Pay Attention, Carter Jones
Page 1
Contents
* * *
Title Page
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
Sample Chapter from ORBITING JUPITER
Buy the Book
Read More from Gary D. Schmidt
About the Author
Connect with HMH on Social Media
Clarion Books
3 Park Avenue, New York, New York 10016
Copyright © 2019 by Gary D. Schmidt
All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to trade.permissions@hmhco.com or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.
Clarion Books is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.
hmhbooks.com
Cover illustrations © 2019 by James Lancett
Cover design by Sharismar Rodriguez
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Schmidt, Gary D., author.
Title: Pay attention, Carter Jones / Gary Schmidt.
Description: Boston ; New York : Clarion Books, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, [2019]
Summary: Sixth-grader Carter must adjust to the unwelcome presence of a know-it-all butler who is determined to help him become a gentleman, and also to deal with burdens from the past.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018033909 | ISBN 9780544790858 (hardback)
Subjects: CYAC: Butlers—Fiction. | Family life—Fiction. | Conduct of life—Fiction. Middle schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Family / General (see also headings under Social Issues). | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / New Experience. | JUVENILE FICTION / Sports & Recreation / General. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Death & Dying.
Classification: LCC PZ7.S3527 Pay 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018033909
eISBN 978-1-328-52691-5
v1.0119
For Rebecca Lucy, with your father’s love
· 1 ·
The Players
Cricket teams, both batting and fielding, may have up to eleven players each. The captain of the batting team determines the order of the batsmen; the captain of the fielding team sets players in positions determined by the style and pace of the bowler.
If it hadn’t been the first day of school, and if my mother hadn’t been crying her eyes out the night before, and if the fuel pump on the Jeep had been doing what a fuel pump on a Jeep is supposed to be doing, and if it hadn’t been raining like an Australian tropical thunderstorm—and I’ve been in one, so I know what it’s like—and if the very last quart of one percent milk hadn’t gone sour and clumped up, then probably my mother would never have let the Butler into our house.
But that’s what the day had been like so far, and it was only 7:15 in the morning.
7:15 in the morning on the first day of school, when the Butler rang our doorbell.
I answered it.
I looked at the guy standing on our front stoop.
“Are you kidding?” I said.
That’s what you would have said too. He was tall and big around the belly and wearing the kind of suit you’d wear to a funeral—I’ve been to one of those too, so I know what a funeral suit looks like—and he had a bowler on his head. A bowler! Which nobody has worn since, like, horses and carriages went out of business. And everything—the big belly, the funeral suit, the bowler—everything was completely dry even though it was an Australian tropical thunderstorm outside because he stood underneath an umbrella as big as a satellite disk.
The guy looked down at me. “I assure you, young man, I am never kidding.”
I closed the door.
I went to the kitchen. Mom was tying back Emily’s hair, which explains why the dry Ace Robotroid Sugar Stars Emily was eating were dribbling out both sides of her mouth. Charlie was still looking for her other yellow sock because she couldn’t start fourth grade without it—she couldn’t she couldn’t she couldn’t—and Annie was telling her what a baby she was, and Charlie was saying she was not she was not she was not, and just because Annie was going into fifth grade that didn’t make Annie the boss of her. Then Charlie looked at me and said, “Does it?” and I said, “You think I care?”
“Carter,” my mom said, “your oatmeal is on the stove and you’ll have to mix in your own raisins and there’s some walnuts too but no more brown sugar. And, Carter, before you do that, I need you to run down to the deli and—”
“There’s a guy out on our front stoop,” I said.
“What?”
“There’s a guy out on our front stoop.”
My mother stopped tying back Emily’s hair.
“Is he from the army?” she said.
I shrugged.
“Is he or isn’t he?”
“He’s not wearing a uniform.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
My mother started tying back Emily’s hair again. “Tell him it’s the first day of school and he should go find someone else to buy whatever he’s selling at seven fifteen in the morning.”
“Annie can do it.”
My mother gave me That Look, so I went back to the front door and opened it. “My mom says it’s the first day of school and you should go find someone else to buy whatever you’re selling at seven fifteen in the morning.”
He shook his umbrella.
“Young Master Jones,” he said, “please inform your mother that I would very much like to speak with her.”
I closed the door.
I went back to the kitchen.
“Did you tell him to go away?” said my mother. I think this is what she said. She had a bunch of bobby pins in her mouth and she was sticking them around Emily’s head and Emily was hollering and spitting out Ace Robotroid Sugar Stars at every poke, so it was hard to understand what my mother was saying.
“He wants to talk to you,” I said.
“He’s not going to—”
A sudden wail from Charlie, who held up her other yellow sock, which Ned had thrown up on. Ned is our dachshund and dachshunds throw up a lot.
“Carter, go get some milk,” said my mother. “Charlie, stop crying. Annie, it doesn’t help to make faces at Charlie. Emily, if you move your head again I’m going to bobby-pin your bangs to your eyebrows.”
I went back to the front and opened the door.
The guy was still standing on the stoop, but the Australian tropical thunderstorm was starting to get in under the umbrella.
“Listen,” I said, “my mom’s going crazy in there. I have to go to the deli and get milk so we can eat breakfast. And Charlie’s crying because Ned threw up on her other yellow sock, and Annie’s being a pain in the glutes, and Emily’s bangs are about to get pinned to her eyebrows, and I haven’t even packed my backpack yet—and that takes a while, you know—and we have to leave soon since we have to walk to school because the fuel pump on the Jeep isn’t working, and we only have one umbrella. So just go away.”
The guy leaned
down.
“Young Master Jones,” he said, “if you were able to sprint between wickets with the speed of your run-on sentences, you would be welcome in any test match in the world. For now, though, go back inside. In your room, gather what is needed for your backpack. When you have completed that task, find your mother and do whatever is necessary to insure that she is no longer”—he paused—“going crazy.” He angled the umbrella a little to keep off the Australian tropical thunderstorm. “While you are doing whatever is necessary, I will purchase the milk.”
I looked at the guy. He was wet up to his knees now.
“Do you always talk like that?” I said.
“If you are inquiring whether I always speak the Queen’s English, the answer is, of course, yes.”
“I mean the way you say everything like you want it to smell good.”
The guy shook the rain off his umbrella. I sort of think he meant to shake it all over me.
“Young Master Jones—”
“And that: ‘Young Master Jones.’ No one talks like that.”
“Obviously, some do.”
“And that: ‘Ob—vi—ous—ly.’ It takes you a whole minute to say it. ‘Ob—vi—ous—ly.’”
The guy leaned down. “I am going to purchase the milk now,” he said. “You shall pack your backpack. Do it properly, then attend to your mother.”
He turned to go.
“Are you trying to convert me or something?” I said.
“Yes,” he said, without turning back. “Now, to your appointed tasks.”
So I went upstairs and packed the new notebooks and old pens and old pencils and my father’s old science calculator in my backpack, and I put the green marble in my front pocket—all this did take a while, you know—and then I went down to the kitchen where my mother was braiding Annie’s hair and Charlie was sniffing with her arms crossed and Emily was finishing her dry Ace Robotroid Sugar Stars. My mother said, “Where’s the milk?” and then the doorbell rang again.
“I’ll get it,” I said.
Guess who it was.
His pants were wet most of the way up when he handed me a bag.
“I have procured the milk,” he said.
“Obviously,” I said. “Is it one percent?”
“Certainly not—and mockery is the lowest form of discourse.”
He handed me another bag.
“What’s this?” I said.
“The package is for Miss Charlotte,” he said. “Tell her we are most fortunate that American delicatessens are, though parsimonious in their selection of food items that have seen the light of the sun, at least eclectic.”
“She won’t know what eclectic means.”
“Copious.”
“That either.”
The guy sighed. “The contents are self-explanatory.”
I took the bags and closed the door. I carried the milk to the kitchen and set it on the table. Then I gave Charlie the other bag.
“What’s this?” she said.
“How should I know?”
“Because you’re handing it to me. That’s how you should know.”
“It’s something electric,” I said.
“Something electric?”
“I don’t know. It’s from the guy standing on our front stoop.”
My mother looked up from Annie’s braids. “The guy standing on our front stoop? He’s still there?”
Charlie opened her bag and took out—I know this is hard to believe—brand-new bright yellow socks. She screamed her happy scream. That’s the scream she makes that could stop a planet from spinning.
My mother looked at the bright yellow socks, then at the milk.
“It’s not one percent,” she said.
“Certainly not,” I said.
My mother dropped Annie’s braids and headed out of the kitchen.
· 2 ·
The Wicket
The wicket may refer to the stumps and bails placed at either end of the playing surface or to the playing surface itself.
We were all behind my mother when she opened the front door.
The guy was still standing there, underneath his satellite-disk umbrella, which wasn’t doing much anymore since the Australian tropical thunderstorm was blowing sideways now.
“Who are you?” said my mother.
He gave a little bow and rain waterfalled off the front of his umbrella, just like in an Australian rainforest. “Mrs. Jones, I am an acquaintance of your father-in-law and husband, having served the first for many years and attended the childhood of the second.”
“Is he all right?”
“I assume you speak of the second.”
My mother put her hands on her hips. She still had a bobby pin tucked in the corner of her mouth, and she put on That Look, so she came off pretty tough.
“Captain Jones was, during our last connection, well enough. I called him ten days ago by telephone to inform him that his father, Mr. Seymour Jones, had passed away.”
“Passed away?” said Emily.
The guy leaned down. “I am so very sorry to tell you, Miss Emily, that your grandfather has died.”
“She never knew him,” said my mother. “None of us did. You better come in.”
“Thank you, madam. Dripping might pose a problem.”
“It’s only water,” said my mother.
“Thank you, madam.”
Together we all moved back, and the guy stood in our front hall, and dripping was a problem.
“So you’re here to tell us about my husband’s father?” said my mother. “You could have just written.”
“Your father-in-law’s passing is only part of my message, madam. I am to inform you as well that Mr. Seymour Jones has left a most generous endowment to support my continuing service to his family.”
“I don’t understand,” said my mother.
“It seems reasonable to consider that a family with four young children and a father currently deployed in Germany might well stand in need of some aid suited to my occupation.”
“You’re here to help out?”
The guy gave another little bow. Really.
“While Jack’s deployed?”
He nodded.
“Jack,” she said. “Jack sent you.”
“In a manner of speaking,” said the guy.
My mother dropped That Look. She smiled. She started to bite her lip like she does when she’s about to . . . Never mind.
“I can assure you, madam, my service in this capacity is exemplary, and I would gladly furnish names and addresses for reference, should you desire them.”
“Wait,” I said. “You mean my grandfather, like, left you to us in his will?”
“Crudely articulated, but true in the most generous sense.”
“Like, we own you?”
The guy carefully tied shut the folds of his umbrella. “Young Master Jones, indentured servanthood having been abolished even in your country, no. You do not, like, own me.”
“So,” said Charlie, “you’re a nanny?”
The guy’s eyes opened wide.
“No, moron. He’s not a nanny,” I said.
“Jack sent a butler,” my mother said, mostly to herself.
The guy cleared his throat. “I am most conservative about such matters,” he said. “I would very much prefer to be known as a gentleman’s gentleman.”
My mother shook her head.
“A gentleman’s gentleman,” she said. “Jack sent a gentleman’s gentleman.”
The guy bowed his little bow again.
“There’s just one problem,” she said. “There’s no gentleman here.”
Then the guy looked straight at me. Really. Straight at me. “Perhaps not yet,” he said, and he handed me the satellite-disk umbrella.
That was how the Butler came into our house.
* * *
Can I just say, I wasn’t so sure about this. I mean, he said he was a gentleman’s gentleman—wh
ich, obviously, is a dumb way to say “butler”—but he could have been some kind of missionary in disguise. Or someone selling satellite-disk umbrellas. Or someone casing out our place for a burglary. Or a serial killer. Anything.
I could tell my mother wasn’t so sure about him either.
That’s why she thought for a long time when the Butler offered to drive us to school. When he asked, I whispered “Serial killer” to my mother, and she whispered “The fuel pump in the Jeep,” and I whispered “Probably no ID,” and she whispered “Raining hard”—and it was still raining like an Australian tropical thunderstorm—but I shrugged and whispered, “Does it matter to you if you never see us alive again?” and that was really stupid because now she bit her lip hard and it was so really stupid because it was like I had forgotten that funeral.
So really stupid.
She closed her eyes for, like, a minute and then she opened them again and said she’d decided to go along with us to school, and the Butler nodded. My mother gave me a look—not That Look, but a look that said, “Don’t let this guy out of your sight because maybe you’re right and he really could be a serial killer,” and then she went upstairs to get dressed.
So I was all over him when he opened up the four lunch bags and folded napkins into them—just to be sure he was putting in only napkins and not tracts or poison powder or anything like that. And I was still all over him when he finished Annie’s hair and got the staples out of Charlie’s new socks and pinned back Emily’s bangs again because they had already come out.
You never know what a serial killer might do to throw you off-guard.
Ned would have been all over him too, but he was pretty excited, and like I told you, dachshunds throw up a lot—which he did again underneath the kitchen table after he sniffed the Butler’s wet cuffs. The Butler started to wipe it up—I didn’t need to be all over him while he was doing that—and when my mother came down and saw him under the kitchen table, she said he didn’t come across the Atlantic to clean up after a dog, and he said, “Madam, the parameters of my duties are wide-ranging”—so my mother let him take care of Ned’s throw-up and then we all went outside, sort of crowded together under the satellite-disk umbrella, which I was still holding.