by Bill Harley
CHARLIE BUMPERS
vs. HIS BIG BLABBY MOUTH
CHARLIE BUMPERS
vs. HIS BIG BLABBY MOUTH
Bill Harley
Illustrated by Adam Gustavson
Published by
PEACHTREE PUBLISHERS
1700 Chattahoochee Avenue
Atlanta, Georgia 30318-2112
www.peachtree-online.com
Text © 2017 by Bill Harley
Illustrations © 2017 by Adam Gustavson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Edited by Vicky Holifield
Design by Nicola Simmonds Carmack
Composition by Melanie McMahon Ives
The illustrations were rendered in India ink and watercolor.
ISBN: 978-1-68263-023-5 (ebook)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Harley, Bill, 1954- author. | Gustavson, Adam, illustrator.
Title: Charlie Bumpers vs. his big blabby mouth / written by Bill Harley ;
illustrated by Adam Gustavson.
Other titles: Charlie Bumpers versus his big blabby mouth
Description: First edition. | Atlanta : Peachtree Publishers, [2017] | Summary: “With a little exaggerated bragging, Charlie convinces his classmates that his accountant dad would be the greatest Career Week speaker ever, and, using his friend Tommy’s ‘Parent Persuasion Strategy,’ he finally talks his dad into coming. What could possibly go wrong with Charlie’s plan?”— Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016052237 | ISBN 9781561459407
Subjects: | CYAC: Fathers—Fiction. | Occupations—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | Humorous stories.
Classification: LCC PZ7.H22655 Cd 2017 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at
https://lccn.loc.gov/2016052237
To Marken
Welcome to the clan
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
1—Almost the President
2—I Am Math Genius
3—My Hand Went Up All by Itself
4—Parent Persuasion Strategy
5—A Hopeless Dweeb
6—My Big Blabby Mouth
7—At Least Vice President
8—Rockets on My Feet
9—There Are Dinosaurs in My Pot
10—Even the First Graders!
11—A Big Poopbrain
12—In Really Bad Shape
13—Putting Your Foot in Your Mouth
14—The Wicked Witch of Santiago
15—About to Explode
16—Transformation!
17—King Philip Elementary Honor Student
18—The Kid Who Knocked Over Mrs. Blumgarden
19—An Ignoramus the Size of Mount Everest
20—Waiting for the Helicopter
21—“Noombers Are Bee-yoo-ti-ful Things”
22—A Little Happy Dance
About the Authors
1
Almost the President
“Struggle of the Titans?” my best friend Tommy Kasten blurted out. “Your dad made up Struggle of the Titans?”
“Yeah yeah yeah,” Alex McLeod said, his legs and head bobbing up and down. “With three other guys in his company.”
“Best game ever!” Tommy started making ray gun noises like he was fighting a space alien.
“I’ve never heard of it,” Ellen Holmes said.
“I can’t wait for your dad to come in, Alex,” Robby Rosen said. “Maybe he’ll bring in free games for each of us.”
“That would be awesome,” said Hector Adélia, another one of my best friends.
“He can’t,” Alex said. “He’s going on a business trip that week.”
A bunch of us were sitting at lunch in the cafeteria talking about Career Week, which my fourth-grade class was having in two weeks. Every afternoon, parents would come in to talk to us about their jobs.
Ellen, Robby, Hector, and Alex were in Mrs. Burke’s class with me. Tommy was in Mrs. Ladislavski’s class (everyone calls her “Mrs. L.”) and so was Tracy Hazlett, who was also sitting at our table.
“I hope Tricia’s dad comes and brings stuff for us,” I said.
“What’s he do?” Alex asked.
“She told me he works for a company that makes all sorts of sports jerseys and hats. Maybe he’ll bring everyone a hat.”
“I wish we were having Career Week,” Tommy groaned. “Mrs. L.’s class always has Rainforest Week. No one ever gets jerseys or hats on Rainforest Week.”
“Maria’s parents run a bakery,” Alex said. “Maybe they’ll bring in something to eat.”
“Oh, man, I love their bakery!” Tommy said. “Sometimes we get their cinnamon rolls on Saturday mornings. Maybe I could transfer to your class for the week.”
“Charlie, what do your parents do?” Robby asked.
I hadn’t asked my parents to come in for Career Week.
Mostly because I forgot.
My parents didn’t design games or bake rolls or make jerseys and hats.
“My mom’s a nurse,” I said. “She visits people in their homes. My dad’s an accountant.”
“What’s that?” Robby asked.
“He mostly works with numbers.”
“He just sits around adding and subtracting numbers all day? That sounds really boring,” Robby said, faking a big yawn.
“My dad’s not boring.” I glared at Robby. “He’s … he’s great at math.”
“A math genius,” Tommy added.
My best friend has a way of exaggerating things.
“Really?” Tracy Hazlett asked. “A genius?”
She smiled at me, which made my stomach very confused. I don’t know why. I always have a hard time talking to Tracy Hazlett, which I don’t want to talk about.
“Um, yeah,” I said. “He’s really smart. He makes a lot of decisions for his company.”
“Like what?” Robby asked.
Actually, I didn’t know what kind of decisions my dad made. I remembered once my dad told us that Mr. Jameson, the president of the company, had called him in for a private talk. I could tell my dad thought it was important.
“Big business stuff,” I said. “Like when the president needs to know something, he always asks my dad.”
“Whoop-de-doo,” said Robby. “Numbers are boring. My dad builds houses, and sometimes he lets me come and help him.”
My dad had never asked me to help him at work. Sometimes he brought papers home and worked on his computer, but he’d never really showed me what he did.
“If my dad came in, you’d see how awesome he is,” I said. “He’s got a very important job.”
“Like almost the president?” Tracy Hazlett asked.
“Well, almost,” I said.
“Do you think your dad would really come in, Charlie?” Alex asked.
“I forgot to ask him. If Mrs. Burke still needs another parent, though, I bet he would.”
“If he comes in, I hope he doesn’t give us multiplication problems,” Robby muttered.
“He’d be stupific,” Tommy said. “Stupific” is a word Tommy and I made up that means stupendous and terrific. “I’ve seen him do cool tricks with calculators.”
“Calculators?” Alex asked. “Could he bring in calculators?”
Just then the buzzer sounded and lunch period was over. Everybody got up from the table,
but I just sat there holding my milk carton, thinking about my dad and Career Week.
Tracy Hazlett smiled at me as she left. “I hope your dad gets to come speak to your class.”
I tried to smile back, but my mouth twisted in a weird way.
“Let’s go, Charlie,” Tommy said. “Don’t waste recess!”
I got up to follow the others, but I couldn’t get my mind off my dad’s job. What did he really do? I wondered if his boss Mr. Grimaldi would even give him the afternoon off to come into school. Maybe my dad could come in. And maybe he could do something cool. And maybe someday he’d be president of the company.
Or maybe not.
Sometimes I have a big blabby mouth.
2
I Am Math Genius
That night after dinner, my little sister Mabel (my dad calls her “Squirt” but I call her “the Squid” because it’s funnier) was sitting at the kitchen table and my mom was quizzing her on addition. My sister’s in first grade, so the problems were pretty easy, like 65 plus 11 and 73 plus 22. But she was still having a hard time.
Dad was washing the dishes. I was drying and putting things away.
“I don’t like this,” the Squid announced. “It’s too hard.”
Dad turned around.
He opened his eyes wide and stared at her. His mouth was sort of twitching. “No, math ees not hard,” he said. “Ees bee-yoo-ti-ful.”
A big smile broke out on the Squid’s face. “Daddy, you’re talking funny.”
Sometimes Dad talks in a strange accent, like he’s a mad scientist or something. Just to be weird. The accent isn’t from any real country; it’s just something he does to make us laugh.
“Wait beeg minute,” he said. Then he opened the kitchen desk drawer and pulled out a deck of cards.
“Stop work immediately!” he shouted. “Important noomber lesson for all!” He sat at the table and pushed the flash cards and papers to one side.
I put down the dish towel and went over to watch. Dad knew a bunch of card tricks, and it was always fun to see what he was going to do.
Just then my brother Matt came in the kitchen. “What’s going on?”
“Daddy’s talking funny,” the Squid said.
“He certainly is,” Mom said, smiling as she pushed her chair back and folded her arms.
“So what else is new?” Matt’s two years older than me, and sometimes he acts like everybody on the planet is a bozo except him. He leaned against the counter to watch.
Dad shuffled the cards twice and spread them out on the table face up in a long line, so we could see part of every card. Then he tied a cloth napkin around his eyes so he couldn’t see anything.
“Charlie, please to follow directions,” he said. “Choose card, noomber between one and ten, but do not say noomber.”
“Noomber?” the Squid asked.
“He means number,” Matt said.
I chose a card—it was a six.
“Now, mooltiply by five! But still do not say noomber! I weel tell you noomber in head. I am genius.”
“Okay,” I said. Five times six was thirty.
Dad put his hands on his head like he was thinking really hard. “Ach! Lightning in brain! Add seex!” he ordered.
“Okay,” I said. Thirty plus six made thirty-six.
“Now! Very important! Divide by two.” Our dog Ginger nuzzled my dad’s leg.
“Go avay, leetle doggie,” Dad said. “You are bothering math genius!”
“Are you really a genius?” the Squid asked.
“But of course!” Dad said. “But genius can work only weeth silence! Please! Do you have noomber, Charlie?”
“Yep,” I said. Thirty-six divided by two was eighteen.
“Hokey-dokey,” Dad went on, still being weird. “Take individual digits in your noomber and add together. Very easy.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“For instance, if noomber ees forty-three, add four and three together.”
“It’s not forty-three,” I said.
“No arguing with genius! Just add.”
Easy. The number in my head was eighteen. One and eight is nine. “What next?” I asked.
“Prepare to gasp. I weel try to find noomber in deck of cards.”
“What’s the number?” the Squid asked.
“Only Charlie knows for sure,” Mom said.
“Charlie, tell me so I know!” my sister said.
I whispered “nine” in the Squid’s ear.
Meanwhile, Dad moved his hands slowly over the deck of cards, then turned over the first card on one end. That made all the other cards in the line flip over like a wave across the table. Now all the cards were facing down except for one in the middle.
“Vat is noomber on card facing up?” Dad said.
Omigosh. It was a nine.
“Ees your noomber?”
“Yeah!” I said. “How did you do that?”
“I am math genius,” Dad said with a big smile.
We all applauded. Even Matt, who had officially declared our parents to be totally uncool.
Then Dad turned to the Squid and stood behind her. He put both hands on her head. “And now, I put genius in your brain.” He closed his eyes and squeezed her head. “There!” he said. “Now, you are math genius.”
“I am?” the Squid squeaked.
“Yes, but only eef you practice adding every day.”
“But that’s what I was doing!’ the Squid said.
“Then you will be extra-special math genius!”
That’s when I remembered what Robby had said about my dad being boring. He wasn’t boring at all! Maybe he was a genius.
But nobody would ever know, since Dad wasn’t coming to Career Week.
3
My Hand Went Up All by Itself
POW! Mrs. Burke’s fingers snapped and we all got quiet.
When Mrs. Burke snaps her fingers, everybody listens. She has the loudest fingers on the planet.
Even Alex got quiet, and he’s noisier and crazier than I am.
By five times.
“Class Council is called to order,” Mrs. Burke announced. “Time for new jobs for the next two weeks.”
Mrs. Burke was holding a can filled with Popsicle sticks, each labeled with the name of a person in the class. When it’s time to change jobs, she draws out a stick, reads the name, and lets that person choose almost any job they want, like Sweeper, Paper Monitor, Gardener, or Librarian. There was really only one job I’d ever cared about getting.
The best job in Mrs. Burke’s Empire.
MASTER MESSENGER.
When you’re Master Messenger, you get to deliver things anywhere in the school. Mrs. Burke might send you to ask Mr. Turchin the custodian for help, or ask you to bring back something from the library or the office or even the teachers’ lounge. It means you get out of class and you’re in the hallway all by yourself while everyone else in the whole school is stuck in their rooms suffering.
I had never gotten to be Master Messenger.
“Let’s see which citizen chooses first today.” Mrs. Burke reached into the can, pulled out a stick, and read the name. “Crystal, you choose first.”
Boogers! She’d be sure to choose the job I wanted. I sent brain waves (like Buck Meson, my favorite superhero) in Crystal’s direction:
Do not choose Master Messenger!
Do not choose Master Messenger!
Do not—
“I’d like to be Imperial Zookeeper,” she said.
Yes! Thank you, Buck Meson!
The Imperial Zookeeper feeds the hamster and the tortoise and the hermit crab.
“Great, Crystal,” Mrs. Burke said. “Put your name in the slot on the work chart.”
I still had a chance to be Master Messenger. I sent my Buck Meson brain waves out toward Mrs. Burke:
Choose Charlie next!
Choose Charlie next!
She slowly pulled out a stick and held it in her hand. She looked at t
he stick again. This was torture!
“Samantha,” she said.
Aaaaah! Not Samantha Grunsky!
Samantha sits behind me and is monstrously annoying. I looked at her. She had an evil smile on her face.
Oh no! I thought. She knows I want to be Master Messenger and will choose it just to annoy me even more.
“I want to be Majestic Gardener.”
“NO!” I shouted before I realized what she’d said.
“You want to be Majestic Gardener?” Samantha asked, giving me a puzzled look.
“Yes—I mean no,” I said. “I mean yes, but it’s okay.”
She shook her head at me like I was a total moron.
“Next.” Mrs. Burke reached in the can for another stick. The Buck Meson brain waves were not working with Mrs. Burke. I looked down at my desktop and put my hands over my ears. I couldn’t bear it. I squeezed my eyes shut.
I stayed like that until Hector, who sits next to me, poked me in the arm.
I lifted my head and saw Mrs. Burke pointing a stick at me. “Charlie, you’re next,” she said.
“Me?” I gasped.
“What would you like?” she asked.
“I’d like to be Master Messenger,” I announced.
“No!” Sam Marchand groaned. So did Manny Soares. And Lydia Berman.
Everybody wanted to be Master Messenger.
Mrs. Burke snapped the class back to order.
“Okay, Charlie. Are you sure you’ll do a good job?”
“Yes!” I said. “I’ll be like Mercury!”
Mercury, the messenger for the Roman gods, was like a superhero before there were superheroes. He had wings on his feet and flew through the air. I could just picture it: me, zooming down the hall like a rocket, delivering messages to the gods!
Or at least to Mrs. Rotelli, the school principal.
Mrs. Burke frowned. “You do not need to be Mercury. No flying.”
“I know,” I said.
“What do you think is important about being Master Messenger?”
“Deliver the message quickly,” I said. “Go right there and come right back, and don’t get sidetracked. Oh yeah, and don’t make noise in the hall.”
“Yes,” she said, “and …?” She waited for me to finish.
