by Judy Blume
It’s the same with Tootsie. She’ll be fast asleep, but she’ll make these little noises or cry out and wiggle around. Other times, she’ll work her mouth just like she’s sucking on her bottle. I guess she dreams about eating a lot. But the little sighs are my favorites, because then I know she’s content. And she feels so warm and soft, lying in my arms that way, that I feel good all over.
As soon as the show was over, Dad snapped off the TV, turned to face us, and said, “We have some really good news for you, boys.”
“Oh no, not again,” I said, looking down at Tootsie.
Mom and Dad laughed. “Something different, this time,” Dad said.
“Is it interesting?” Fudge asked, racing his little cars across the floor, “Vrooom . . . vrooom . . . vrooom. . . .”
“Yes, very interesting,” Mom said.
“Well, don’t keep us in suspense,” I said. “Let’s hear it.”
“Is suspense like privilege?” Fudge asked.
“No,” I told him. “Now shut up and listen.” I looked at my father. “Well?” I asked. Because their idea of something interesting and my idea of something interesting aren’t necessarily the same.
“We’re moving to Princeton,” Dad said.
“We’re what?” I wanted to jump up but I couldn’t. Not with Tootsie on my lap.
“Is Princeton near the park?” Fudge asked, running his little red car up and down Mom’s leg.
“No, stupid,” I said. “It’s in New Jersey.”
“Is New Jersey near the park?” he asked.
“Not Central Park,” Mom said.
“But you won’t need Central Park,” Dad said. “Because you’ll have your own backyard.”
“What’s a backyard?” Fudge asked.
“It’s like a small park,” Mom told him.
“My own park?” Fudge asked.
“More or less,” Dad said, to shut him up.
“What about art history?” I said to Mom.
“What about it?” she answered.
“I thought you were going to go back to school to study art history.”
“Princeton University has an art history department. I may take classes there.”
“It’s just for a year,” Dad said, looking at me. “To see how we like being away from the city.”
“Away . . . away . . . away . . .” Fudge sang. You can’t have a conversation in front of him. It’s useless. Couldn’t my mother and father see that?
“We’re going next week,” Dad said.
“What about Maine?” I asked. We always go to Maine for two weeks in the summer.
“M-a-i-n-e spells Maine,” Fudge sang. “M-a-i-n-e.”
“How does he know how to spell Maine?” Mom asked Dad.
“I’ve no idea,” Dad said.
“So what about it?” I pressed. “Are we going to Maine?”
“We’re going to Princeton instead,” Dad told me.
“Instead . . . instead . . . instead . . .” Fudge babbled.
“Shut up!” I yelled at him. And then I said just as loud, “I hate Princeton!”
“You’ve never even been there,” Mom said.
“Oh, yes I have. We went to visit some dumb friends of yours, and they served us this disgusting dinner . . . shrimp and mushrooms and spinach all mixed together. And I was hungry but they wouldn’t give me anything else to eat. Not even an extra piece of bread . . . I remember. . . .”
“Oh, that’s right,” Mom said. “I’d forgotten all about that day at Millie and George’s house.”
“You forget everything that’s important!”
“Look, Peter,” Dad said. “We were hoping you’d be pleased about Princeton. We’ve already rented a house there. In fact, we’ve rented Millie and George’s house. They’re going to Europe for the year.”
“That old dump!”
“It’s not a dump. It’s a beautiful old place. And we’ve arranged to sublet our apartment. So I’d like you to keep an open mind about this.”
“Open . . . open . . . open . . .” Fudge sang.
“You should have told me before. Just like you should have told me about Tootsie as soon as you knew. You never tell me anything. And here,” I said, shoving Tootsie at Dad. “Why don’t you hold your stupid baby yourself . . . because I have things to do.” I got up and marched across the living room, kicking a couple of Fudge’s cars as I went. By the time I got to my room, he was crying. Good, I thought.
And then Tootsie started. Better yet!
And then Turtle began to bark. Let them suffer!
I slammed my bedroom door, and my map wound up on my bed again.
* * *
I guess I fell asleep in my clothes, because next thing I knew Mom was shaking me and saying, “Come on, Peter . . . get undressed and under the covers. It’s late.”
“Too hot for covers . . .” I mumbled.
“Okay . . . if you want to sleep in your clothes tonight, you can. But at least take off your sneakers.”
“. . . like them where they are,” I said, sleepily.
“Okay. If you want to sleep in your sneakers, just for tonight . . .”
“Maybe every night . . .”
Mom ignored that. “Peter . . . about Princeton,” she began.
I held up my hand. “Don’t want to talk about it.”
“You don’t have to talk. Just listen.”
“Too tired to listen.”
“All right. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“Anyway, nothing I can do about it . . . just like Tootsie . . . nothing I could do about her either.”
“But you don’t mind her now, do you?”
“Getting used to her.”
“And you’ll get used to Princeton, too. You’ll see.”
Then she started telling me about where I’d go to school, but I was still half-asleep and not really listening until she said something like . . . having your little brother in the same school.
And I sat up, suddenly wide-awake. “What did you say?”
“About what?”
“Just now . . . about Fudge and school?”
“Oh . . . we’ve had him tested. And even though he’s a little young, we’re going to be able to enroll him in kindergarten. After all, he’s had a full year of preschool, and you know he can count by tens and recite the alphabet, and he knows his months and days of the week and colors, and . . . he can even spell Maine.”
“Yeah . . . yeah . . .” I said. “We all know the kid’s a genius. But you said something else . . . about him going to the same school as me?”
“That’s right. You’ll be in the sixth grade and he’ll be in kindergarten. Won’t that be fun?”
“Fun!” That did it. I jumped off the bed and grabbed my Adidas bag. “You think it’s fun to go to a new school? I don’t even know anybody there. And I definitely don’t want to go to school with the little monster. You don’t understand anything, do you?” I opened my dresser drawers and dumped my clothes into the bag. “This time I’m really leaving!”
“Peter, honey . . .” Mom said. “You can’t run away every time you hear something you think you don’t like.”
“I don’t think it, I know it!”
“Even so, running away doesn’t solve anything.”
“Maybe not for you . . . but it does for me.” I tossed in my baseball glove, my favorite jeans, half of my Mad magazines, a few of my smaller maps and a couple of tapes.
“Shall I make you a peanut butter sandwich to take along?” Mom asked, smiling.
“Don’t give me any of that little boy stuff!” I told her. “Because I mean it . . . I’m leaving!”
She stopped smiling. “I can understand how you feel . . . but Daddy and I thought . . .”
“Daddy and you don’t think the same way as me.”
“I’m beginning to see that.”
“And if you cared about me at all . . . even just a little bit . . . you wouldn’t have done this. You wouldn’t have!”<
br />
“Peter, we care about you a lot. That’s one of the reasons for moving to Princeton. And we didn’t even get to tell you the really big news.”
“Oh, there’s more?” I said. “Well, I can’t wait to hear it.”
“Daddy is taking the year off.”
I stopped packing. “He quit his job at the agency?”
“No.”
“He’s been fired?”
“No.”
“Then, what?”
“He’s taking a leave of absence. Wait . . . he wants to tell you himself.” She went to my door and called, “Warren . . . Warren . . . can you come in here?”
“I’m changing Tootsie,” Dad called back. “Be there in just a minute.”
“I thought Dad never changed a diaper in his life.”
“He didn’t. Not until Tootsie came along.”
“What’s so special about changing her diapers?” I asked.
“Nothing. It’s just that Dad realizes he missed out on some of your baby experiences, and he doesn’t want to make the same mistake again.”
“He’s so busy changing Tootsie, he hasn’t got time for anybody else!”
“Peter, that’s not fair,” Mom said.
“What do you know about fair?”
Dad came into my room, smelling like baby lotion.
“I told Peter you have a surprise for him,” Mom said.
“I’m taking the year off,” Dad said. “And that way I’ll have more time to spend with the family, because I’ll be working at home. I’m going to write a book.”
“A book?” I said.
“That’s right. On the history of advertising and its effect on the American people.”
“Couldn’t you write something more interesting?” I asked. “Like a book about a kid who runs away because his parents decide to move without asking him first.”
“Sounds like a good story,” Dad said. “Maybe you should write it yourself.”
“Maybe I will,” I said. “And I’d like to know how we’re going to eat, with you not working.”
“We’ve got some money saved . . . and I’ll probably get an advance for writing the book.”
“Give it a chance, Peter,” Mom said.
“I’ll think about it,” I told her. “But if I’m gone in the morning, don’t be surprised.”
And then, from the other room, we could hear Fudge singing himself to sleep. “M-a-i-n-e spells Maine. F-u-d-g-e spells Fudgie. P-e-t-e-r spells Pee-tah. B-e-e-r spells whiskey.”
“Will you listen to that?” I said. “The kid should be a big hit in kindergarten.”
4
Off the Wall
I told Jimmy Fargo about Princeton.
“You’re moving?” he asked, like he couldn’t believe it.
“Not exactly,” I answered. “We’re just going for a year.”
“You’re moving!” he said. “I can’t believe it.”
“Neither can I.”
“You don’t have to move,” he said. “You could stay here if you really wanted to.”
“You think I don’t want to stay? I don’t know anybody in Princeton. You think I want to go to some school where I don’t have any friends?”
“Then tell your mother and father you refuse to go. That’s what I’d do.”
“But where would I live?”
“With me.”
“But where would I sleep?”
“On the floor,” Jimmy said. “It’s good for your back to sleep on the floor.”
I thought about sleeping on the floor for a year. And about living with Jimmy and his father. Mr. Fargo used to be an actor, but now he’s a painter. He paints these weird-looking pictures of circles and triangles and squares. He’s so absentminded that he only buys food when Jimmy reminds him. One time I looked in their refrigerator, and all they had was an empty bottle of wine, half an apple, and a salami and onion sandwich so old it had turned green.
“If you don’t stay, I’m never going to talk to you again,” Jimmy said. “I mean never!” He bent down and tied his shoelace. Jimmy’s laces are always undone. “And I’m going to tell Sheila Tubman she can have your rock in the park,” he added.
“You wouldn’t!”
“Try me.”
“Some friend you’re turning out to be!”
“Same for you!” Jimmy turned and walked away, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets.
I thought of plenty more to say as soon as he was gone, but instead of running down the street after him, I went home.
“Is that you, Peter?” Mom called.
“No!” I went to my room and slammed my bedroom door. I was glad that I hadn’t bothered to hang up my map of the world again. I took out my Kreskin’s Crystal. Jimmy gave it to me on my last birthday. When I can’t fall asleep at night, I hold the chain above the lucite base and watch the small ball swing from side to side. I concentrate on it until my eyes get this heavy feeling and want to close.
I opened my window enough to throw out my Kreskin’s Crystal. I imagined it smashing into a zillion pieces on the sidewalk below. But suppose I had trouble falling asleep in Princeton. What would I do? I put it back in its box. There had to be a better way to get even with Jimmy Fargo.
Two hours later, I was still thinking up ways to get back at him, when the doorbell rang. And it was Jimmy.
“Changed my mind,” he said. “And I’m sorry.”
“Yeah . . . well . . . me too. . . .”
“I was disappointed, that’s all. I don’t want you to move . . . but there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s not your fault. . . .”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” I said.
“I know.”
“Well . . .”
“My father says Princeton’s just an hour by train.”
“That’s right.”
“So I won’t give Sheila your rock, after all.”
“Thanks. She wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway,” I said.
“But I’m not going to use it until you come back.”
“Okay. I won’t use my Kreskin’s Crystal until I get back, either.”
“Deal!” Jimmy said.
And we shook on it.
* * *
The next morning when I was going down in the elevator with Turtle, Henry said, “I’m going to miss you and your family.”
“Bet you won’t miss Fudge,” I said.
“Oh yes . . . even that little devil,” Henry said. “I remember the day he got into my elevator and pushed all the buttons at once . . . jammed up the works for two hours.” Henry laughed. He sounded like a sea lion. I always expect him to slap his arms together when he laughs. “And I’ll miss that baby of yours, too. Won’t get to see her grow up now.”
“Sure you will,” I told him. “We’re only going for a year.”
“That’s what they all say,” Henry muttered.
Outside, it was gray and humid. I wondered if the sun was shining in Princeton. As I walked Turtle down the street, he sniffed here and there, trying to find a place he liked. I encouraged him to use the curb. In Princeton he’ll be able to go wherever he likes, I thought. Maybe I won’t even have to walk him. I’ll just open the door and he’ll run out into the yard. And I won’t have to clean up after him, either.
Ever since New York City passed what I call the Doggie-Do law, walking Turtle hasn’t been that much fun. At first, when I heard that every dog owner had to clean up after his own dog, I told Mom that I wouldn’t be able to walk Turtle anymore.
Mom said, “That’s too bad, Peter. Because if you don’t walk him, who will?”
I was hoping Mom would volunteer. I was hoping she’d say, “I know how grossed out you feel at the idea of picking up Turtle’s dog-do. . . .”
But she didn’t. Instead she said, “Look, Peter . . . you’re going to have to make a tough decision. If you want to keep Turtle, you’re going to have to clean up after him. Otherwise, Daddy and I will try to find a nice farm somewhere in
the country and . . .”
I didn’t wait for her to finish. “Send Turtle to a farm?” I shouted. “Are you kidding? He’s a city dog! He’s my dog!”
“Well, then . . .” Mom said, smiling.
I got the point.
Mom bought me a contraption called a Pooper-Scooper. It’s a kind of shovel, attached to a Baggie, and when Turtle does his thing I scoop it up, get it into the Baggie, tie up the end, and toss it into the trash basket.
At first I made a mess of myself, trying to get it to work. But now I’m a regular expert. Still, it’s pretty disgusting. Almost as disgusting as Tootsie’s diapers. I wish I could train Turtle to use the toilet, especially in winter, when I stand around freezing while he takes his time, trying to make up his mind. I know it’s not Turtle’s fault. He can’t help being a dog. And when he sleeps at the foot of my bed or licks my face, it’s all worth it.
Just as Turtle was finishing, Sheila Tubman came skipping up the street. “I hear you’re moving,” she said.
I nodded, and scooped up his stuff.
“Good! I was afraid it was just a rumor. I can’t wait until you’re gone. Then I won’t have to smell your yucky dog anymore.”
“My dog is not yucky!” I yelled, tying up the poop bag.
“Did you ever smell him, Peter?”
“Yes, all the time.”
“Well, I guess you don’t notice because you smell so much like him yourself.” She started skipping away.
“Hey, Sheila . . .” I called.
“Yes?” She turned around.
“Stuff it!”
“Peter Hatcher, you are disgusting!”
“That’s better than what you are,” I called, enjoying myself.
“Oh yeah . . . what’s that?” she asked.
“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
“Ha ha, very funny,” she said. “You and your yucky dog are both very funny!”
“Sic her, Turtle,” I said. Turtle growled, then started barking, which was very funny, because he doesn’t know what sic her means. But Sheila didn’t know that he didn’t know, so she started screaming and running toward our building. And when Turtle saw her go crazy like that, he took off after her, barking up a storm, thinking it was some kind of game. He pulled his leash right out of my hand, so I had to chase him, calling, “Turtle, Turtle . . . down boy,” because he was already jumping up and down on Sheila, trying to lick her face.
