Charlie Bumpers vs. His Big Blabby Mouth

by Bill Harley

  Now my life had turned into a giant game of Telephone. I had said one thing, and everybody had heard something else.

  I wanted everyone to be excited about my dad’s visit, and I didn’t want them to be disappointed. But things were getting crazy.

  I thought about standing on top of the table and announcing to everyone that my dad was DEFINITELY NOT PRESIDENT AND THAT HE WOULDN’T BE HANDING OUT FREE CALCULATORS! But they were all back in their seats. I hoped they’d eventually just forget about it.

  I was wrong.

  At the end of the day, when I was about to get on the bus, Tracy Hazlett came up to me.

  “Hi, Charlie,” she said.

  “Hi,” I mumbled. Which was the best I could do around Tracy Hazlett.

  “I heard your dad is bringing in calculators for your class.”

  “Um, I, uh … maybe.”

  “Do you think there might be an extra one? For me?”

  “Um, sure,” I said. It was hard to say no to Tracy Hazlett.

  “Great!” She gave me a big smile and walked away.

  Why did I say that?

  I just stood there like a huge, moronic bozo. Missy Blair, a girl from one of the other fourth-grade classes, came over and stood in front of me. “Must be nice to have a dad with a private jet for his business,” she said, then left before I could say anything.

  How did we get from my dad the math genius to my dad the high-powered millionaire flying around in his own plane?

  This game of Telephone was completely out of control!

  That night when I was looking for my homework assignment, I pulled out a sheet of paper that said “Information for Guests on Career Day” across the top.

  Oh no! I was supposed to give it to my dad yesterday! I hurried downstairs and found him sitting in his favorite chair, reading a book.

  “Dad, here’s the sheet from Mrs. Burke about Career Week.”

  He took the paper, read a few lines, then looked up at me. “Are you sure you want me to do this, Charlie?”

  “Yeah. I told Mrs. Burke you were coming. You’re supposed to call her.”

  He read the rest of the note.

  “Wow,” he said. “This is like a homework assignment. She sure is organized.”

  “I know,” I said. “She’s the most organized person on the planet.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I guess I’d better send her a note.”

  “So, Dad,” I said. “If you come, what will you do?”

  “I’ll have to think about it,” he said, looking back at his book.

  I thought about his promotion. “Um, is there anything new at work?”

  He lowered the book and gave me a strange look. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Just wondering,” I said. “Just wanted to know how you were doing.”

  “How I’m doing?”

  “I mean … how’s Mr. Grimaldi?”

  My dad frowned. “Mr. Grimaldi is fine, thank you.”

  “Do you think he might have any extra calculators?”

  “No, Mr. Grimaldi does not have any extra calculators. If you need a new calculator, Charlie, just—”

  “No,” I said quickly. “Just wondering.”

  “Don’t you have homework?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then go finish it. Now. Don’t wait around until it’s almost bedtime.”

  “Okay, but—”

  “Now.”

  “Okay,” I said, heading toward the stairs.

  Boogers.

  10

  Even the First Graders!

  I’m happy to announce that Buck Meson did not get caught flying down the halls on Thursday. Or Friday.

  Buck Meson did have his rockets on, but he was so fast nobody even noticed him. It’s hard to see someone traveling at the speed of light.

  I ran when no one else was in the hall—but NEVER near Mrs. Burke’s Empire.

  While Buck Meson was flying, the game of Telephone was getting worse and worse. The stories about my dad were getting bigger and bigger. Now everybody was talking about free calculators, and some kids were asking if my dad could come to their class, too.

  A third grader asked me if my family used my father’s jet when we went on vacation.

  Another boy I didn’t know asked me if my dad had more than one jet.

  One kid from Mrs. L.’s class said he hoped my dad got to be president of the company so the school would get new computers.

  Even Darren Thompson and Kyle Curtis started being nice to me. When Darren Thompson is nice to me, something is definitely weird. I guess they figured that if there was any chance my dad would be handing out free calculators, they’d better quit bugging me all the time and get on my good side.

  Everything was weird. All the kids were excited about my dad coming in. That felt good. It made me excited, too.

  But what would happen when he came in?

  And he didn’t have a jet plane.

  And he wasn’t the president.

  And he didn’t have calculators.

  What if he was just a dad that was good with numbers and worked every day?

  Shouldn’t that be enough?

  That Friday afternoon, Mrs. Burke reminded us about Career Week. “We’ll have one parent coming in every afternoon next week,” she said. “I want you to be respectful—they are giving up time from their important jobs to be with us. And one more thing,” Mrs. Burke said. “Do not expect any of our guests to bring in special gifts for you.”

  Maria Braxton raised her hand. “My parents run a bakery,” she said. “They promised they’d bring in some cookies.”

  Everybody cheered.

  “That’s very nice, Maria,” Mrs. Burke said. “But it doesn’t mean everyone is going to bring in something.”

  Mrs. Burke wasn’t looking at me, but half a dozen kids were. I could feel my ears turning red. When I glanced over at Hector, he shook his head and cleaned off his glasses, which he always does when he doesn’t know what to say or do.

  If I’d had glasses, I would have cleaned them off, too.

  The Squid and I got off the bus and walked toward our house.

  “Charlie,” the Squid said, “somebody asked me if our dad was president of the United States.”

  “What?”

  “Cameron Benson said he heard from his sister that our dad was president.”

  “No!” I said. “Not president of the United States! She probably meant president of the company.”

  “Is he?”

  “No! He’s just an accountant. He’s good at numbers. That’s all. That’s enough!”

  “Then why did his sister say that?”

  “Listen, Mabel, it’s just a story. But don’t say anything about it to Dad, okay?”

  “Where’d the story come from?”

  “Somebody misunderstood me,” I said. “So just forget it.”

  “Will Dad ever be the president of something?” Now the Squid was really interested.

  “I don’t know!” I said. “Just forget it.”

  “Okay, okay!” she said. “Don’t be so crabby.”

  How could I not be crabby? Now even the first graders were talking about my dad.

  11

  A Big Poopbrain

  When the Squid and I walked in the back door, Mom and Dad were sitting at the kitchen table with Matt. I could tell right away something was wrong. It was Friday afternoon, so Dad should have been at work and Mom should have been out visiting patients.

  Maybe Matt had done something bad at school. Once when he was in fourth grade, he pulled the fire alarm and my parents were called in to talk with Mrs. Rotelli. Mom and Dad were so mad they didn’t speak to any of us during dinner that night.

  Or maybe it was something good. Something so good everyone was serious! Like if he was made president of the company, you’d have to be serious. It was very important.

  For a split second, I had a picture in my mind of him bringing hundreds of calculators to school—enough fo
r every person at King Philip Elementary School.

  But Dad didn’t seem very happy. You should be happy if you were going to give away four hundred calculators.

  “Why is everybody here?” the Squid asked.

  It got quiet for a minute. Even Matt, who always has something to say, just sat there looking down at the table.

  “Why are you home, Daddy?” the Squid asked again.

  “Well, Squirt, I’m home because I’m not going to be working at my old job anymore.”

  What? What does he mean?

  Mom put her hand on Dad’s arm.

  “Why not?” the Squid squeaked.

  “Well,” Dad said, “the people who run the company made some changes, and they had to let several people go. I was one of them.”

  “Let you go where?” the Squid went on. “If you’re not there, who’s going to do your job?”

  “Honey,” Mom said, “I know you have a lot of questions, but we can’t answer all of them right now. Right now we’re just going to be happy that Daddy’s home with us.”

  “Is he going to go work somewhere else on Monday?” The Squid’s bottom lip started quivering.

  “No,” Dad said. “I’ll be here. So it’s pancakes for breakfast before school.”

  “And we’re telling you all so we can go through this together,” Mom said. “But listen, please—we’re not talking about this with anyone else right now. Dad can do that when he’s ready. Do you understand?”

  Matt nodded.

  The Squid pretended to zip her lips.

  “Did Mr. Grimaldi fire you?” I asked.

  “Charlie,” Mom warned.

  Dad took in a deep breath, like he was about to try to explain something. But I was getting really mad at Mr. Grimaldi.

  “It’s not fair!” I shouted. “He shouldn’t fire you just because you do something better than he does!”

  Mom and Dad looked surprised—they didn’t know I’d overheard them talking the week before.

  And then I realized something. When Dad was talking about “the other thing” that day, he was talking about losing his job! Mom had said it would be okay. How was that okay?

  “Mr. Grimaldi’s a total jerk!” I said.

  “Charlie,” Mom said.

  My dad gave me a twisted smile. “It’s more complicated than that, Charlie.”

  “He’s a big poopbrain,” the Squid blurted out. “You should fire him!”

  Matt didn’t say anything. He just kept looking at the table.

  Then I realized something else. Forget what all the other kids at school were expecting from my dad. Now he didn’t even have a job!

  “Dad,” I burst out, “if you don’t have a job, then how can you talk to my class during Career Week?”

  “Charlie, we can’t worry about that right now,” Mom said.

  “But Mrs. Burke is expecting you, Dad,” I said. “And everyone else is, too.” I didn’t mention that practically the entire school thought he was a president with a private plane and a million free calculators.

  “We’ll see,” Dad said.

  All of a sudden I imagined Darren and Kyle and Robby and all the other kids laughing at me. “But what’s going to happen? What will I tell everybody?”

  “Charlie, stop it,” Mom said, shaking her head at me. “This is not about you right now.”

  “It’s okay,” Dad said. “I understand. We’ll figure something out.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Shut up, Charlie,” Matt said. That was the first thing he’d said since I’d come home from school.

  “Matt,” Mom snapped. “We don’t say ‘shut up’ in this house.”

  “Charlie, close your mouth right now,” Matt said.

  I could feel my throat tighten up, and tears welled up in my eyes.

  “Dad, are we going to be poor?” the Squid asked.

  “No, Squirt,” he said. “We’re fine.”

  The Squid dropped her backpack and went over to Dad and threw her arms around his neck. “I love you, Daddy,” she said. “And Mr. Grimaldi is a big, big poopbrain.”

  “Name-calling doesn’t help,” Dad said.

  “It helps me,” the Squid said.

  She was right. Calling Mr. Grimaldi a poopbrain did help a little. But it didn’t help one bit with my problems at school.

  That night Mom and Dad came in and said good night to me. After Dad left, Mom stayed at the side of my bed. Then she leaned over and kissed my head.

  “It’ll be all right, Charlie,” she whispered.

  “I know,” I said. And then she left.

  But I didn’t know. I lay there in bed, staring at the ceiling. I couldn’t stop all the thoughts buzzing around in my head. Why did Dad lose his job? Because Mr. Grimaldi didn’t like him? Why did he do the thing that made Mr. Grimaldi mad? What if I talked to the president of the company and explained how smart Dad was? Could he get his old job back?

  Then I started thinking about what the Squid had said about being poor. If Dad didn’t have a job, he wouldn’t be getting paid. Would Mom have to work more to make more money? Could we still live in our house? What if I had to change schools? Would I still see Tommy? And Hector?

  And then I had an idea. I sat up in bed.

  What if Dad got a new job right away? An even better one, at another company? Maybe he could get a new job before he came in on Friday. Who knows, maybe he could even start his own company! I wouldn’t care about calculators anymore if Dad had a new job. Far away from Mr. Grimaldi, the poopbrain.

  That would solve everything. I would ask him about it tomorrow. I fell asleep thinking about Dad’s new job.

  On Saturday morning, Dad was out doing errands by the time I got up. Nobody said anything about his job, but I could tell everybody was thinking about it. All weekend I kept looking for a time to talk to Dad, but I didn’t get a chance until I went to bed on Sunday night. He came into my room to say good night. He sat on my bed and scratched my back, which always feels good.

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you going to get a new job?”

  “Of course.”

  “What is it going to be?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Do you think you’ll get it tomorrow?”

  Dad shook his head. “No, Charlie, I won’t get a new job tomorrow.”

  “Can you get one this week?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Do you think when you get a new job, you might be a vice president or something?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said.

  Then we both were quiet for a minute. Finally I got up the courage to ask another question. “Dad, I know this isn’t about me, but what will you do if you come to my class on Friday? If you don’t have a job, what will you say?”

  “I don’t know, Charlie. I’ll think of something.”

  Then he leaned over and gave me a hug and a kiss on the head. “I love you, pal. Good night.”

  “Good night,” I said.

  He got up and gently closed the door behind him.

  12

  In Really Bad Shape

  Monday afternoon Maria Braxton’s mom showed up right on schedule. She was wearing a white apron and one of those big poufy chef’s hats. She was also carrying a computer bag and two very large, flat brown boxes. The room filled up with the smell of a bakery.

  Mrs. Braxton set her computer on a desk and hooked it up to the projector, then turned it on. In a few seconds, some words appeared on the big screen.

  What Does a Baker Do?

  “I’ve been a baker all my life,” she said. She clicked and a picture of a little girl holding a tray of cupcakes came up. “That’s me when I was only seven years old. I still make those cupcakes today. It’s still one of my favorite recipes.”

  “Oh wow!” said Alex. “I’m already hungry!”

  “And here are some of the other things I bake,” she said.

  She started a slide show of all kinds
of breads and cakes and rolls and cookies.

  “I’m dying!” Manny Soares moaned. “I want to be a baker!”

  “But here’s the first thing you need to know about being a baker,” Mrs. Braxton went on. “You have to go to bed really early. This is the first thing I see every morning.” The next picture showed an alarm clock that said 3:00 a.m.

  “This is when I get up every day,” she said.

  “Forget being a baker!” Manny said.

  “I’ll be a professional eater,” Sam suggested. “Can you get paid for that?”

  Mrs. Braxton went through the rest of her pictures, showing all the things she did during the day. Who knew baking was so complicated?

  “There’s a lot of math involved,” she said. “I do a lot of measuring, and I also have to keep track of the business, so I do all the orders and accounting.”

  Tricia Davidoff raised her hand. “Charlie’s dad’s an accountant, too.”

  “He’s President of Accounting!” Cory shouted.

  “He’s King of Numbers!” Alex added.

  “He has a million calculators,” Joey hooted.

  “Well,” Maria’s mom said. “He’s a very good person to know! We all need math.”

  Everyone looked at me and smiled. I felt like throwing up.

  “Now,” Maria’s mom said, “I think it’s time to taste my work.” Mrs. Braxton opened up the boxes and the smell of fresh cake and icing spread across the room.

  “If you can be quiet for a few minutes, we’ll get started. I brought enough for everyone,” she said. “Line up, take a napkin, and help yourselves.”