“Tell you what,” said Mrs. Soso. “You could scoop up the dog poop in the front yard.”
Judy’s nose itched. Judy’s nose twitched just thinking about it. P.U.! Getting to Antarctica was not going to be easy. But it was on her bucket list. Even if it meant scooping poop, she was up for it.
Judy Moody, Pooper Scooper, to the rescue!
Judy got a tiny shovel and a plastic bag. With each scoop of poop, she tried to count penguins. Anything but poop. Antarctica was full of penguins. Emperor penguins, gentoo penguins, macaroni penguins . . .
Just then, Rocky and Frank saw Judy from across the street. Rocky was walking Houdini (his pet iguana) and Frank was walking the dog (his pet yo-yo).
“Hey, Judy!” Rocky called, waving.
“Whatcha doing?” Frank asked.
“What’s it look like?” Judy asked. “I’m pooping scoop.”
Rocky and Frank cracked up. Judy cracked up, too. “I mean scooping poop.”
“What for?” asked Frank.
“For money. I need some scratch-moola-cashola, and fast.” Judy explained all about Antarctica and her bucket list.
“We’d help, but it’s a super-stinky job,” said Rocky, holding his nose.
“I’ll help,” said Frank.
“Thanks, but this is really a one-pooper-scooper town.”
“Want to come with Frank and me to Fur & Fangs?” Rocky asked.
Judy looked over the rest of the yard. She hated to be a party pooper, but every piece of poop was like a dollar sign. “Can’t,” said Judy. “More poop to scoop!”
King penguins, little blue penguins, rockhopper penguins . . .
Stink came and peered over Mrs. Soso’s fence at the bag of poop that Judy had scooped. “Whoa. Where’s the moose?” he asked.
“Huh?” said Judy.
“That’s moose poop if I ever saw it,” said Stink.
“How do you know it’s moose poop?” asked Judy.
“It’s too big to be dog poop. Looks more like cow plop. I’m reading The Big Head Book of Scat from the library. I’m kind of a scat expert, you know.”
It was true-not-false. Stink did know a lot about scat and poop and dung. “Moose poop, huh?” said Judy, with a gleam in her eye. Cha-ching! She should make even more money for scooping poop that size. “Scooping moose poop has to be worth way more than dog poop. Maybe even five big ones.”
“At least,” said Stink.
When Judy was done, she knocked on Mrs. Soso’s front door to collect her money. As it turned out, it was only worth five little-not-big ones. Five dimes. A puny fifty cents.
“How much did you get?” Stink asked. Judy held out her hand.
“Fifty cents? That’s all?” said Stink. “That’s dog poop.”
“Exactly,” said Judy. “Mrs. Soso says poop is poop.”
“Bummer,” said Stink, hopping down off the fence. “Gotta go. I’m late for a thumb-wrestling match with Webster.”
“See you later!” said Judy.
Stink was halfway down the sidewalk when he turned around. “You know what you need? Polar bear scat. Now that’s worth something.”
“Now you tell me,” said Judy.
Gold mine! If Stink was right, she could scoop poop from possums to potbellied pigs, elk to emus. The bigger the better. She’d make piles of money. Heaps of it. Mountains of money.
Judy knocked on three more doors. Not one person wanted their possum poop scooped. And nobody even owned an emu.
On the way home, Judy kept an eye out for polar bear scat. “I’m Linda Gormezano, Polar Bear Poop Tracker,” she said aloud. Stink had read to Judy all about Linda Gormezano from his Big Head Book of Scat. “For five dollars, I’ll track down your polar bear poop and scoop it!”
All of a sudden, Judy saw a pair of striped kneesocks sticking out from a pair of polka-dot rubber boots. They belonged to a girl with freckles who was holding a leash and who seemed to be walking an invisible dog.
“Hi, Linda,” said a voice. “I’m Izzy. Izzy Azumi, F.D.O.”
“Oh, no, I was just pretending,” said Judy. “I’m not Linda. I’m Judy. Judy Moody, P.B.P.T.”
“P.B.P.T.? Oh, Polar Bear . . . Poop Tracker?” Izzy asked.
“Yep,” said Judy. “And F.D.O.? Fire Drill Organizer? Fluffy Dog Oilpainter? Fried Donut Operator?”
Izzy shook her head no, no, and no. She cracked up, showing two missing teeth.
“Freaky-Deaky Octopus?” asked Judy. “I give up. I’m all out of stuff with the letter O.”
“Future Dog Owner!” said Izzy, breaking into more giggles.
“Is that why you’re walking an invisible dog?” Judy asked.
“Uh-huh. I’m practicing for someday when there’s a real puppy at the end of this leash.”
“I’d shake your hand or something, but I might smell like poop,” said Judy. She explained all about her poop-scooping job.
“Someday soon I’ll be scooping poop, too. I’m going to get a dog. A cockapoo puppy. They’re really fuzzy. And funny. Animal Planet says they’re surprisingly human.”
“I love cockapoos!” said Judy. “Do you live around here?”
“My dad does,” said Izzy. “Most times I live with my mom, but on weekends I stay with my dad. Me and my brother do.”
“Brothers,” said Judy. “Don’t get me started.”
“I know, right?” said Izzy.
“Hey, Izzy. I’m trying to make some money for a trip to Antarctica. So if you ever need your invisible dog walked, I’m the girl for the job. Or if you need me to scoop any cockapoo poop, it’ll only cost you fifty cents.”
A kid on a skateboard came zooming down the sidewalk. “Yikes. Here comes my brother, Ian. I’ll give you fifty cents right now not to say anything about the F.D.O. He’ll just make fun of me and tell me I’m never going to get a dog.”
Shush money! Money just for keeping a secret. This was even better than poop scooping.
“I’m a good secret keeper,” said Judy. Izzy thrust the leash into Judy’s hand.
Izzy’s brother and his skateboard came to a stop outside the fence. He upended the board, showing off an alien and the words CANDY RIOT, along with bright-orange trucks and neon-green wheels.
“Dad was wondering where you were,” said Ian.
“I’m just talking to my new friend.” Izzy put her hands in the air and cartwheeled right across Judy’s front lawn.
Bing! Cartwheel! Meeting Izzy Azumi, F.D.O., could be a bucket-list moment.
“Later.” Ian shook his head and sped off down the sidewalk.
“Hey, Izzy,” said Judy. “You know the fifty cents you were going to pay me to keep your secret?”
“Uh-huh.”
“If you teach me to do a cartwheel,” Judy offered, “we’ll call it even, okay?”
“One handed or two?” Izzy asked.
“Two!” said Judy.
Izzy told her it was easy-peasy. “All you have to do is remember H.H.F.F.”
“Hop, Hop, Fall, Fall?” Judy asked.
“Hand, Hand, Foot, Foot. Like this.” Izzy raised her hands in the air. Izzy put one hand on the ground, then the other. She lifted off one foot and, in a blink, she twirled through the air.
Judy watched. Judy waited. Judy tried. Crash! Plunk! Pfft! Judy landed on her you-know-what. Turning cartwheels was so not easy-peasy. Turning cartwheels was a B.L.B., Bucket-List Bummer.
Antarctica? Nope. Cartwheel? Nope. Rats! Judy could not check either of these off her kick-the-bucket list yet. She wrote Meet girl with invisible dog on her list and crossed it off. That put her in a better bucket-list mood.
Judy scanned her list. Get triple stickers on homework. How hard could it be to get not one, not two, but three stickers for good work? Three stickers was triple good. Three stickers was tops. Three stickers was the trifecta of Mr. Todd stickers. Excelente! Qué bien! Perfecto!
Jessica Finch had gotten three Bright Idea lightbulbs. Jessica Finch had gotten Top Cat, Cool Cat, and Cat’s Me
ow. But even Jessica Finch had not gotten every one of the triple-sticker sets in Mr. Todd’s top desk drawer.
Judy took out her homework. Eek! She had not done her homework all week. She stared at the no-sticker homework sheets. She imagined Home Run! Grand Salami! Moonshot! dancing at the top of the page. Perfecto!
All she had to do was work extra hard. She circled homophones. She learned heaps of helping verbs. She was a synonym sleuth. She unscrambled names of all the desert plants. She filled out her loggerhead turtle fact sheet.
She saved contractions for last. Contractions were baby stuff. Kid stuff. Second-grade stuff. Can’t go wrong! Won’t fail! Couldn’t be better!
At school on Monday, Judy could hardly wait until Mr. Todd passed back their homework sheets. At last it was time. Triple sticker time! Judy crossed all eight fingers and both thumbs.
“Class 3T,” said Mr. Todd, clearing his throat. Uh-oh. Clearing his throat was never good, unless Mr. Todd had his guitar and was about to sing. But Judy did not see a guitar. And that frown was not part of his singing face.
He started to pass back the contractions homework. Judy could picture it now. Three stickers in a row: Smarty Pants! Wizard! Fourth Grade Here I Come!
What!? Judy stared wide-eyed at her homework. She was seeing red! Instead of seeing three stickers, she saw red, red, red. Triple red trifecta. The page looked like it was covered in ketchup. The page looked like it was bleeding and needed a giant Band-Aid. The page was as messed up as a spaghetti sandwich.
Mr. Todd was saying, “People. People. What went wrong here? Contractions are just a review. I happen to know you learned this in second grade.”
Frank tried to say they hadn’t learned contractions. Rocky tried to say they didn’t remember. Judy tried to say they couldn’t fit any more stuff in their third-grade brains, because fractions were taking three-fourths of the room in there.
Mr. Todd said, “No excuses.” Mr. Todd said they had to do their homework over again. Mr. Todd said, “How will you make it in fourth grade if you don’t know contractions?”
Grr! Judy stared at her paper. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t get one single sticker. Contractions made Judy itch. Contractions made Judy squirm. All those apostrophes! Who knew where they went?
They should be called can’tractions!
If I can’t learn contractions, I won’t ever go to fourth grade!
Judy asked Frank for help. Frank had more red marks than she did! She asked Jessica Finch next. “I’ll help, but then you have to call me Queen of Contractions,” said Jessica. Roar!
Lightbulb! Suddenly, she, Judy Moody, had a bright idea. All she needed was a hall pass.
Judy raised her hand. “Mr. Todd,” she said, “I apostrophe D like to be excused.” I’d. I apostrophe D. Good one. She should receive one lightbulb sticker just for that.
Judy hightailed it down the hall to Room 2D. Stink’s room. Stink was her brainstorm. Stink was her bright idea. Stink was her ticket to a Home Run!
Stink was in second grade. Stink knew an easy way to remember contractions. He was always driving her cuckoo with some crazy song about contractions.
Psst! Judy motioned to her brother from the doorway. “Hi, Mrs. D.” Judy waved. “May I borrow my brother for a sec?”
Stink shook his head no, but Mrs. D. nodded yes.
When Stink came to the door, Judy pulled him into the hall. “Stinkbug. You gotta help me. Quick. Tell me everything you know about contractions.”
“Can’t,” said Stink.
“Ha-ha, very funny,” said Judy.
“No, I mean it. Right now Mrs. D. is reading us fables, and we get to guess the morals. I love morals. I don’t want to miss any.”
“Morals, schmorals,” said Judy.
“Can’t you come back when we do base ten this afternoon?”
“No, Stinker. I can’t.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“C’mon, Stink. It’s a matter of life and fourth grade!”
Judy and Stink sat on top of the heater at the end of the hallway. “Teach me that song you always sing about contractions.” Judy checked the clock. “You have five minutes. Go.”
“But you hate that song. You said —”
“Forget whatever I said. Sing!”
“Just so you know, it goes to the tune of ‘London Bridge Is Falling Down.’ And it helps you figure out where to put the contraction when you combine two words. I mean the apostrophe thingie.”
“Got it,” said Judy.
Stink started singing:
“I’m the First word, don’t change me!
Don’t change me, don’t change me.
I’m the First word, don’t change me!
Please just let me be.”
“Don’t got it,” Judy said.
“Wait, I’m not done,” Stink told her. He sang the second verse:
“When you change the second word,
Second word, second word,
When you change the second word,
Use an a-pos-tro-phe!
“Now you sing it,” said Stink.
Judy sang, “Now you got me all con-fused, all con-fused, all con-fused . . .”
“Okay, look. Like the song says, never change the first word. If the words you’re combining are can and not, you never change can. You always put the apostrophe in the second word, in place of the missing letters.”
Just then, the principal walked past. “Judy, Stink,” said Ms. Tuxedo, “shouldn’t you be in class?”
“Yes,” said Judy, “but we are learning. I’m . . . helping Stink with contractions.”
“I’m helping her!” Stink protested.
“I have to admit,” said Ms. Tuxedo, “when it comes to contractions, they’re tricky.” She winked at Judy.
Judy wondered why she winked. Then — duh — it hit her. Right in the middle of her third-grade brain. “I get it! They’re is not there or their. They’re is a contraction.”
Judy hummed the song to herself. “Wait, don’t tell me. They’re is short for they are.” She hummed some more. She remembered what Stink told her. Never change the first word.
“They stays the same. Drop the a in the second word and are becomes apostrophe r-e. T-h-e-y apostrophe r-e.” It was all coming back to her now.
“That’s correct!” said Ms. Tuxedo.
“That’s is a contraction for that is. That apostrophe s.”
“Beautiful,” said Ms. Tuxedo.
“See, Stink? That wasn’t so hard. Wasn’t. W-a-s-n apostrophe t.”
“But I — you — never mind. Know anything about base ten?” Stink asked Ms. Tuxedo.
Judy skipped off down the hall, singing all the way. She slid into her seat, pulled out her homework, and fixed all the contractions. This time, Judy’s homework did not need a giant Band-Aid. London Bridge was not falling down after all.
She should get a trophy for all those apos-trophes! But she would/she’d be happy with a triple-sticker trifecta. Bingo! Then she could cross it off her bucket list.
Awesome sauce! Awesome sandwich! Awesome-sauce banana peel!
The next day, Mr. Todd handed back the homework do-overs. He was wearing his Proud-of-Class-3T face. “I knew you would/you’d turn this around,” he said. “Good work, 3T.”
Judy could not/couldn’t believe her eyes. Triple stickers! Were her eyes playing tricks on her?
Judy showed off her homework to Rocky and Frank. Their eyes bugged out of their heads. “Awesome-sauce banana peel?” said Frank. “That is/that’s like the best of all the triple stickers!”
Rocky agreed. “You cannot/can’t get any better than that. You are/you’re like the Queen of Contractions.”
“Thanks!” said Judy, hoping Jessica Finch heard that one. She drew a picture of an apostrophe trophy and gave it to herself. Then she took out her bucket list and crossed off Get triple stickers on homework.
That’s when Learn a musical instrument caught her eye. She had an awesome-sauce aft
er-school idea.
As soon as the last bell rang, Judy followed Frank and his tuba down the hall to the music room. He filled Judy in on the way.
“Mr. Nulty is the music teacher.”
“Got it,” said Judy.
“He’s really nutty about music.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But whatever you do, don’t call him Mr. Nutty,” said Frank.
“Got it,” said Judy.
“Hi, Mr. Nulty,” Frank called. “This is my friend Judy. Can we look around? Judy wants to play an instrument.”
“Great!” said Mr. Nulty. “Music should be a part of everyone’s life, right, Frank?”
“Right, Mr. Nutty,” said Frank. Oops! “I mean Nulty.”
“If you want to play,” Mr. Nulty told Judy, “you have to come once a week after school for a twenty-two-minute lesson. And you’ll need to give up one recess a week to come play. How does that sound?”
“Good,” said Judy. Mr. Nulty handed her a permission slip to get signed.
There were instruments all over the music room — on desks, on tables, on stands. Big brass horns and tiny, shiny flutes and violins with strings.
“Go ahead. Take a look around,” said Mr. Nulty. “What do you think you might want to play?” He held up a French horn and played a few bars from the theme to Star Wars.
“Ooh-la-la!” said Judy.
He held up a saxophone and played a riff from “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”
“Snazzy and jazzy,” said Judy.
Then he played some high sweet notes on the flute.
“I like pressing buttons!” said Judy.
The room was almost spinning. Her head was a symphony of sounds. “They all sound so good. How will I ever decide?” said Judy, twirling and untwirling a squiggle of hair around her finger.
“Pick one up. Try it out,” said Mr. Nulty. “Don’t be shy. I have to run to the office and make some copies. I’ll give you a few minutes. Frank here can help you.”
Frank held up a flute. “Here. Everybody likes the flute. Try this one.”
Judy held the flute to her lips. She blew into the mouthpiece. Eek! Squeak!
Judy Moody and the Bucket List Page 2
