Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing (5 page)

“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.

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 nice 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.

My mother was being pretty nice about our committee meetings. She arranged to have Fudge play at Ralph's apartment on Tuesdays and at Jennie's on Thursdays. Sam has the chicken pox, so he can't play at all.

I was glad that next week would be our last committee meeting after school. I was sick of Sheila and I was getting sick of Transportation. Besides, now that I knew a monorail system was the only way to save our city I was getting upset that the mayor and all the other guys that run things at City Hall weren't doing anything about installing one. If I know that's the best method of city transportation how come they don't know it?

The next day when I came home from school I went into my bedroom to see Dribble like I always do. Fudge was in there, sitting on my bed.

“Why are you in my room?” I asked him.

He smiled.

“You know you're not supposed to be in here. This is
my
room.”

“Want to see?” Fudge said.

“See what?”

“Want to see?”

“What? What are you talking about?” I asked.

He jumped off my bed and crawled underneath it. He came out with our poster. He held it up. “See,” he said. “Pretty!”

“What did you do?” I yelled. “What did you do to our poster?” It was covered all over with scribbles in every color Magic Marker. It was ruined!
It was a mess and it was ruined.
I was ready to kill Fudge. I grabbed my poster and ran into the kitchen to show it to my mother. I could hardly speak. “Look,” I said, feeling a lump in my throat. “Just look at what he did to my poster.” I felt tears come to my eyes but I didn't care. “How could you let him?” I asked my mother. “How? Don't you care about me?”

I threw the poster down and ran into my room. I slammed the door, took off my shoe, and flung it at the wall. It made a black mark where it hit. Well, so what!

Soon I heard my mother hollering—and then, Fudge crying. After a while my mother knocked on my bedroom door and called, “Peter, may I come in?”

I didn't answer.

She opened the door and walked over to my bed. She sat down next to me. “I'm very sorry,” she said.

I still didn't say anything.

“Peter,” she began.

I didn't look at her.

She touched my arm. “Peter . . . please listen. . . .”

“Don't you see, Mom? I can't ever do my homework without him messing it up. It just isn't fair! I wish he was never born.
Never!
I hate him!”

“You don't hate him,” my mother said. “You just think you do.”

“Don't tell me,” I said. “I mean it. I really can't stand that kid!”

“You're angry,” my mother told me. “I know that and I don't blame you. Fudge had no right to touch your poster. I spanked him.”

“You did?” I asked. Fudge never gets spanked. My parents don't believe in spanking. “You really spanked him?” I asked again.

“Yes,” my mother said.

“Hard?” I asked.

“On his backside,” she told me.

I thought that over.

“Peter. . . .” My mother put her arm around me. “I'll buy you a new posterboard tomorrow. It was really my fault. I should never have let him into your room.”

“That's why I need a lock on my door,” I said.

“I don't like locks on doors. We're a family. We don't have to lock each other out.”

“If I had a lock Fudge wouldn't have gotten my poster!”

“It won't happen again,” my mother promised.

I wanted to believe her, but really I didn't. Unless she tied him up I knew my brother would get into my room again.

*  *  *

The next day, while I was at school, my mother bought a new yellow posterboard. The hard part was explaining to Jimmy that we had to start all over again. He was a good sport about it. He said this time he'd make sure his truck didn't look like a flying train. And I said, this time I'd make pencil marks first so my letters didn't go uphill.

Our committee met that afternoon. Sheila didn't mention the last time. Neither did we. Me and Jimmy worked on the poster while Sheila copied our written work into the booklet. We'd be ready to give our oral report to the class on Monday. Not like some committees who hadn't even started yet!

By five o'clock we had finished our poster and Sheila was almost done with the cover for our booklet. Jimmy walked over and stood behind her, watching her work.

After a minute he yelled, “What do you think you're doing, Sheila?”

I got up from the floor and joined them at my desk. I took a look at the cover. It was pretty nice. It said:

TRANSPORTATION IN THE CITY

Under that it said:

BY SHEILA TUBMAN, PETER HATCHER, AND JAMES FARGO

And under that in small letters it said:

handwritten by miss sheila tubman

Now I knew why Jimmy was mad. “Oh no!” I said, holding my hand to my head. “How could you!”

Sheila didn't say anything.

“It's not fair,” I told her. “We didn't put our names on the poster!”

“But the cover's all done,” Sheila said. “Can't you see that? I'll never get the letters so straight again. It looks perfect!”

“Oh no!” Jimmy shouted. “We're not handing the booklet in like that. I'll rip it up before I let you!” He grabbed the booklet and threatened to tear it in half.

Sheila screamed. “You wouldn't! I'll kill you! Give it back to me, Jimmy Fargo!” She was ready to cry.

I knew Jimmy wouldn't tear it up but I didn't say so.

“Peter . . . make him give it back!”

“Will you take off that line about your handwriting?” I asked.

“I can't. It'll ruin the booklet.”

“Then I think he should rip it up,” I said.

Sheila stamped her foot. “Ooooh! I hate you both!”

“You don't really,” I told her. “You just think you do.”

“I know I do!” Sheila cried.

“That's because you're angry right now,” I said. I couldn't help smiling.

Sheila jumped up and tried to get the booklet but Jimmy held it over his head and he's much taller than Sheila. She had no chance at all.

Finally she sat down and whispered, “I give up. You win. I'll take my name off.”

“You promise?” Jimmy asked.

“I promise,” Sheila said.

Jimmy set the booklet down on my desk in front of Sheila. “Okay,” he said. “Start.”

“I'm not going to make a whole new cover,” Sheila said. “What I'll do is turn this bottom line into a decoration.” She picked up a Magic Marker and made little flowers out of the words. Soon,
handwritten by miss sheila tubman
, turned into sixteen small flowers. “There,” Sheila said. “It's done.”

“It looks pretty good,” I told her.

“It would have looked better without those flowers,” Jimmy said. “But at least it's fair now.”

*  *  *

That night I showed my mother and father our new poster. They thought it was great. Especially our silver-sparkle airplane. My mother put the poster on top of the refrigerator so it would be safe until the next day, when I would take it to school.