Penelope Crumb Never Forgets (3 page)

4.

M
iss Stunkel sends a note home. It’s the fifth one this year, but I’m hoping my mom isn’t keeping track.

I don’t have to read the note in order to know what it says.

Dear Mrs. Crumb,

Penelope just can’t seem to be able to keep her mouth shut. Especially when it comes to talking about dead things. Please see what you can do to keep her quiet in my class. Or else I may have to kill her with an umbrella.

Sincerely,

Miss Stunkel, who is a mean Mary

When I pull the envelope from my toolbox, my mom shakes her head and gives me a look that says, What Am I Going to Do With You? So I answer, “Get me a new fourth-grade teacher.”

She must not know what to say about that, because she puts her feet in our broken dryer, which she uses as a desk, and then stares off at the new drawing she’s working on. Mom draws pictures of people’s insides for books that doctors read. And this one is on brains.

I prop myself up against our washing machine next to her. “Is that what my brains look like? They have a lot of wrinkles.”

“Penelope Rae.” She has a way of saying my name like it’s one of the gross insides she draws. (Brain wrinkles, for example.)

I change the subject. “Did you know that the Portwaller History Museum caught on fire and some of the stuff in it burned all up?”

Mom is still reading Miss Stunkel’s note, so all she says is “humph” and then nothing else.

“Can I borrow fifteen dollars?”

That gets her attention. She stops reading and says, “Not on your life.”

“Why not?”

She says, “There are so many reasons why I shouldn’t give you fifteen dollars, I want to hear a reason why I should.”

“Because I want to buy something at the Portwaller History Museum. A necklace.”

She waves the note at me. “According to this, you were there today. Why didn’t you just buy it then? Too busy getting into trouble, I guess.” She folds up the note and sticks it back into the envelope. “Where’s all your money?”

But before I can tell her I gave it all to the museum, an alien attack is launched against me. From behind, Terrible flicks my ears, and when I lift up my hands to cover them, he gets me in my armpits. “Yeeow!”

Soon after my brother, Terrence, turned fourteen, he was snatched by aliens. The aliens returned him, but when they did, he wasn’t the same. He was Terrible. I’ve already written a letter to NASA about his alien ways, but until they write back, all I can do is keep a close watch on him.

Mom says, “Leave your sister alone.”

This is impossible for aliens to do.

“Have you seen my gray jacket?” he asks, flicking me again.

“I washed it,” says Mom. “It’s drying on the balcony.”

“You washed it! What for?” (Here’s a fact: Aliens like to smell bad.) Terrible gives my ears another flick and then steps over the piles of Mom’s schoolbooks and onto our tiny porch.

Mom slides a drawing pencil behind her ear and fingers Miss Stunkel’s note. “We’ll talk about this more after we meet with your teacher.”

“What do you mean? Why do we have to meet with her?” I take the note out of her hand and read it. The note doesn’t say anything about killing me with an umbrella, but it does say she wants to talk about my behavior. I keep reading.

“Hold the phone,” I say when I get to the part where Miss Stunkel says I often “exhibit odd behavior.” Odd? It’s not like I eat paste or dip my food in applesauce. “I don’t even like applesauce!” I announce. “And, cross my heart and hope to die, I haven’t eaten any glue since the time Angus Meeker bet me two dollars I didn’t have the guts!”

Mom tells me to hold it together and that she’s sure Miss Stunkel doesn’t think of me that way—as truly odd.

I say, “You don’t know Miss Stunkel.”

She says, “I guess I will have to get to know her, then.”

Which is not the best thing to hear your mom say.

On the way to my room, I’m wondering how I’m going to get out of this one when Littie Maple almost hits me with the door to our apartment. “Can I watch TV?” she says, barreling past me toward our couch. “Oh, yeah, and my momma wants me to ask if she can borrow an egg. She’s making a frittata for World Egg Day and needs six eggs but only has five. And take your time getting it, because
Max Adventure
is on.”

“For someone who doesn’t have a TV, you sure are an expert about what’s on.”

Littie smiles at me like I just gave her a kitten-shaped lollipop. I put my toolbox on the counter and grab an egg from the refrigerator. I cup it with both hands and take it to her.

“I said go slow,” she says. “Max hasn’t seen the Great Serpent of Hootcheekoo Creek yet!”

“What’s that around your neck?”

Littie holds out a black box hung on a strap. “It’s an alarm. Momma is letting me have more adventures now, but I have to wear this.”

“How does it work?”

“I just pull this thing,” she says, grabbing the black box. She pulls, and
WONK!! WONK!! WONK!! WONK!! WONK!! WONK!!

“Littie!”

She plugs the black box back into the strap and the
WONK!
stops. “It’s a little loud.”

“A little.”

From out of nowhere, Terrible pops me on the back of my head. “Where’s the fire?”

“That was just Littie’s neck alarm,” I say.

He puts on his jacket while making a face at me and then says, “Later, wombat.” Then he pulls on Littie’s ponytail and heads out the door.

Littie’s eyeballs are now stuck in his direction. “Where do you think he’s going?”

“Don’t know,” I say, holding out the egg to her. “Don’t care.” But she doesn’t see me.

“He didn’t even say good-bye.”

“What are you even talking about, Littie Maple?” But her brains are someplace else.

I get tired of holding the egg and decide to see if it can fit in my mouth. It can. I tap Littie on the head to get her attention.

Littie finally looks at me. She shakes her head. “You wouldn’t do that if you knew where eggs came from. I’m just saying.”

I pull the egg out of my mouth and wipe it with my shirtsleeve. “For your information, I do know where eggs come from.”

Littie gives me a look that says, Then You Are One Weird Tomato.

Which makes me wonder. “Do you think I’m odd?”

“Sure thing.” Littie’s eyes are back on the TV.

“No, I mean
weird
odd.”

“Definitely.”

“Littie!”

“You just put an egg in your mouth, even when you knew it came out of a chicken’s backside.”

“I was trying to get your attention,” I say. “Besides, they wash the eggs before they get to the grocery store.”

“Who does?”

“You know, the egg people,” I say. “The people in charge of the eggs.”

Littie laughs and shakes her head. Then she says, “Don’t worry, Penelope, weird doesn’t bother me. I’m just saying.”

Which makes me wonder if maybe weird bothers Patsy Cline.

5.

G
randpa Felix hollers at me to keep up. “Get the lead out!” His camera bags strung across my back are heavy, and my feet keep slipping on the wet grass. Piney Hill is steep and good for sledding, but I can’t figure why anybody would want to have a wedding on top of it.

“Why do you need so many?” I ask, taking bigger steps to catch up.

He turns his head to the side. “So many what?”

I grunt out, “Cameras.”

“You might as well ask me why I need so many friends,” he says. “No such thing as too many.”

The strap of one bag slides off my shoulder and down my arm. I sling it back up, but I can tell it’s not going to stay put. I shift my toolbox to my other hand. “Well, your friends sure are heavy.”

“You’re young,” he says. “Hard work makes your cheeks rosy. You want rosy cheeks, don’t you?”

“Not really,” I say.

“Well, you should.” He slows for a second and looks at me over his shoulder. “And you should have left that toolbox in the truck like I told you.”

I tighten my grip. “You couldn’t leave any of
your
friends behind.”

He laughs and says, “I guess not,” and then speeds ahead.

By the time I catch up, Grandpa is at the top of the hill under a big white tent. I let the camera bags fall from my shoulders, and I sink to the ground. The wet grass is soaking through my skirt, but I’m too out of breath from the climb to care.

“Up and at ’em,” Grandpa says. “I can’t have an assistant with wet drawers. Unpack my cameras while I have a talk with the people in charge.”

“Aren’t you tired?” I say. “Don’t you want to take a rest?”

“I am not,” he says, pulling me to my feet. “There’s plenty of time to rest when I’m dead.”

I unzip the bags, carefully pull out Grandpa’s cameras by the straps, and hang all three of them around my neck. Then I pull at the back of my wet pants to unstick them.

While I wait for Grandpa, the empty white tent fills up with rows of wooden fold-up chairs, dangly streamers, and flowers in purple and yellow bunches. By the time Grandpa returns to me, a wedding day has sprung up right in front of us, like from the pages of a pop-up book.

“We’re going to start over here,” he tells me, pointing to the stone path behind us. “This way.” He presses his hand on my shoulder and leads me down the path along a row of pine trees. “Now, you’ve got to stick close so I can switch cameras when I need to. Got it?”

“Can I take some pictures, too?”

“No, ma’am. Not today.”

“When can I?”

“Some other time,” he says.

“You always say that.”

“Then it must be true.” He takes one camera from around my neck and holds it up to his eyeball. “Besides, this isn’t the kind of camera you’re used to.”

While Grandpa has his face pressed up against the camera, a white-haired man in a black suit comes over and taps him on the shoulder. “Felix Crumb,” he says.

“That’s me,” says Grandpa, without looking at the man.

“I’d recognize that nose anywhere.” He sticks out his hand.

Grandpa Felix tucks the camera under his arm and shakes the man’s hand. He doesn’t let go, not for a long time. He stares into the man’s eyes like he’s looking on a map for the next turn. Finally from somewhere hidden in one of his brain wrinkles, Grandpa Felix remembers. “I don’t believe it,” he says.

“It’s been forty years, and you’ve still got a camera in your hand,” says the man.

“Mandrake Trout,” says Grandpa.

“Mandrake?” I say. Because it sounds more like a kind of long-legged bird than a person’s name.

Grandpa squeezes my shoulder. “This is my Penelope. I mean, she’s my granddaughter.”

“I see the resemblance,” he says. And I know he means my nose. I flare my nostrils at him. Twice. Mandrake smiles at me and says, “How do you do?”

I tell him that I do just fine.

Then he’s back to Grandpa. “I can’t believe it,” he says, knocking him in the shoulder. “Still a shutterbug, eh? Is that the same Leica Rangefinder?” He grabs the camera from Grandpa and puts it up to his eyeball.

“Right,” says Grandpa, pulling on the camera strap until Mandrake lets go.

Mandrake says, “Same old Felix, stuck in the past.” He puts his hands on his knees and bends down so his face is right at mine. “Penelope, your granddad and I grew up together. Stickball, Maryland’s Young Explorers, summer camp at Deep Creek Lake, Photography Club.” He looks at the cameras around my neck. “So, he’s roped you into this nonsense gig?”

I don’t know what that means, so I just nod and shrug. Which seems to work okay, because he goes on about how his niece is getting married to some big-shot newspaper man, and that he’s only in town for a couple of days.

Grandpa moves a piece of tree bark along the edge of a stone with his shoe. He nods along, but he seems a lot more interested in the tree bark than, what Mandrake has to say. And he has a lot to say.

“So let’s catch up before I leave,” Mandrake says. Then he hands Grandpa a card with his name and phone number on it. He pats me on the head like I’m a stray dog that needs a bath. I want to bite him. He tells me it was nice talking with me. Even though he’s the one who did all the talking.

“Mandrake,” I say, after he’s gone. It gets caught on my tongue. “Mandrake.”

“Yep,” says Grandpa.

“Mandrake. Man. Drake. Mannnnd. Raaaake.”

“Penelope.”

“Sorry. I never met any of your friends before,” I say. “Except for Mr. Caldenia, who lives in your building and always asks me if it’s going to rain.”

“I haven’t thought about Mandrake Trout in years.”

“He sure did remember your camera,” I say.

Grandpa tightens his grip like he’s holding on to something more than just a camera. “This is a thirty-five-millimeter Leica Rangefinder. This one uses actual film.”

“Oh.”

“The same kind that Eisenstaedt used,” he says. “I don’t expect you know who Eisenstaedt is.”

“Sure I do,” I say. “The really smart old guy with funny white hair.”

Grandpa Felix shakes his head and tells me Eisenstaedt, not Einstein. But when I give him a look that says, What’s the Difference? he says, “Alfred Eisenstaedt was a photographer.
Albert Einstein
was a physicist. Both were geniuses.”

“Were?”

“Yes, Penelope,” he says, “they’re both long dead. The point is, you know how you feel about Leonardo da Vinci? That’s how I feel about Eisenstaedt. Get it?”

“Got it.”

He turns the camera over in his hand. “This was my very first. I bought it at Driscoll’s flea market with the money I saved from delivering newspapers. Still works like a charm.” He looks through the viewfinder at the sky and then at the trees behind me. “They don’t make them like this anymore.”

“We should name it,” I say. “Let’s call it Alfred. After, you know, the guy.”

“Eisenstaedt.”

“Yeah, him.”

Grandpa Felix says, “Whatever you say.”

“Maybe it will be in a museum someday,” I say.

“What will?”

“Alfred. So that people will remember you. And know that you took very nice pictures.”

“What means something to me isn’t going to be worth the dirt we’re standing on to anybody else long after I’m gone.” He points the camera at me and presses the button until it clicks.

I bet Maynard C. Portwaller never thought his gray hair would be on display for everyone to see. But it is. And people must think that one piece of hair is worth more than the dirt we’re standing on if it’s in a museum. I tell Grandpa Felix this, but all he says is, “I’m no Maynard C. Portwaller.”

“That’s right,” I tell him. “You’re Grandpa Felix Crumb. And I’ll remember you long after you’re gone. And when I’m a famous artist, people will see my drawings and remember me long after I’m Graveyard Dead. Just like Mister Leonardo da Vinci.”

Grandpa raises his eyebrows at me. “You know, you probably shouldn’t be wasting your Saturday with an old man like me when you could be having some fun with Patsy Cline.”

What I don’t say is how Patsy Cline is probably already having fun with Vera Bogg. Here’s what I do say: “This is fun, Grandpa.”

He shakes his head. “Well, I’m glad you think so.”

“Do you know what would make it even more fun?” I say. “If you let me take some pictures.”

“Nice try.” He walks along the stone path toward the pine trees. “This way. Let’s get this over with.”

I grab the camera bags and sling them over my shoulder. “How come you haven’t thought about Mandrake for so long?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just haven’t.”

“But you were friends?”

He nods. “The best.”

“Then why?”

“Nothing is forever. You’ll learn that someday.”

I say, “Some things are.” Like my dad being gone forever. And what about what’s on Patsy’s and Vera’s necklaces?
FRIENDS FOREVER
.

“Sometimes you forget about things or people that seemed really important long ago.” He holds Alfred up to his face.

“I won’t,” I say. “I don’t want to forget.”