half the fun of winning the contest? After a whole lifetime of being teased, was it really so awful to try to feel special for once? Didn’t I deserve it?
I hardly even had to think about it. Yes! Sure I did! Of course I did! Alex Frankovitch deserved a break.
I raised my fists into the darkness. Hear that, world? I screamed silently. Alex Frankovitch deserves a break!
I rolled over and broke my sunglasses.
2
The next morning, after breakfast, we headed for the studio. I was planning to take a limousine, but as soon as we were out the hotel door, my parents started to walk.
“What? Are you crazy?” I yelled, hurrying along behind them. “Celebrities don’t walk to work! They ride in limos! Come on, Mom. Dad? This is embarrassing! I bet the Fruit of the Loom guys don’t have to trot to the studio behind their parents!”
The trouble with the streets of New York City is that even when you’re yelling stuff at the top of your lungs, there’s so much honking going on, your parents can’t hear you. Also, there are so many p
eople on the sidewalk, if you don’t concentrate on where you’re going, you could get swept away with the crowd and end up in New Jersey.
It was exciting and scary all at the same time. New York City reminds me a little bit of the zoo. A lot of the people look like they should be on the endangered species list. In just three blocks, I saw a girl with a ring through her nose, a lady pushing a poodle in a stroller, and a guy wearing a cardboard box.
When we finally arrived at the TV studio, we had to check in with a security guard before we could go up to the studio.
“Name?” he said to me.
I stood up as straight as I could. “Just tell them Alex Frankovitch is here,” I announced, feeling very important.
He checked off my name and looked up. “What a thrill.”
Once we were allowed to pass, we walked down a long marble hallway to the elevator. When the doors opened, a boy about my age strolled off. You could tell just by the way he walked that he was somebody special. Someone you should know.
As he passed, I studied his face.
“Hey!” I blurted suddenly. “I know who you are! The kid on that dessert commercial! The creamy dreamy pudding that melts in your mouth! Pudding Boy! Am I right? You’re Pudding Boy!”
Slowly the boy turned around and pretended to shoot me with his finger. “You got it, Frederick,” he replied coolly.
He blew away the smoke from his imaginary gun and put it back in his pocket. Then he spun back around and strolled away.
“Wow!” I exclaimed as the elevator doors closed. “Pudding Boy! Was that guy cool or what?”
“That guy was cool,” mimicked my father.
My mother frowned. “He called you Frederick.”
“Yeah, what a crazy guy!” I laughed. “What a kidder.”
“That guy was cool,” repeated Dad, who was starting to get on my nerves.
When we got off the elevator, we were greeted by two men. One was from the Kitty Fritters company. The other was the director of the commercial, Mr. Rose.