by Judy Blume
“Certainly,” my father said. “You can watch the whole thing.”
I turned to Mr. Denberg. “Will Fudge be famous?” I asked.
“No, not famous . . . but a lot of people will think he looks familiar,” Mr. Denberg said.
I turned to Mr. Vincent. “Do you know he has no front top teeth?”
“That’s part of his charm,” Mr. Vincent said.
“And he cut off all his hair two months ago.”
“Well, he looks fine now,” Mr. Vincent said.
“And he can’t even talk in long sentences yet,” I told everyone in the room.
“He doesn’t have to say a word,” Mr. Vincent told me.
I couldn’t think of any other reason why Mr. Vincent shouldn’t use Fudge in his Toddle-Bike commercial. It was settled. Soon Fudge would be a famous television star and I would be plain old Peter Hatcher—fourth grade nothing.
“Let’s begin right after lunch,” Mr. Denberg said. “We should get it filmed in about two hours.”
While my father and Mr. Denberg worked out all the arrangements I asked Janet where the men’s room was. She walked me to it. I told her thank you and that she didn’t have to wait. I’d find my own way back.
When I was safely inside I looked at myself in the mirror. I wish Fudge had never been born, I thought. Everything good always happens to him! If he had to be born I wish he could be nine or ten—like me. Then Mr. Vincent wouldn’t want him to be the one to ride the Toddle-Bike in his commercial.
Janet sent down to the coffee shop for some sandwiches and drinks. After we ate we all walked to another section of the agency where the cameras were set up. A make-believe street scene was the background. The Toddle-Bike was shiny red. My father told Fudge all he had to do was ride it around. Fudge liked that. He zoomed all over the place. “Vroom–vroom–vroom,” he called.
My father, Mr. Vincent, and Janet sat on folding chairs and watched the action. I sat on the floor, at my father’s side. Mr. Denberg was the director. He said, “Okay, Fudge . . . we’re ready to begin now. You ride the Toddle-Bike where I tell you and I’ll take a picture of you doing it . . . all right?”
“No,” Fudge said.
“What does he mean, Hatcher?” Mr. Vincent asked. “Why did he say no?”
My father groaned. “Look, George . . . using Fudge was your idea—not mine.”
Mr. Denberg tried again. “Okay, Fudge . . . this is it. . . .”
The cameraman said, “Start riding this way . . . ready, set, go!”
Fudge sat there on the Toddle-Bike. But he wouldn’t pedal.
“Come on, kid . . . let’s go!” the cameraman called.
“No. Don’t want to!” Fudge answered.
“What’s with this kid, Mr. Hatcher?” the cameraman asked.
“Fudge,” my father said, “do what the nice man tells you to.”
“No! Don’t have to!”
Janet whispered to my father. “How about some cookies, Mr. Hatcher?”
“Good idea, Janet,” my father told her.
“I have some Oreos right here,” she said, patting her pocketbook. “Shall I give them to him?”
“One at a time,” my father said.
Janet walked across the room to Fudge. He was still sitting on the Toddle-Bike. “If you do what the nice man says, you can have a cookie,” Janet told him.
“Show me,” Fudge said.
Janet held up a box of Oreos. She was really well prepared, I thought. She must eat all day long, what with the crackers shaped like goldfish and a whole box of Oreos too. I wondered what else she had in that pocketbook.
“Give me,” Fudge said.
Janet held up one cookie. Fudge reached for it, but Janet didn’t let him get it. “If you do what the nice man says you can have an Oreo. Maybe even two or three Oreos.”
“First cookie,” Fudge said.
“First do what the nice man says,” Janet told him.
“No! First cookie!”
“Give him one, Janet,” Mr. Denberg called. “We haven’t got all day to fool around.”
Janet gave Fudge one Oreo. He ate it up.
“Okay, kid . . . all ready now?” the cameraman said. “You ride over to me.”
Fudge didn’t do it.
Mr. Vincent was losing his patience. “Hatcher,” he hollered. “You get that son of yours to ride my Toddle-Bike or I’m taking my whole account away from you and your agency!”
“Must I remind you, George . . . using Fudge was your idea—not mine!” my father said.
“Forget about whose idea it was, Hatcher. He’s your kid. You better get through to him . . . now!”
“I have an idea,” my father said. He walked to a corner of the room and beckoned to the others. Mr. Denberg and Mr. Vincent gathered around him, along with the cameraman and Janet. They looked like a bunch of football players huddled together talking about the next play.
Soon my father called me. “Peter . . . would you join us, please?”
“Sure, Dad,” I said. “What is it?”
“Peter . . . we want you to ride the Toddle-Bike for us. To show Fudge how it’s done.”
“But he already knows how to ride,” I said. “Didn’t you see him zooming around?”
“He won’t do it for the cameras, though,” my father explained. “So we need your help.”
“Will I be in the commercial too?” I asked.
“Well, the Toddle-Bike is really for very young children,” Mr. Denberg said. “Otherwise we’d have you do it in a minute.”
I got the message. It was like buying the shoes and like at Dr. Brown’s office. They were going to use me to get Fudge to do what they wanted him to. I wondered how anybody would ever manage my brother without my help.
I walked over to Fudge and told him I was going to ride the Toddle-Bike. “Get off,” I said.
Fudge held onto the bike. “No . . . mine!”
“It’s not yours,” my father told him.
But Fudge wouldn’t move for anything. He closed his eyes and screamed. Can he scream loud when he tries!
So my father had to pull him off the Toddle-Bike. Fudge kicked and kept screaming and I’ll bet Mr. Vincent was sorry that he ever spotted my brother in the first place.
I got on the Toddle-Bike. It was so small my knees practically touched the ground. But I managed to ride it around just where the cameraman told me to.
“See how nice Peter can ride the Toddle-Bike,” Janet said. “Here, Peter . . . come have an Oreo. You did that so well you can have two or three if you want.”
Fudge stopped screaming. “ME!” he said.
“What?” my father asked him.
“Me . . . ride . . . me!”
“You can’t ride as well as Peter can,” Mr. Denberg said.
“Can so,” Fudge told him.
“I don’t think so,” Mr. Denberg said. “You already had a turn. You didn’t do what I told you to do.”
“ME!”
“You want to try again?” my father asked.
“Again,” Fudge said. “Again again again.”
“Well . . . I don’t know,” Mr. Denberg said.
“Well. . . .” Mr. Vincent said, chewing on his cigar.
“Well. . . .” the cameraman said, scratching his head.
“Please!” Fudge begged.
I never heard my brother say please before.
Mr. Denberg said, “Okay . . . we’ll give you one more chance.”
Fudge ran to the Toddle-Bike. I got off and he jumped on. “Now?” he asked Mr. Denberg.
“Now,” Mr. Denberg said. “Ride this way, Fudge . . . over here . . . toward me.”
Fudge did as he was told. “Just like
Pee-tah!” he said. “See . . . just like Pee-tah!”
Janet gave me a kiss on my cheek. “You saved the day, Peter Hatcher!” she said.
When she wasn’t looking I wiped off my face. Her kiss was too juicy.
9
Just Another Rainy Day
The next day it rained. My father asked me how I’d like to go to the movies.
“Just me?” I asked.
“No. All three of us,” he said.
“Fudge is very young to go,” I said. “Don’t you think so?”
“Maybe. But I can’t think of anything else to do with him. And that will take up a few hours.”
“You could give him some socks,” I suggested. “You know how he loves to play with your socks.”
“Socks won’t last the whole afternoon,” my father said. “That’s why I thought of the movies.”
“What’ll we see, Dad?”
My father checked his New York magazine. “A Bear’s Life is playing in the neighborhood. How does that sound?”
“What’s it about?” I asked.
“A bear’s life, I guess,” my father said. “It’s rated G.”
I was thinking of a good Western with lots of action or else a picture rated R where you can’t get in if you’re under seventeen unless you’re with your parents. But my father had made up his mind. A Bear’s Life it was.
I suggested that my father get Fudge cleaned up. Because by then he was looking kind of messy. I don’t think my father even put him into his pajamas last night. He’s been wearing the same polo shirt ever since my mother left yesterday morning.
By one o’clock we were ready to go. All three of us wore our raincoats and rubbers and my father took his big, black umbrella. One thing about New York—it’s hard to get a cab when it’s raining. But the movie theater wasn’t very far away. My father said the walk would do us all good. There were a lot of puddles. It was really pouring. I like to walk in the rain. Especially if it isn’t too cold out. It feels nice when it wets your face.
I jumped over the puddles. My father avoided them too. But not Fudge. He jumped right into every one and splashed around like a little duck. By the time we got to the movie theater the bottoms of his pants were soaked. My father took him into the men’s room. He stuffed a bunch of paper towels up each pant leg so Fudge wouldn’t have to sit around wet. At first Fudge complained. But when my father bought him a big box of popcorn he forgot about his stuffed pants.
Right after we got settled in our seats a big boy sat down in front of Fudge, so he had to change seats with my father. Now he was on the aisle, I was in the middle, and my father was on my other side.
When the lights dimmed Fudge said, “Ohhh . . . dark.”
I told him, “Be quiet. You can’t talk in the movies.”
“Okay, Pee-tah,” he said.
That’s when he started throwing his popcorn. At first I didn’t notice but I wondered why the people in front of us were turning around every second. Then I heard Fudge whisper, “Pow—pow—pow!” and I saw him throw a handful of popcorn.
I poked my father. “He’s throwing his popcorn,” I whispered.
My father reached across me and tapped Fudge on the leg. “If you throw one more piece I’m going to take it away from you.”
“No throw!” Fudge said very loud.
“Shush. . . .” the people in front of us said.
“Shush!” Fudge said back to them.
“You see,” I told my father, “he’s too young for the movies. He doesn’t understand.”
But from the moment the first bear came on the screen Fudge sat still and watched. And after a while I forgot all about him and concentrated on the movie. It was much better than I thought it would be. It showed all these bear cubs and how they live.
I’m not sure when I realized Fudge was gone. I guess it was when I turned to ask him if he had any popcorn left. I had already finished mine and was still hungry. I was really surprised to see he wasn’t there. I mean, one minute he was sitting right next to me and the next minute he was gone.
“Hey, Dad,” I whispered to my father. “He’s gone.”
“What?” my father asked.
“Fudge isn’t in his seat.”
My father looked over. “Where did he go?”
“I don’t know. I just noticed he was gone.”
“Let me out, Peter. I’ll find him.”
“Should I come too?” I asked.
“No . . . you can sit here and watch the rest of the picture. He’s probably wandering around by the candy counter.”
I stood up to let my father out. I wondered what my mother would think if she knew Fudge was lost in the movies.
A few minutes later the picture stopped—right in the middle of a scene. The sound track trailed off like a broken record. All the lights came on. The audience let out a groan. Some kids called, “Boo . . . boo!”
Then my father and two ushers and a man in a suit came over to me. “He was sitting right here,” my father told them, pointing to the empty seat on the aisle.
“Well,” the man in the suit said, “we’ve checked the rest rooms and the office. He’s not behind the candy counter. We’ll have to search the theater.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen . . . may I have your attention please. We’ll continue with our film in one moment. But first we have to find a three-year-old boy answering to the name of Fudge.”
Some people laughed when the man said his name. I guess Fudge does sound funny if you’re not used to it. I thought, Maybe he’s been kidnapped! Would my mother be mad. That crazy kid! You can’t even take him to the movies. Then I thought, Who’d want to kidnap him, anyway?
“What should I do, Dad?” I said.
“Why don’t you walk up and down this aisle and call him, Peter.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Here, Fudge,” I called, starting down my aisle. I sounded like I was calling a dog. “Come on out, Fudge.”
When I got down to the first row and called, “Here, Fudge,” he popped out at me. He scared me so bad I yelled, “Ooooh. . . .”
“Hi, Pee-tah,” he said.
“Hey . . . I found him,” I called. “I found him . . . I found him . . . here he is!” Then I turned to my brother. “You dope! What are you doing way down here? And why are you sitting on the floor?”
“Wanted to touch the bears,” Fudge said. “But bears are all gone.” He spread out his arms and said, “All gone” again.
My father and the ushers and the man in the suit ran to us. “Fudge,” my father said, scooping him up. “Are you all right?”
“He wanted to pet the bears,” I said. “Can you beat that?”
“Well, I guess we can continue the picture now,” the man in the suit said. He cupped his hands around his mouth again. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Our young man has been found safe and sound. Now we return to the conclusion of A Bear’s Life.”
My father carried Fudge back to our seats. He held him on his lap for the rest of the show. I guess he wasn’t taking any more chances!
Later, when we got home, my father explained to Fudge that movies are like TV. “It’s just a picture. There’s nothing to touch.”
Fudge listened, but I don’t know whether he believed my father. I had the feeling he still thought those bears were in the theater somewhere. I made up my mind that I would never take my little brother to the movies. Never! At least not until he was nine or ten.
My father said he was going to cook us something special for dinner. To celebrate Finding Fudge in the Movies. I thought that was really strange. Because as far as I know my father can’t cook anything. He doesn’t even know where my mother keeps the peanut butter, the dishes, or the pots and pans. Lucky
for him I was there to show him. “What are you going to cook, Dad?”
“A super-duper omelet,” he said.
“Omelet? I’m not sure me and Fudge like omelets.”
“You’ll like this one,” my father said, humming as he gathered his ingredients together. “Get me a big frying pan, Peter.”
“Okay,” I said. I gave it to him. He melted some butter in it.
“What’s going in the super-duper omelet?” I asked while Fudge sat on the floor banging two pot covers together.
“Well, the eggs, of course,” my father said. “Omelets are made of eggs.”
“And what else?” I asked.
“Oh . . . I think I’ll make a mushroom omelet.”
“Eggs and mushrooms?” I said.
“Yes, you’ll love it!”
“I’m not so sure.”
“You’ll see, Peter,” my father said.
I set up the table while my father cooked. I even put Fudge in his booster chair.
When the omelet was done my father brought it to us. He was still humming.
“That’s some big omelet!” I said, when I saw it. It filled up the whole frying pan. “How many eggs did you use?”
“About a dozen,” my father said.
“Mom only cooks one at a time,” I told him.
“When you taste this you’ll know why I used them all up.”
“You mean it’s that good?” I asked.
“Go on,” my father said as he served me. “Taste it.”
I took a bite. It was awful! The worst thing I ever ate in my life. But my father was standing there grinning at me. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.
“Well?” he said.
“It’s nice,” I told him, swallowing a chunk whole. I washed it down with a glass of milk.
“You see . . . your mother ought to experiment more. Then you’d learn to eat a lot of different things.”
“I don’t think Mom ever made me a mushroom omelet,” I said.
