by Dan Gutman
Dedication
To Madeline Smith
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
1.Happy Birthday to Me
2.Talk to the Hand
3.Because I Said So
4.May the Force Be with You
5.A Lucky Mistake
6.A Knock on the Gate
7.Calm Down
8.Make a Wish!
9.The Big Surprise Ending
About the Author and Illustrator
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
My name is A.J. and I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering why I just put four M&M’s in my mouth.
Let me explain. If I put just one M&M in my mouth, I would barely taste it. The thing is just too small. It would be like taking a pill.
Two M&M’s are twice as much as one M&M, of course. But they’re still not enough to get that full chocolate blast after you melt the candy coating in your mouth.
Three M&M’s are almost enough. But when you put three M&M’s in your mouth, you definitely feel like something is missing.
Four is the perfect number of M&M’s to put in your mouth at one time. Yum!
If you put five M&M’s in your mouth, well, they’re not gonna taste any better than four M&M’s. So why do it? And if you’re one of those people who pop a whole handful of M&M’s in your mouth at once, well, that’s just crazy. What a waste of perfectly good M&M’s.
So there you have it. Now you know that four is the magic number of M&M’s to put in your mouth at one time. You’re welcome.
“A.J.,” my mom said, “the big day is coming. What do you want for your birthday?”
“A truck full of M&M’s,” I replied.
“You can’t buy a truck full of M&M’s,” my dad told me.
Nine years old. That’s a big one. This will be my last single-digit birthday. Once you hit ten years old, you’re into double digits. And you know what that means—it’s all downhill from there. Not many people live to be a hundred years old and reach triple digits. So once you reach double digits, your life is pretty much over. You might as well move to a nursing home.
“Seriously, A.J.,” my dad asked, “what do you want for your birthday? Or what do you want to do for your birthday?”
“Can I take a trip to outer space?” I asked.
“There are no trips to outer space,” my mom replied. “At least not yet.”
“How about Antarctica?” I suggested. “I’ve always wanted to go to Antarctica and live with the penguins.”
“That’s a little too far away, A.J.,” my dad said.
“Can I go bungee jumping off the Empire State Building?” I asked.
Bungee jumping off the Empire State Building would be cool.
“I’m pretty sure that’s not allowed,” said my mom.
Parents are such a drag. They never let you do anything that’s fun. I wasn’t getting anywhere. I would have to ask for something smaller.
“How about a fireworks party?” I suggested. “Blowing stuff up is cool.”
“I don’t think our neighbors would appreciate that,” said my dad. “If we had a fireworks party, Mr. Kidd next door would probably call the police.”
Bummer in the summer! No matter what I suggested, my parents came up with some lame reason why we couldn’t do it. This was going to be the worst birthday in the history of birthdays.
“How about we just have a regular birthday party, A.J.?” suggested my mom. “We’ll have all your friends over, and we’ll have balloons and cake and games and—”
Ugh, I hate parties. Parties are boring. Last year, I went to the birthday party of this girl in my class named Andrea Young who’s really annoying and has curly brown hair. It was a tea party. No kidding! I had to get all dressed up and sit around drinking tea with a bunch of Andrea’s girly-girl friends. What a snoozefest.
“It will be fun, A.J.!” my mom continued. “In fact, I heard that one of my old friends from college is a party planner now.”
“That’s a job?” I asked.
I can’t believe somebody spent four years in college and ended up planning parties. That party planner should get a real job.
“I’ve heard that he’s very good,” my mom said excitedly. “He’s planned hundreds of fun and unusual parties for kids. Everybody in town hires him. I have his number. I can call him right now!”
“Isn’t that going to be expensive?” I asked.
“This is your last single-digit birthday, A.J.,” said my dad. “Money is no object.”*
The next day was Saturday, so I got to sleep late. Yay! No school! When I woke up and opened my window shades, I saw a blue minivan pull up in front of our house. On the side, it said . . .
That was weird.
“My old friend Marty is here!” Mom hollered. “I haven’t seen him since college.”
I came downstairs, and you’ll never believe who walked through the door at that moment.
Nobody! You can’t walk through a door. Doors are made out of wood. But you’ll never believe who walked through the doorway.
It was Mr. Marty, of course. You should have been able to guess that. Who else could it have been?
Mr. Marty looked pretty normal. Well, he did have a sock puppet on one hand. The puppet looked like a miniature version of Mr. Marty. But other than that, Mr. Marty seemed pretty normal. He stuck his puppet in my face.
“You must be the birthday boy!” the puppet said in a weird, high voice. “Is your name A.J.?”
My parents always tell me not to talk to strangers, especially strangers who have a puppet on their hand. But I figured it would be okay because Mr. Marty was my mom’s old friend.
“Why are you wearing a sock on your hand?” I asked Mr. Marty.
“Just ignore that big guy behind me,” said Mr. Marty’s sock puppet. “Talk to the hand. My name is Mini-Marty, and I love a party!”
Mini-Marty?*
People who walk around with sock puppets of themselves are weird.
“I bet you’re excited about your birthday coming up,” said Mini-Marty.
“Yeah, I guess,” I replied unexcitedly.
“I know what it’s like,” Mini-Marty said. “I was a boy once.”
“Just once?” I replied. “I’m a boy all the time.”
“Hey, that’s a good one!” said Mini-Marty. Then the puppet let out a weird laugh even though I didn’t say anything funny.
My mom came over to give Mr. Marty a hug. She pretended like it wasn’t weird for Mr. Marty to walk around with a sock puppet of himself on his hand. She also gave him a cup of coffee, which is what grown-ups do. Anytime grown-ups come over to your house, they have to drink coffee together. That’s the first rule of being a grown-up.
Mr. Marty drank the coffee using his non-puppet hand. Mini-Marty didn’t drink any coffee.
I wondered if Mr. Marty ever took Mini-Marty off his hand. I mean, it would be hard to take a shower with a puppet on your hand. How would you soap yourself up?
“This is going to be your birthday party, A.J.,” said Mini-Marty, “so you should make the important decisions. What kind of party do you want to have?”
“How about a skateboarding party?” I suggested.
“Hmmmm,” all three grown-ups said at the same time. And you know what that means. It means I wasn’t going to have a skateboarding party.
“There might be liability issues,” said Mini-Marty.
I didn’t know what that meant. But I figure “liability” means the ability to lie.
“How about a football party?” I suggested. “We could go out to the high school field with my friends and—”
&nbs
p; “I don’t think that’s allowed,” said my dad.
“Somebody could get hurt,” added my mom.
“I thought I was going to make the important decisions,” I reminded them.
“You are, sweetie,” said my mom.
“Well,” I said, “why don’t you tell me what kind of party I can have?”
“Great idea! You came to the right place,” said Mini-Marty even though I didn’t go anywhere. “I’ve got hundreds of ideas for fun birthday parties.”
Mr. Marty took out a thick three-ring binder and started leafing through the pages.
“Let’s see,” said Mini-Marty. “How about a clown party? I have two wonderful clowns on my list of contacts.”
“Clowns are creepy,” I said. “I don’t want a clown.”
I saw a movie once about a clown that murders everybody in the town. I didn’t want some evil clown at my birthday party.
“No worries,” said Mini-Marty, leafing through the pages. “How about a dance party? I know a terrific DJ.”
“Oooh, I love dancing!” said my mom.
“I hate dancing,” I said.
“How about a paint-your-own-pottery party?” said Mini-Marty. “Everybody gets a plate, and you and your friends get to decorate them.”
“After we decorate them,” I said, “do we get to smash them up into little pieces with sledgehammers?”
“Uh, no,” said Mini-Marty. “That’s not part of it.”
“Well, then forget it,” I said.
A paint-your-own-pottery party would only be cool if we got to smash the pottery with sledgehammers.
“How about a science party?” said Mini-Marty. “Mrs. Wizard does lots of fun experiments—”
“That sounds like school,” I told him.
“Fair enough,” said Mini-Marty. “How about a gymnastics party with Miss Tumbles? That’s not like school. She’s an amazing gymnast.”
“I hate gymnastics,” I said.
“A cooking party?” Mini-Marty suggested. “You and your friends can make a yummy meal together, and then you get to eat the food you made.”
“Cooking parties are for girls,” I told the puppet.
“That’s ridiculous, A.J.,” said my dad. “Many of the top chefs in the world are men.”
“Thank you. Next,” I said.
All those parties sounded boring to me.
“Don’t worry,” said Mini-Marty as Mr. Marty kept flipping the pages in his binder. “We’ll find something. I have about a hundred party entertainers on my email list. That’s why everybody calls me ‘Mr. Party.’ Say . . . how about a Star Wars party?”
Star Wars is cool. All my friends love Star Wars. I saw the last Star Wars movie a million hundred times.
“Tell me more,” I said.
“I know a guy who has a Darth Vader costume,” said Mini-Marty. “He comes over to your house and shows all the kids how to use a lightsaber. It’s quite a show.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?” asked my mom.
“No, it’s perfectly safe,” said Mini-Marty.
“Okay, let’s go with that,” I said.
“Consider it done!” said Mini-Marty. “We’ll have the best Star Wars party ever!”
“I can bake a batch of Star Wars cookies for the kids,” said my mom.
“Don’t bother with food,” said Mini-Marty. “I’ll take care of everything—the food, the music, the entertainment. Leave it to me. All you have to do is be here on the big day. Mr. Marty loves a party!”
Then he left. This was going to be the greatest birthday party in the history of the world.
That night, my parents called me over to the kitchen table for a big meeting. My dad had a pen and one of those yellow legal pads* in front of him.
“We need to make the invitation list for your birthday party, A.J.,” said my mom. “Let’s start with Grandma and Grandpa . . .”
“And Aunt Lucy and Uncle Jerry, of course,” my dad said as he wrote their names on his yellow legal pad.
I guess you have to invite your relatives to your party. I mean, if it wasn’t for your grandparents, your parents wouldn’t have been born. And if it wasn’t for your parents, you wouldn’t have been born. And if you’re not born, you don’t even get a birthday party. That’s why it’s called a birthday.
“Which of the kids at school do you want to invite?” asked my mom.
“Ryan, Michael, and Neil are my best friends,” I said.
“You can’t just have boys at your birthday party, A.J.,” my mom told me.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because I said so,” replied both of my parents.
Only parents can get away with saying “because I said so.” I can’t wait until I’m a parent so I can tell my kids “because I said so” and not give them any reason why.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll invite Alexia too. She’s a girl, and she’s cool.”
Dad wrote ALEXIA JUAREZ on his yellow legal pad.
“What about Andrea Young?” asked my mom.
Ugh! Gross.
I didn’t want to invite Smarty Pants, Little Miss Perfect, the Human Homework Machine to my birthday party. That try-hard, know-it-all Andrea would ruin all the fun.
“A.J., we have to invite Andrea,” said my mom.
“Why?”
“Because she invited you to her birthday party last year,” Mom replied. “So you have to invite her to yours. That’s only fair.”
“No, it’s not!” I shouted. “If she invited me to her funeral, would that mean I would have to invite her to my funeral?”
“People don’t invite each other to their own funerals,” my dad told me.
“See? That’s exactly what I mean!” I said.
“If Andrea’s mother finds out we had a birthday party and didn’t invite Andrea, she’d be very upset,” my mom explained. “She and I play tennis together every week.”
I didn’t see what tennis had to do with my birthday party. That didn’t make any sense.
I looked at my dad with my best puppy-dog face. If I could get him on my side, it would be possible for me to win the argument. Divide and conquer. That’s the first rule of winning an argument with your parents. And always put on your best puppy-dog face.
“A.J., we have to invite Andrea,” said my dad.
Oh, well. So much for that idea. Dad wrote ANDREA YOUNG on his yellow legal pad.
“If we invite Andrea,” said my mom, “we have to invite Emily.”
WHAT?! Emily is Andrea’s little crybaby friend, and she’s equally annoying.
“Why do we have to invite Emily?” I shouted. “You don’t play tennis with Emily’s mother.”
“Andrea and Emily are best friends,” my mom explained. “It wouldn’t be right to invite Andrea to your party and not invite Emily. It would hurt Emily’s feelings.”
“So let’s not invite either of them!” I said.
Dad wrote EMILY on his yellow legal pad. Then he asked, “What about Mr. Cooper?”
“Oh yes!” agreed my mom. “Mr. Cooper has been so nice to you this year.”
WHAT?! I don’t want my teacher to be at my birthday party! He would spend the whole time telling us to stop talking and line up in size order.
“Why would Mr. Cooper want to come to a Star Wars party?” I asked.
At that point, my parents were just ignoring me.
“. . . and Mr. Klutz and Mrs. Roopy and Ms. Hannah and Miss Small . . .”
Dad wrote a bunch more names on the yellow legal pad.
This party was going to be the worst thing to happen since National Poetry Month! I wanted to go run away to Antarctica and live with the penguins.
It felt like a million hundred days until my birthday finally arrived.
It was a sunny day, so that meant we could have the party in our backyard instead of inside the house. Yay! Outdoor birthday parties are way more fun than indoor birthday parties. That’s the first rule of birthday parties.
About nine
o’clock in the morning, a truck came and dropped off three porta potties in our backyard. It didn’t occur to me that if you’re going to have a bunch of people over to your house, you’re going to need more bathrooms.
“Wow, I’m glad we hired Mr. Marty,” said my mom. “He thinks of everything. That’s why he’s the number one party planner in the area.”
“I guess he’s also the number two party planner in the area,” my dad said. Then he started cracking up even though he didn’t say anything funny.
The porta potty said “MR. JOHN” on it. My parents told me that toilets used to be called “johns.” Nobody knows why. I’m just glad my name isn’t John, because then it would be like I was a toilet.
Soon the doorbell rang. My mom went to answer it. And you’ll never believe who poked his head into the door at that moment.
Nobody! Poking your head into a door would hurt. I thought we went over that in Chapter 2.
But you’ll never believe who poked his head into the doorway.
It was Mr. Marty. He had the Mini-Marty sock puppet on his hand, of course.
“Happy birthday, A.J!” said Mini-Marty. “You’re going to have a fabulous party. Are you folks excited? This is going to be amazing! Darth Vader will be here any minute. The pizza should be here at noon. Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah . . .”
He went on like that for a while. Mr. Marty gave my parents some papers to sign, and they gave him a credit card to pay for the party. While they were doing that, the doorbell rang again.
“I’ll get it!” I yelled. “It’s probably Ryan, Michael, and Neil.”
But it wasn’t my friends. You’ll never believe who walked into the door at that moment.
Nobody! Aren’t you paying attention? We just discussed this a few sentences ago! But you’ll never believe who walked into the doorway.
It was Darth Vader! Yes! The real Darth Vader!
Well, Darth Vader is just a character in the movies, so there’s no real Darth Vader. But it was a guy in a real Darth Vader costume, and that’s pretty cool. He was tall and scary looking, and he had his lightsaber with him. I couldn’t believe the famous Darth Vader was standing right in front of me, staring me in the face.
