Superfudge

by Judy Blume

  Outside, a line had formed in front of the movie theater.

  As we were walking to the end of it, I spotted Joanne McFadden. She was with Sharon, who’s always looking at the ground or the sky, and Elaine, who likes to punch guys in the stomach.

  I guess Joanne spotted me too, because she called, “Peter . . .” and waved me over to her. “Give me your money and I’ll buy your tickets,” she said. “That way you won’t have to stand at the end of the line.”

  Mom had given me enough to treat Alex, Jimmy and Daniel, so I passed the bill to Joanne and stood right behind her. When the wind blew, her hair hit my face, and I didn’t move, even though it tickled my nose.

  “Well,” Elaine said, after we had our tickets, “aren’t you going to introduce us to him?” She nodded in Jimmy’s direction.

  “Oh, sure. Jimmy, meet Elaine, Sharon and Joanne.”

  Jimmy looked at Sharon for a long time. Sharon looked at the sky.

  “I’m Daniel Manheim,” the little creep said. “I’m six. I live at 432 Vine Street.”

  “That’s nice,” Elaine said. “And who are you?” she asked Fudge.

  “Fudge Hatcher.”

  “Your little brother?” Joanne asked me.

  “Uh huh.”

  “I never knew you had such an adorable little brother.” Joanne had never said so many words to me at once.

  Fudge smiled. “Adorable . . . that’s me.”

  “And I’m Daniel Manheim. I’m six.”

  “We know,” Elaine said.

  “You want to make something of it?” Daniel asked in his best tough-guy voice.

  “Yeah,” Elaine said. “Put ’em up!” She made two fists and held them to Daniel’s nose.

  Daniel started to cry. “Don’t hit me . . . please don’t hit me . . . I’m only six. . . .” He covered his face with his hands.

  “I’m not going to hit you, you doof!” Elaine said. “I only hit guys my own age. Right, Alex?” And with that, she belted Alex in the gut.

  “Cut it out, you . . .” Alex shouted a lot of good words at Elaine.

  Daniel jumped up and down, singing, “He said the A-word . . . he said the A-word. . . .”

  “Shut up!” Elaine said to Daniel. “Or I will slug you.”

  “You promised you wouldn’t,” Daniel whined. “And I’m only six, remember?”

  “Why don’t you all cut it out,” Sharon said, looking at the ground.

  We went inside and stopped at the candy counter to buy popcorn and Cokes. Then we found seats for the kindergarten babies, got them settled, and crossed over to the other side of the theater, where we found an empty row for the six of us. Alex went in first, then Jimmy, then me, then Joanne, Sharon and Elaine. I wondered if Joanne had planned to sit next to me, the same way I had planned to sit next to her.

  When the picture started, Joanne offered me some of her popcorn, and when I reached into the carton, our fingers touched. Then I offered her some of mine, so our fingers touched again. By that time my fingers were covered with grease, but who cared? I began to relax, concentrating more on sitting next to Joanne than on the movie, but maybe that was because I’d already seen it.

  Then, right when Superman was about to kiss Lois Lane, I felt something icy cold slither down my back, and I let out a yelp.

  Fudge was hanging over the back of my seat, with a handful of ice cubes from his Coke. “Hi, Pee-tah. . . .”

  “You little . . .” But there was no way I could catch him. He was already racing up the aisle.

  “Here . . .” Joanne said, handing me a Kleenex.

  “Could you do it?” I asked. “I don’t think I can reach all the way down my back.”

  Joanne mopped off my neck and then my back. And when she’d finished, she put her hand close to mine, and the next thing I knew we were holding hands. Hers was soft but cold.

  When the movie ended, Joanne, Sharon and Elaine walked home in one direction, and we walked home in the other.

  “So what’s it like to be in love?” Alex asked me.

  “What are you talking about?” I said.

  “What are you talking about?” Alex mimicked.

  And Jimmy said, “So when’s the wedding?”

  “Cut it out, will you?” I said.

  * * *

  By the time we got home, Alex and Jimmy were talking and laughing as if they’d been best friends for about a hundred years, and I felt left out.

  Dad had cooked a big pot of spaghetti, and Daniel was eyeing it until Mom told him how many onions had gone into the sauce. Not only that, but Mom had fixed a bowl of peas as a side dish. And that was funny because we never have anything with spaghetti but bread and salad.

  “I don’t eat anything with onions. And I don’t eat peas either,” Daniel said. “What else do you have?”

  “Nothing,” Mom told him.

  “Then I guess I’ll go home for supper,” Daniel said.

  I thought I saw Mom smile.

  After supper Alex went home to get his sleeping bag, and he and Jimmy both slept on the floor in my room. I wondered why I didn’t feel better about the two of them being friends. Just because they liked each other didn’t mean they didn’t like me. But I had a hard time convincing myself.

  * * *

  For the next week, Fudge walked around talking to himself. “To most people he is Fudge Hatcher, a regular boy. Only his trusty myna bird and his friend, Daniel, know the truth. ‘Faster than a speeding bullet; more powerful than a locomotive. . . .’”

  * * *

  “Do you remember when I was born?” he asked me one morning.

  “Yes.”

  “Did I really grow inside of Mommy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh,” he said, sounding disappointed.

  “Why?”

  “Because if I did grow inside of Mommy, then I can’t be from another planet.”

  “Take it from me,” I said, “you are definitely from Earth.”

  A few days later, Daniel told Fudge that he had been adopted as a baby. “So Daniel might be from another planet!” Fudge said.

  Yeah, I thought. That would explain a lot.

  “And he might even be able to fly.”

  “Don’t count on it,” I said.

  “Daniel is my best friend,” Fudge said. “If it turns out he’s from another planet, he’s going to take me there to visit.”

  “Swell,” I told him. “Don’t hurry back.”

  “You’re just jealous because you don’t have a friend who can fly.”

  “I don’t even have a friend from another planet,” I said.

  “Too bad for you, Pee-tah!” And he took off, flapping his arms, and calling, “‘It’s a bird . . . it’s a plane . . .’”

  10

  Santa Who?

  My father signed up for ten Chinese-cooking lessons. He bought a wok, which is a big, round pot, and four cookbooks. Most nights, he would sit in front of the fire, reading.

  “When you finish writing your book, maybe you can open a Chinese restaurant,” I suggested.

  “I don’t want to open a restaurant,” Dad said, thumbing through The A to Z of Chinese Cookery.

  “I just mentioned that because Jimmy Fargo’s father used to be an actor and now he’s a painter, so I thought maybe you were going from advertising to writing to cooking.”

  “No,” Dad answered. “Cooking will be a hobby for me, not a profession.”

  “Oh,” I said. Then I added, “I like to know what’s going on, and sometimes you forget to tell me.”

  “Nothing’s going on,” Dad said. He flipped through a couple of pages, then turned to Mom. “What do you think about making this for tomorrow night? Stir-fried chicken with green onions, mushrooms, water chestnuts and a touch of ginger?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Mom said.

  “Cocoa and animal crackers sounds good to me,” Fudge said. He’d been very quiet tonight, stretched out on the floor with a pad of paper and a fat, green crayon.
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  “Anyone else for cocoa and animal crackers?” Mom asked, getting out of her favorite chair and yawning.

  “Me,” I called.

  “Make it unanimous,” Dad said.

  “What’s unanimous?” Fudge asked.

  “It’s when everyone agrees,” I explained.

  “Everyone agrees,” Fudge repeated. “That’s nice. I like it when everyone agrees.”

  “What are you so busy drawing?” I asked.

  “I’m not drawing . . . I’m writing.”

  “What are you writing?”

  “A letter to Santa.”

  “Isn’t it a little early,” I asked, “since we’re still eating leftover turkey from Thanksgiving?”

  “It’s never too early,” Fudge said.

  “Where’d you hear that one?” I asked.

  “From Grandma,” he said.

  “I thought so.”

  “That makes it amanimous,” Fudge said.

  “Hey, Dad,” I said, “I wish you’d think twice before you use big words in front of him. Now he’s messing up another one.”

  “Messing . . . messing . . . messing . . .” Fudge babbled.

  “It must be pretty hard to write a letter when you can’t even write,” I said to him, chuckling.

  “I can write.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since I was born.”

  “Very funny!”

  “Just because you never see me write doesn’t mean that I can’t. Right, Dad?”

  “Good reasoning, Fudge,” Dad said.

  “Let me see that letter,” I said, suddenly wondering if the kid really did know how to write. Maybe he is some kind of genius and my parents don’t want me to find out because I’m just a regular kid, I thought. Maybe they already know that he’s going to skip first and second grades. Worse yet, maybe he’s going to skip all of elementary and wind up in seventh grade next year, with me. Worse than that, maybe he’s going to be one of those kids who goes off to college at twelve. There’ll be stories about him in all of the news magazines. And people will say to me, “Hatcher . . . hmmm, that sounds familiar. You aren’t, by any chance, related to that child genius, Fudge Hatcher, are you?” And I’ll have to admit, “Yeah, he’s my little brother.” And they’ll scratch their heads and say, “Wow . . . too bad some of it didn’t rub off on you.” Then they’ll laugh and walk away. I reached over and grabbed Fudge’s letter. I looked it over carefully. “It’s just scribbling,” I said, feeling relieved.

  “It is not!” Fudge said.

  “Santa’s never going to be able to read this,” I told him.

  “He’ll read the important part.”

  “There’s only one word that makes sense,” I said. “Bike.”

  “That’s the important part,” Fudge told me, grabbing back his letter.

  “I’ll help you write a real letter,” I said.

  “This is a real letter.”

  “I’ll help you write one to go along with this one, just in case Santa has trouble understanding what you want.”

  I could see Fudge thinking over my offer. When he’s thinking hard, he scrunches up his lips and looks like a monkey.

  “Okay,” he said. And he passed me the green crayon and a fresh piece of paper. “I’ll tell you what to say.” He stood over me and began to dictate.

  “Dear Santa . . . Please bring me a two-wheeler bicycle. It should be red, just like Pee-tah’s.”

  “Come on,“ I said, “be original. Ask for a blue bike, or a yellow one.”

  “Red,” he repeated, “just like Pee-tah’s. And no training wheels. Training wheels are for babies.” He paused.

  “Go on . . .”

  “That’s all. I’m finished. I can sign my own name.” He printed Fudgie, in big letters at the bottom of the page.

  “Aren’t you going to write your last name, too?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Suppose Santa gets mixed up?”

  “He won’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “There aren’t that many kids named Fudge. But just in case I’ll put an H after my name. That way he’ll be sure.”

  Mom came back from the kitchen carrying a tray, and we all spread out on the floor and had cocoa and cookies.

  “I’ll mail your letter tomorrow,” Dad told Fudge.

  “Do you know Santa’s address?” Fudge asked.

  “Yes,” Dad said.

  “What is it?”

  “Uh . . . I can’t remember, but I have it in my file,” Dad said, and he and Mom smiled at each other.

  * * *

  “Daniel is asking for a bicycle, too,” Fudge reported two mornings later. “So we’ll be able to ride to school together.”

  “If Santa brings you a bike,” I reminded him.

  “Why wouldn’t he? I’m a good boy. Aren’t I a good boy, Mommy?”

  I didn’t wait for my mother to answer. “There are a lot of kids who can’t get what they want even if they deserve to get it. There are a lot of kids who . . .”

  “Why can’t they get what they want?” Fudge asked.

  “Because toys and bicycles cost money!” I said.

  “So . . . Santa doesn’t have to pay.”

  “That’s not exactly how it works,” I said, gulping down my milk.

  “Then how does it work?”

  “Ask Mom or Dad. They’ll tell you.” I gathered my books and zipped up my jacket.

  “How does it work?” Fudge asked.

  “Hurry up, Fudgie,” Mom said, avoiding his question, “or you’ll be late for school.”

  * * *

  When I got home that afternoon, I cornered my mother. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to let him go on believing in Santa. He thinks you can get whatever you want by just asking. He doesn’t know about people who can’t afford to buy presents. You should do something about that. After all, you told him where babies come from. How can a kid who knows where babies come from still believe in Santa?”

  “I don’t see what one thing has to do with the other,” Mom said. “But I do agree that sooner or later he’ll have to learn that Santa is just an idea.” She sighed. “But for now, he’s so enthusiastic and the idea of Santa is so lovely that Daddy and I have decided it can’t possibly hurt. So please go along with us for a while, Peter.”

  “I suppose you’re going to tell Tootsie all about Santa too?”

  “I suppose so,” Mom said.

  “Well, I think it’s a mistake!” I said. I turned and walked away. I couldn’t remember ever having believed in Santa. When I was three I caught my parents stacking presents under the tree. And by the time I was five, I knew exactly where to look for the presents my parents thought they had carefully hidden from me. And this year I already knew that I’d be getting a check from Grandma and a clock-radio from my parents. I heard Mom and Grandma discussing it on the phone last weekend. Sometimes I think it would be more fun to be surprised on Christmas morning. I wish my family would try harder to keep secrets from me.

  * * *

  That night, after Tootsie had been put to sleep, Fudge got after the rest of us to write our letters to Santa. “The early bird catches the worm,” he said.

  “Who told you that, Uncle Feather?” I asked, laughing.

  “No, Mrs. Muldour,” Fudge answered, seriously. He handed each of us a pencil and a piece of paper. “Only three weeks to go,” he said. Then he danced around singing, “‘He’s making a list and checking it twice, gonna find out who’s naughty and nice, Santa Who is comin’ to town.’”

  “Santa Who?” I said.

  “Santa Claus!” he laughed, clapping his hands. “Get it? It’s a joke. I say Santa Who. Then you say Santa Who? Then I say Santa Claus . . . get it?”

  “Yeah, sure . . . I get it.”

  “Isn’t that a good joke?”

  “Yeah, great.”

  “Daniel taught it to me.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  F
udge put his hands on his hips. “Now hurry up and write your letters to Santa,” he said.

  Rather than argue, we wrote our letters. I knew what was coming next.

  “Now everybody reads their letter out loud. You first, Pee-tah.”

  I looked over at Mom and Dad. They nodded their heads, encouraging me. So I read my letter, feeling like a kindergarten baby for the first time in a long time.

  Dear Santa,

  Please bring me one or more of the following items. A clock-radio, a remote-controlled model airplane, a laptop computer, an MP3 player and six CDs.

  Thank you very much.

  Sincerely,

  Peter W. Hatcher

  “How will Santa know which six CDs?” Fudge asked.

  “He can just leave me a gift certificate. That way he won’t have to waste time trying to figure it out.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know Santa could leave gift certificates.”

  “Santa can leave anything he feels like leaving,” I said.

  Fudge accepted that and said, “Now you, Mommy.”

  When Mom and Dad had finished reading their letters to Santa, Fudge said, “What about Grandma?”

  “I’m sure she’s making her list,” Mom said.

  “What about Tootsie?”

  “Tootsie’s too young to write to Santa,” I said.

  “Then you write for her,” Fudge said, shoving another piece of paper at me.

  “Do I have to do this?” I asked.

  “It would be nice, Peter,” Mom told me.

  “All right. Dear Santa, Please bring me a teddy bear and a pull toy and a . . . a . . .”

  “A box of zwieback,” Fudge said. “And that’s enough for her. She’s just a baby. She doesn’t know anything.” Fudge was quiet for a minute. Then he said, “What about Turtle?”

  “Oh, come on . . . this is getting ridiculous,” I said. “And I have homework.”

  But he’d ripped another piece of paper from his pad.

  Dear Santa, I wrote. Please bring me a rubber ball, some dog biscuits and a new collar. Yours truly, Turtle Hatcher. I folded the letter, handed it to Fudge and said, “I’m not going to write one for Uncle Feather.”

  Fudge laughed. “Uncle Feather can write his own.”

  * * *

  Daniel came over the next afternoon.

  “Did you write to Santa yet?” I asked.