The Big One-Oh

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

 

Two.

I had two invitations left, and I intended to be very choosy about who was going to get them.

I could tell that word was spreading. As I stood at the door of the cafeteria at lunchtime, holding those two invitations and gazing out over the wide sea of possible party-goers, I felt that I, too, was being studied by hundreds of eyes, all eager to see my next move.

Then I heard:
“Hi, Charley,”
and my stomach dropped.

Jennifer Mobley was suddenly standing next to me, and her eyes were darting between me and the pieces of paper in my hand.

This was awkward.

But while I stood there, unable to think of what to say to Jennifer, the last two invitations were suddenly
snatched from my hand!

“We checked our schedules, and we are free to party!” Cougar cackled. “I don't like onions on my hamburgers. And this guy,” he said as he handed the last invitation to Scottie, “this guy's allergic to ice cream.”

Cougar clapped me on the back. “But don't worry; we know how to have a good time!” Then they ran off, hooting.

And just like that, my party list was complete.

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Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

First published in the United States of America by G. P. Putnam's Sons,
a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2007
Published by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2009

 

Copyright © Dean Pitchford, 2007

 

All rights reserved

 

THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS EDITION AS FOLLOWS:
Pitchford, Dean.
The big one-oh / Dean Pitchford.
p. cm.

 

Summary: Determined not to be weird all his life like his neighbor, Charley Maplewood decides to throw himself a tenth birthday party, complete with a “house of horrors” theme, but first he will have to make some friends to invite.

eISBN : 978-1-101-05778-0

 

[1. Birthdays—Fiction. 2. Parties—Fiction. 3. Single-parent families—Fiction.
4. Self-actualization (Psychology)—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.P644Big 2007 [Fic]—dc22 2006014266

 

 

 

 

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume
any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

My name is Charley Maplewood, and I'm 10.

Ten years old.

Today.

You'd think it would be a truly awesome event. An exciting turning point. I mean, come on!

TEN YEARS OLD!

That's a
monumental moment
in the life of a kid,
right?!

Ha ha.

I mean, just look at what I've done in the last few weeks: I've shocked and embarrassed my family. I've left a trail of destruction and chaos in my path. And I've ruined what was left of my pathetic little life.

I've made such a big, rotten stinking mess of everything that I'll bet some people are surprised I even lived to see this day.

But I've got good reasons for everything I did.

I can explain.

But to do that, I have to tell you about a package I got a month ago. From my dad.

And I'm not blaming him, but I swear that, if it weren't for that package, none of this would have ever happened.

The day Dad's package came, I skateboarded home from school as usual. I could probably get home faster if I walked, because I always fall off my skateboard about five hundred times on the way; but, when I started skateboarding at the beginning of this school year, I used to fall off about a thousand times, so that's progress, isn't it?

I slid and skidded up our driveway and finally crashed on the front lawn, and then I let my dog Boing Boing out of the side yard where he sleeps and scratches himself all day.

Boing Boing is a big mutt. I would never have named him—or
any
dog—Boing Boing, but he started out as Mom's dog. He sleeps in my bed, so he's really more
my
dog now, but Mom won't change his name. So guess who gets stuck running around the neighborhood, yelling, “Boing Boing! C'mere, Boing Boing!”?

I sound like a video game.

That day Boing Boing flew out of the side yard gate like he always does, and he knocked me down with his wet kisses and huge paws. That's why I didn't hear Mrs. Cleveland coming, and why I jumped when she suddenly snapped,
“Child?!”

Mrs. Cleveland is the plump, old, African-American lady who lives next door. She wears black socks with white tennis shoes, and she spends her days walking up and down the block jiggling other people's doorknobs and making sure that garages and mailboxes are firmly shut.

I sat up on the lawn and squinted up at her.

“Huh?”

“Is your daddy still overseas?” she demanded.

“I, uhhhh . . . he's in Scotland. Glasgow, Scotland. It's the capital,” I stammered.

“Well, that's overseas,” she sniffed. “You're gonna wanna check your mail, then,” she said before she turned and marched off, using one of her late husband's golf clubs as a walking stick.

 

 

As usual, Mrs. Cleveland was right: I had gotten a large envelope from Dad, covered with lots of colorful Scottish stamps.

Whenever Dad sends a letter or something, I always spend a moment studying the stamps, trying to imagine what the post office looked like where Dad bought them and licked them and stuck them on. I try to picture what the weather might be like over there and where Dad goes after he drops my package into the mail slot.