TV helicopters hovered overhead.
There was even a TV guy on a scooter.
“We gotta run,” Mom hollered out the car window to the Brawleys. “Hop in quick, Michael.”
“You’ll talk to your #@$%* ex-husband, right?” said Mr. Brawley.
“He shouldn’t be the only £¢#&% getting rich off our kids,” added Mrs. Brawley.
“I’ll see what I can do,” said Mom, then she muttered, “Not,” as soon as Michael climbed into the car and slammed his door shut.
Mom floored the gas pedal. We raced up the street, but the news crews sped behind us. Except the guy on the scooter—he got knocked off his ride by the funnel cloud of garbage stirred up by all the helicopters.
Mom pulled into the drop-off lane at school.
So did the TV satellite trucks.
Principal Ferguson was standing at the front of the school, hiding behind two eighth-grade crossing guards who kept telling the pushy TV reporters to “back off, dudes.”
Principal Ferguson ushered Mom, Michael, and me into the building and then took us into his office and locked the door.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said to Mom. “Maybe it would be best if Michael and David stayed home until this Pottymouth and Stoopid craze dies down. Maybe for a week. Make it a month. Heck, according to their IQ tests, they’re both geniuses so they probably already know everything they would’ve been studying anyway.”
Mom’s jaw dropped. “They’re geniuses?”
“Yes,” said Principal Ferguson, nervously peeking through his venetian blinds at the mayhem out in the parking lot. “It’s in their permanent records.”
Mom grinned. “I knew it. My little Einsteins.”
“That’s a good idea,” said Principal Ferguson. “Homeschool them for a while. Use those Baby Einstein videos.”
“I can’t. I have to go to work.”
“She has three jobs,” I added.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Scungili. I’m sure you and your husband can work something out.”
And guess what? When the principal said that, Mom grinned again.
This time, the grin was extremely sly.
“You’re right, Principal Ferguson. I’m certain we can. In fact, I know we will. Come on, David. Michael. We’re heading home. I need to make a few phone calls.”
“Ex-Dad?” I asked.
“Nope. I’m going to call a lawyer I know. He can call your ex-dad.”
TONY SCUNGILI
David’s “Ex-Dad”
I was sound asleep.
I’d just bought a top-of-the-line sleep-quotient adjustable bed. It’s extremely comfy, and extremely expensive.
Anyway, I was sleeping and the phone starts ringing. I hate when it does that.
But when I saw the name in the Caller ID window, I knew I had to answer it. I’ll be honest with you—the call kind of shook me up.
“I understand,” I said into the phone. “I’m on it.”
After a call like that, there was no way I could go back to sleep.
Hometown Heroes
Our awesome vacation from school didn’t last very long—just two days.
On the afternoon of the second day, Principal Ferguson called Mom. “We’d like David and Michael to return to school.”
Mom put her phone on speaker so I could hear what Principal Ferguson had to say, and she gave me another one of her sly grins.
“Really?” she said. “Have circumstances changed?”
“Everything has,” said Principal Ferguson.
“Wow,” said Mom coyly. “I wonder how that happened.”
“I received a few very interesting phone calls,” said Principal Ferguson.
“What a coincidence. I made a few very interesting phone calls. One was to a lawyer I know from the restaurant where I waitress. He likes our chicken noodle soup.”
“Rest assured, ma’am,” Principal Ferguson told Mom, “things are going to be very, very different here at school for Michael and David. For starters, we’re moving them into our gifted and talented program.”
Wow, I thought. Gifted and talented sounded a lot better than Pottymouth and Stoopid.
“We have some other surprises lined up too,” said Principal Ferguson.
“Like what?” I blurted at the speakerphone.
“If I told you,” said Principal Ferguson, “they wouldn’t be surprises.”
So the next morning, Michael and I went to school as usual. But the ride was anything but usual.
For starters, we weren’t in Mom’s clunker car. We were riding in an SUV with dark-tinted windows and a chauffeur behind the wheel. Two giant men had ushered us into the car.
“Gentlemen,” the chauffeur had said to us in a thick Russian accent. “My name is Sergei. I will be your driver today. Your bodyguards are Olaf and Petro. They know many ways to relocate body parts.”
Yep. We had bodyguards. And a police escort!
Fred Grabowski was standing in front of the school when our motorcade pulled up. “You guys deserve the escort,” he gushed. “And you deserve that too!”
He pointed to a banner hanging on the front of the school: MICHAEL AND DAVID DAY!
“We’re not Pottymouth and Stoopid anymore?” said Michael.
“Nope,” said Fred. “Not today. Today you’re our brand-new, internationally famous hometown heroes!”
Is This Real Life?
Michael and David Day started out extremely weird for us, like a pumped-up Opposite Day.
For one thing, the halls were mobbed with kids dressed up like characters from the show. Since the two main characters were Pottymouth and Stoopid, aka us, it was like Michael and I were walking through a funhouse filled with those wacky mirrors. Everywhere we looked, we saw chubby, skinny, tall, and short copies of ourselves.
Even weirder—we were being cheered and high-fived all around. It was like we were some kind of big heroes. There was even a cake. Two, actually, shaped and frosted to look like Pottymouth and Stoopid.
“You guys are the awesometastic-est!” cried Katherine Kelly, high-fiving us as we passed.
“You don’t go to this school,” I reminded her.
“I do now!” she said. “My parents moved to this school district just so I could be closer to you two!”
Weird was becoming crazy.
Michael and I were the same kids we’d always been. We hadn’t changed at all. (Okay, I was wearing a super-clean shirt, not just the first one out of the hamper that passed the sniff test.) The only thing different was everybody else’s bizarre attitudes toward us!
Then crazy became creepy.
Teachers started acting nice to us too!
When we reached the school office, Principal Ferguson came out to fist-bump us. “Good morning, David. Michael. We have a very special day lined up for you two.”
“Really?” I asked. “Are they serving Michael’s chili-bacon-cheese corn dogs for lunch?”
“Maybe later. First, we’re having an assembly.”
“About what?” asked Michael.
“About you two.”
“Grizzlesnorts!”
“It’s true. It’s all part of Michael and David Day.”
That’s when Kaya Kennecky rounded a corner to scowl at us. She was holding her cheerleader pom-poms so tightly they were vibrating even though she wasn’t shaking them.
“And I get to lead all your cheers,” she said through the tightest, fakest smile I have ever seen. “Isn’t that special?”
“Yeah,” said Michael doing his own version of Mom’s sly grin. “Fripplegerkin special.”
“Let’s head to the gym!” said Principal Ferguson cheerily.
I shrugged. “Fine. Whatever.”
As Michael and I strode up the corridor toward the gymnasium, we could hear the entire student body clapping to the beat as loudspeakers boomed the very familiar Pottymouth & Stoopid theme song.
When we climbed up the steps to the stage, we noticed someone very familiar sitt
ing in one of the folding chairs with the other assorted grown-ups.
Ex-Dad.
Bullies Beware
Porter Malkiel, the big cheese from the Cartoon Factory, was sitting right next to my ex-dad.
Of course, I didn’t know who he was until he stood up and shot out his arm to shake hands with us. He had a very strong grip for such a short guy. He wore black everything and had one of those triangle beards in the middle of his chin.
“Hi, guys,” Mr. Malkiel said, like he wanted to slap us on the back. “We at the Cartoon Factory are sooooo glad your mother’s lawyer called us to let us know that you two were the true inspiration for the biggest hit in Cartoon Factory history.”
“Is that why today’s fricklebrickle Michael and David Day?” asked Michael. “So we don’t sue your pants off?”
Mr. Malkiel laughed and snapped his fingers. “I like that.” He whipped out his phone and started talking into it. “Note to self. New show. A court where the judge sentences you to twenty years without pants.” He slipped his iPhone back into his sleek jeans. “Now here’s how this assembly is going to work, gang. David, your father—”
“You mean my ex-father.”
“Got it. Right. I’ll introduce your ex-father, Tony Scungili. He’ll yak a little.”
“Really?” I asked. “What’s he going to say?”
Mr. Malkiel gave us a wink. “Exactly what our lawyers told him to say. He’s also signed documents granting you two a very generous percentage of his past, present, and future earnings on P and S.”
“Awesometastic,” said Michael.
“When he’s done gabbing, you two get up and say a few words.”
“Sludgepuggle,” said Michael.
Mr. Malkiel arched an eyebrow and looked worried. “Well, maybe we’ll just have you speak, David.”
It was Michael’s turn to shrug. “Whatever floats your boomboolie boat, Mr. Malkiel.”
“Say a few words about what?” I’d never talked in front of a huge crowd like this, and I suddenly got the heebie-jeebies. “And what’s with all the cameras?” I asked, noticing several film crews ringed around the stage. “Are we going to be on the local news again?”
“Nope,” said the Cartoon Factory president. “We’re shooting footage for an upcoming documentary.”
“Cool,” I said. “What’s it about?”
“You two. The true story behind the making of America’s favorite cartoon characters.” He framed the air with his hands. “Pottymouth and Stoopid: The Truth Behind the Laughs. That’s just the working title; I’ll pay someone to come up with something better. Anyway, let’s get going. You don’t want to keep your fans waiting…”
The crowd was on its feet, stomping to the beat of the show’s theme song, which seemed to be playing on some sort of endless loop.
Mr. Malkiel stepped up to the microphone.
“Hello, fellow knuckleheads and animation maniacs!” he said, and then he introduced himself.
The audience roared.
“You know,” the head of the Cartoon Factory continued, “when I was a kid, they used to tease me and call me Stubby because I was so vertically challenged. Okay, I was short. As you might imagine, I did not like being called Stubby. Or Stumpy. Or Oompa-Loompa. So that’s why I was so glad when Pottymouth and Stoopid came along. Finally, someone was standing up for those of us who have been word-bullied our entire lives!”
Whhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaat?
The show was standing up for us?
Huh. All along, I’d thought Ex-Dad and the Cartoon Factory were just making fun of us.
“Here to tell you more is the creator of Pottymouth and Stoopid. The very, shall we say, ‘observant’ Mr. Tony Scungili.”
Ex-Dad was mopping his forehead with a doily from someone’s grandmother’s house (or a very expensive handkerchief; the kind fancy people in pirate movies always swish around).
Michael and I settled back in our chairs.
Seeing Ex-Dad sweat in front of his boss and five hundred middle-schoolers?
This was gonna be priceless.
How Do You Know Ex-Dad’s Lying?
His Lips Are Moving
Ex-Dad shuffled nervously toward the microphone, fumbling with a stack of bright pink notecards in his hand.
“Um, hi,” he said, leaning into the microphone because the stand had been lowered for President Stubby. “As those of you lucky enough to go to school with my son, David Scungili, and his best friend since forever, a kid I’ve known almost his entire life, Michael, uh, er…Michael…”
“It’s Littlefield, sir,” said Michael, rolling his eyes. “Sludgepuggle.”
“That’s right,” Ex-Dad said quickly. “Michael Littlefield. He and David are super kids. I’m proud to know them both. And, yes, Michael and David were the inspiration for Pottymouth and Stoopid.”
“No,” shrieked Kaya from somewhere off in the distance. “It can’t be true.”
“It’s true,” shouted our second-biggest fan, Will Hunt. “Deal with it, sister!”
“It is true,” said Ex-Dad. “You see, kids, I’m passionate about bringing the terrible issue of word-bullying to America’s attention. It is something of a cause with me. I’ve always dreamed about doing a cartoon series that would show the world how some kids get unfairly labeled early in life. And those labels can be very hard to lose. They stick with you. Sort of like when you step in bubble gum. So that’s why I created Pottymouth and Stoopid.”
“Seriously?” shouted someone from the audience.
“You didn’t just do it to be funny?” hollered another.
“Or for the moola?” yelled someone else.
“No,” said Ex-Dad, shaking his head vigorously. “No, no, no. I was a man on a mission, hoping to erase our nation’s plague of ugly name-calling!”
“But,” said Ex-Dad when his armpits of his shirt were soaked through with sweat, “enough about me and my dreams. You came here today to celebrate and honor two of your own, Pottymouth and Stoopid. Er, I mean Michael and David. One of whom, I am thrilled to call my son. The other I, uh, call Michael. Or Mike. But never Mikey. Because that would be, uh, labeling. I think. I’m not really sure…”
Still mumbling, Ex-Dad finally moved away from the microphone.
“Okay, David,” whispered Mr. Malkiel. “You’re on. Tell ’em everything.”
“Everything?”
“The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
“That could take a while, sir. I have like a whole novel’s worth of stories to unload on these people.”
“Take as long as you like, kiddo. We’ve booked the gym for the entire day. And who knows? When we put together your documentary, maybe we’ll publish an illustrated book about you guys too!”
“Cool.”
The stage was mine.
And this is the point where you came in, way back on page 1. Sorry for the loooong flashback.
“Okay,” I said. “Everybody here already knows us, right? We’re Pottymouth and Stoopid, thanks to all of you. Those have been our names since you gave them to us, like, forever ago. We’re the class clowns. No, wait. We’re the class jokes.”
I told them our real, true story.
And I told it our way.
As you know, I didn’t leave anything out. The good, the bad, the ugly… and the even worse and the uglier.
I guess it was sort of “like father, like son” (or, in my case, “like ex-dad, like son”), because I wanted to finish what he’d started talking about. I was also on a mission. But unlike my ex-dad, I wanted to tell the world how truly awful and hurtful and just plain mean labels can be.
Especially when they’re completely wrong.
So my long life story you’ve been reading is the story I told. I talked about how it felt to be stuck with this name I couldn’t shake. I tried to describe what it was like to be treated as if I were garbage by kids and teachers who hardly knew me. How angry and sad I felt all the time.
And how lucky I was to have friends like Michael and Anna.
When I was done, the audience clapped and cheered and gave us a standing ovation. Even Kaya Kennecky. (Of course, she’s a cheerleader. Cheering is sort of her job.)
I have to tell you, I wish all that screaming and chanting and applause could’ve gone on forever. It was the first time that I’d felt happy to be in school.
Ever.
PART TWO
What Happens Now?
Say Buh-Bye, Ex-Dad
So now we’re all caught up.
After the mega-assembly, we lost our bodyguards and chauffeur. They needed to whisk el presidente, Mr. Porter Malkiel, off to his private jet. He was flying back to the Chicago headquarters of the Cartoon Factory.
“But let’s keep in touch, you knuckleheads,” he said to Michael and me. “I mean it.” Then he turned his thumb and pinkie into a telephone, wiggled it alongside his head, and said, “I’ll call you two later. Seriously.”
I didn’t expect to hear from him again. So far, the adults I’d met in the TV industry hadn’t been all that reliable. Speaking of which…
Ex-Dad drove me, Michael, and Anna back to Mom’s house in his fancy convertible.
It was an extremely tight squeeze.
It also made for a very interesting ride. Especially since I had never eaten mosquitoes or tasted gnats before.
Since we were riding in a car with the top down, everybody could see us, and we were easily spotted and then chased by the paparazzi. And the news helicopters. And a guy making pizza deliveries. (I think one of the TV reporters tailing us had ordered a pepperoni pie.)
Luckily, Mom had left the garage door open.
Ex-Dad zoomed right in. I hopped out and bopped the button to close the garage door.
Pottymouth and Stoopid Page 9
