by Judy Blume
“How do, Stephanie,” Mr. Kravitz said.
“Mr. Kravitz bought the yellow house,” Mom reminded me.
“I know,” I told her.
“And we’re certainly enjoying it,” Mr. Kravitz said.
“I’m glad,” Mom said. “Well … I’ll let you get down to business, Mr. Kravitz. I hope you can clear up our problem.”
“I’ll do my best,” Mr. Kravitz said.
Mom went upstairs to work at her computer, which she’s moved from the den to her bedroom. I went to the refrigerator to get a glass of juice. “Do you use traps?” I asked Mr. Kravitz.
“No.”
“What do you use?”
“Something else.”
“What?”
“Does it make a difference?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because my brother and I don’t believe in violence.”
“I don’t use anything violent.”
“What do you use?”
Mr. Kravitz let out a deep breath. “I use something to discourage them from coming back.”
“Poison?” I asked.
“We don’t think of it that way.”
“Oh,” I said, drinking my apple juice. Then I remembered my manners. “Would you like a glass of juice?”
“No thank you,” Mr. Kravitz said. His dog, Henry, was sniffing inside the cabinet under the sink.
“So, who sleeps in my old room?” I asked.
Mr. Kravitz was inside the cabinet now, poking around with a flashlight. “Which room would that be?” he said. His voice was muffled.
“Top of the stairs … first room to the left,” I told him.
“Hmm … that would be my youngest son’s room. He’s in ninth grade at Fox Junior High.”
“Really,” I said, talking louder. “I go to Fox. I’m in seventh grade.”
“Maybe you know Jeremy,” Mr. Kravitz said.
“Jeremy?”
“Yes. Jeremy Kravitz. He’s my son.”
“I only know one Jeremy,” I said. “And he’s not your son. He wears a chartreuse jacket with a dragon on the back.”
Mr. Kravitz backed out of the cabinet. “That’s my jacket,” he said, laughing.
“Your jacket?”
“Nineteen-sixty-two,” Mr. Kravitz said, standing up. “I was a senior in high school then.”
“Are you saying that the boy who wears that dragon jacket is your son?”
“That’s right.”
“And his name is Jeremy and he sleeps in my old room?”
“That’s right.”
“Excuse me,” I said to Mr. Kravitz. “I’ve got to do my homework now.” I had to call Alison and Rachel right away! I ran into the den to use the phone.
I called Rachel first. “You won’t believe this,” I began, “but …” I told her the whole story. “You’ve got to come right over.”
“I’m practicing my flute now,” Rachel said.
“Rachel …” I said, “we are talking about Jeremy Dragon whose father happens to be standing in my kitchen ….”
“All right ….” Rachel said. “I’ll be over in a few minutes.”
I didn’t have to convince Alison. She ran all the way around the pond and arrived at my house breathless. When Rachel got here the three of us went into the kitchen and I introduced them to Mr. Kravitz.
“Are you really Jeremy’s father?” Rachel asked in her most mature voice.
Mr. Kravitz was spreading a white powder inside our cabinets. “Has Jeremy been giving you trouble?” he asked, looking up at us. “Has Jeremy been rude to you?”
I love how parents always assume the worst about their kids. “No,” I said. “We’re just curious because he rides our bus.”
“And we’re interested in that jacket he wears,” Rachel said. “It’s a very unusual jacket.”
I tried to catch her attention but I couldn’t.
“Actually it could be a valuable antique,” Rachel continued. “I know because my aunt, who lives in New Hampshire, is in the antique business.”
“The jacket was his,” I said to Rachel, nodding in Mr. Kravitz’ direction.
“Oh,” Rachel said. “I didn’t mean to insult you, Mr. Kravitz. I only meant that some day that jacket could be considered an antique. I didn’t mean it was that old right now.”
“I’m not insulted,” Mr. Kravitz said.
Henry continued to sniff around our kitchen.
“Does your dog talk?” I asked Mr. Kravitz.
“Henry communicates,” Mr. Kravitz said, as if my question was perfectly normal, “but he doesn’t speak.”
“Only one in seventeen million dogs can talk in words,” I told him.
“Is that right?” Mr. Kravitz asked.
I didn’t tell him about Maizie. It wasn’t my business. If Alison wanted him to know she could tell him.
“Now, girls …” Mr. Kravitz finally said, “I’d really like to spend more time chatting with you but I’ve got work to do here.”
“Well … it’s been very nice meeting you, Mr. Kravitz,” Rachel said.
“Same here,” Alison said.
“Likewise,” Mr. Kravitz said, from inside another cabinet.
The three of us went outside and ran down to the pond. “Can you believe Jeremy Dragon sleeps in my old room?”
“Too bad you didn’t sell your house with the furniture,” Rachel said. “Then he’d be sleeping in your bed!”
The idea of Jeremy Dragon sleeping in my bed made me feel funny all over.
“You’re blushing, Steph!” Alison said.
“Your face is purple!” Rachel sang.
“Excuse me,” I said, walking between them. “I think I need to cool off.” I went down to the edge of the pond and waded into the water, scaring the ducks, who paddled out of my way.
Rachel yelled, “Steph … what are you doing?”
And Alison called, “Steph … come out!”
“It feels great!” I sang, splashing around. “Come on in …”
“Stephanie!” Rachel shouted, “it’s not a swimming pond!”
“So … who’s swimming?”
They couldn’t believe I’d gone into the pond with all my clothes on. Neither could my mother, who happened to be in the kitchen when I came home. “Stephanie … what on earth?”
“I didn’t mean to get wet,” I told her. “It just happened.”
Dad’s Laugh
Dad called from Hawaii. “Are the waves huge?” I asked.
“I haven’t had a chance to get to the beach.”
“Dad … how can you be in Hawaii and not get to the beach?”
“I’m here to work, Steph.”
“I know … but still …”
“I’ll try to get to the beach tomorrow … okay?”
“Okay. And send us some of that peanut brittle … the kind with macadamia nuts.”
“I don’t think peanut brittle is good for your braces.”
“Well, then … send shells from the beach … or sand.”
“I’ll try,” Dad said. “So what’s new at home?”
I told him about our first dead mouse. “Mom found him in the cabinet under the sink … she practically fainted … so I lifted him out by his tail … dropped him into a Baggie … and tossed him in the trash can.”
Dad laughed. I love to make him laugh. When he does he opens his mouth wide and you can see his gold fillings. “Wait … I’m not finished,” I said, “because after I tossed him in the trash I forgot to put the bunjie cords back on the can … so that night the raccoons got into it and made a mess! So guess who had to clean up … and guess who almost missed the school bus?”
Dad kept on laughing. I’m definitely best in my family at making him laugh. But we don’t get to laugh that much over the phone.
“So how’s the weather?” Dad finally asked.
“Nice,” I told him. “It’s getting to be fall.”
Remarkable Eyes
&nbs
p; Mrs. Remo wears contact lenses. She’s always telling us about them. She got them before school started so she’s worn them for two months now. This morning she was rubbing her eye. Then she said, “Oh no …” and motioned for us to be quiet. “I think I’ve lost a contact lens. I need someone to help me find it.”
Hands shot up around the room.
Eric Macaulay called out, “I’ve got perfect vision, Mrs. Remo. I’ll find it for you.”
“All right, Eric,” Mrs. Remo said.
Eric shoved his chair back so hard it crashed into my desk, knocking over my books, which I had stacked like a pyramid. He raced up to the front of the room.
“Be careful where you step, Eric,” Mrs. Remo said. “The lens is very fragile. I hope it’s fallen onto my desk, not the floor.”
But Eric didn’t even bother to look on Mrs. Remo’s desk. He stood right up close to her and seemed to be examining her dress, which was a dark green knit, with short sleeves. He didn’t touch her, but the way he stared must have made her uncomfortable because she laughed nervously and said, “What are you doing, Eric?”
“Trying to find your lens,” Eric said, “so please don’t move.”
I would have been very embarrassed to have Eric Macaulay examine me that closely, especially across my chest.
But then, halfway between Mrs. Remo’s left shoulder and her waist, Eric plucked something off her dress. “Aha!” he said. “Got it!” He held it up for Mrs. Remo to see.
“Why, Eric …” Mrs. Remo said, taking the lens off his finger, “you must have remarkable eyes! How did you know it would be on my dress?”
“My mother wears contacts,” Eric said. “Whenever she thinks she’s lost one it’s always stuck to her clothes.”
“Thank you, Eric,” Mrs. Remo said.
The class applauded and Eric took a bow.
Alison leaned across the aisle and whispered, “He’s so cute!”
I made a face. Eric is too impossible to be cute.
On his way back to his desk Eric stopped next to Alison’s. “Do you wear contacts, Thumbelina?”
He’s been calling her Thumbelina since the second week of school but she doesn’t seem to mind.
“No,” Alison told him. “My eyes are as perfect as yours.”
“Too bad …” Eric said, “because I wouldn’t mind finding your lost lenses.”
Alison started to giggle and once she gets started she can’t stop.
As soon as Mrs. Remo had her lens back in place she held up a flyer and said, “I’ve got an announcement, class. The seventh grade bake sale will be held a week from Monday. The first …” She stopped and shook her head. “All right, Alison … either calm down or share the joke with the rest of us.”
Alison covered her mouth with both hands to keep from laughing out loud but I could tell she still had the giggles.
Mrs. Remo continued with her announcement. “The first $150 will be used to donate food baskets to the needy. Anything over that will go to the seventh grade activity fund. Last year’s seventh grade class earned enough to hold a winter dance.”
A winter dance, I thought. Now that sounds interesting.
“So …” Mrs. Remo went on, “we need to appoint a bake sale chairperson … someone to keep track of who’s baking what.”
“Mrs. Remo …” Eric called, waving his arm.
“Yes, Eric?”
“I nominate Peter Klaff as chairperson. He’s very organized. When I run for President he’s going to be my campaign manager.”
Was Eric planning to run for President of Fox Junior High, I wondered, or President of the United States?
“Peter …” Mrs. Remo said, “would you like to be chairperson of the bake sale?”
Everyone looked at Peter Klaff. He’s shorter than me and much thinner. He has pale blond hair and eyebrows and lashes to match. Also, his ears stick out. I think it must run in the family because his mother and sister have the same kind of ears. You could see the red creeping up Peter’s neck to his face. And you could see him gulping hard, as if he couldn’t get enough air to breathe. He’s so shy! But he managed to answer Mrs. Remo’s question. He said, “Yes.”
“Fine,” Mrs. Remo said, “then it’s all settled.”
As Alison and I walked through the hall on our way to first period class she began to sing a song she’d made up about a boy with remarkable eyes. “Well?” she said, when she’d finished.
I pretended to stick my finger down my throat.
“That bad?”
“No …” I said. “Worse!”
She bumped hips with me and we both laughed. But the next time she sang her song I found myself humming along.
Debate
Rachel says she has more important things on her mind than baking. She’s trying out for the school debating team. Only two seventh graders will make it. She has to prepare a five-minute speech and present it at assembly on the afternoon of the bake sale.
“What’s the subject of your speech?” I asked.
“Should wearing a seat belt be law or should it be up to the individual to decide?”
“That’s easy,” I said. “It should be law.”
“I have to be able to argue both sides of the issue,” Rachel explained, “even if I disagree with it.”
“That’s stupid.”
“No … that’s what debating is all about.”
A few days later I went to Rachel’s house after school. I couldn’t stay long because I had an appointment at the orthodontist at four-thirty. Alison couldn’t come over at all because she’s got a rash on her foot and Leon took her to see Dr. Klaff.
Rachel was a wreck over her speech. “Look at my notes,” she said, holding up a stack of 3×5 cards. “I’ve been working every night till ten.”
“Don’t worry so much,” I told her. “After all, it’s just five minutes.”
“Do you have any idea how long five minutes really is?”
“Five minutes is five minutes,” I said.
“I mean,” she said, “do you know how it feels?”
“How it feels?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Look, I’ll show you. Stand right there … right where you are …”
I was standing in the middle of her bedroom.
“Don’t move,” Rachel said.
“Okay.”
“Now … tell me when you think five minutes is up. And don’t look at your watch,” she said. “Ready, set, go …”
I stood very still. I didn’t move, except to scratch my leg. Burt and Harry were asleep on Rachel’s bed. Rachel sat at her desk, shuffling her note cards. I wondered how Alison was doing at Dr. Klaff’s. Alison says Peter Klaff likes me. She says he’s always looking at me and that’s how you can tell. But I’m not sure she’s right. When Peter asked what I was bringing to the bake sale I told him I was partners with Alison and that we were baking brownies from an old family recipe. He didn’t seem impressed.
I looked over at Rachel again. She was still at her desk, making more note cards. “Okay,” I said. “Five minutes is up.”
Rachel checked her watch. “Ha! It’s only been one minute, twenty-four seconds.”
“I can’t believe it!”
“I told you five minutes feels like a long time!”
Mom made me puree of carrot and a baked potato for dinner that night, because after my braces are tightened I can’t eat anything but soft, mushy foods. “Rachel’s trying out for the debating team,” I said, as I mashed my potato with butter. “She’s got to make a five-minute speech about seat belts.”
“I’m sure she’ll do fine,” Mom said.
“I’m sure, too, but Rachel’s worried. She wants to be the best.”
“She’s such a perfectionist,” Mom said.
“I wouldn’t mind being perfect,” Bruce said.
“You mean you’re not?” I asked.
“Very funny,” he said.
“Be glad you’re not,” Mom said. “It’s a hard Way to go th
rough life.”
I tasted the carrot puree. Even though it looked like baby food it was delicious. Bruce watched me eat it. “I hope I never need braces,” he said.
“It’s temporary,” I told him. “Some day I’ll have a beautiful smile.”
“Yeah … but what about the rest of your face?”
“Bruce!” Mom said.
“It’s just a joke, Mom,” he told her.
“He really wishes he looked like me,” I said.
Bruce chuckled to himself.
We had vanilla pudding for dessert. “I’m thinking of trying out for symphonic band,” I announced, as the pudding slid around in my mouth.
“Since when do you play an instrument?” Bruce asked.
“I’m trying out for percussion.”
“Since when do you play drums?” Bruce asked.
“Ms. Lopez says I can learn … as long as I have a good sense of rhythm.” I finished my pudding. “Do you think I have a good sense of rhythm?” I asked Mom.
“When you were little I’d give you a pot and a wooden spoon and you were happy for hours. If that’s an indication I’d say yes.”
“A pot and a wooden spoon,” Bruce repeated, shaking his head and chuckling again.
The next time Dad called I asked him if he thought I had a good sense of rhythm.
He said, “You used to have a great time with a pot and a wooden spoon.”
“That’s exactly what Mom said.”
“I guess we remember the same things.”
I told him about the seventh grade bake sale and that Alison and I are going to bake Sadie Wishnik’s brownies.
“Who’s Sadie Wishnik?” Dad asked.
“Leon’s mother.”
“Who’s Leon?”
“Alison’s stepfather. And you know who Alison is,” I told him, “she’s my new friend.”
“So Sadie Wishnik is her stepgrandmother?” Dad asked.
“I guess so,” I said. “Anyway, we’re going to Sadie’s house to bake, on Sunday. She lives in New Jersey, near the ocean. And speaking of oceans … thanks for the box of shells from Hawaii. I’ve never seen such pretty ones. Did you find them yourself?”
Dad hesitated. “The truth?”
“Yes.”
“I never did get to the beach. I bought them at a gift shop.”
