Philip shot Emery a dark look.
“You did, Philip?”
“No. I didn’t tell anybody anything. Somebody else did.”
“Somebody else?”
Philip stayed quiet, so Emery helped out. “He bet Jeanne; she’s the new girl in school. She lives near Mrs. Moriarty. He bet her he would win the poster contest. She told everybody in school Philip said he would win because she’s sure she’ll win, and Philip bet her he would beat her, so he has to win the contest.”
“What poster contest is this?” asked Philip’s father.
“The Walk-Mor shoe store at the mall,” said Emery. “I’m trying to give Philip an idea.”
“And did you? Did he, Philip?”
Philip shook his head. He couldn’t look at his father.
“This Jeanne sounds like she’s really something. You know, lots of people will probably enter posters. There’s no way she can be so sure she’s going to win—unless her uncle is the judge.”
“Her uncle’s not the judge, Dad,” Philip muttered.
“Is this what’s been on your mind? You’ve been awfully mopey lately.”
Philip shrugged.
“Well, I repeat. There will probably be so many people entering the contest, Philip, it’s more than likely neither of you will win. So many posters will be good, very good, I’m afraid the judges will be forced to pick the winner out of a hat.”
Philip looked up. He hadn’t thought of that.
Mr. Felton went on. “It’s going to take luck as much as anything else to win the contest. You said the kids in school know about the contest. Lots of them will enter, I’m sure. Everyone who goes through the mall sees the contest sign. Especially there right next to the arcade where all the kids go. I wouldn’t worry about Jeanne coming up with an idea that puts all the other posters to shame, but you do need to enter. When’s the deadline?”
“Next Saturday,” said Philip.
“Less than a week, eh? Put your mind to it, Flipper. An idea will come to you. Where are you two off to now?”
“I need Philip to help me,” Emery explained. “I have to find out some stuff for school.”
“What stuff?” Philip asked.
“Pilgrims and Miles Standish. The first Thanksgiving.”
“Why do you need Philip’s help?”
“Philip’s better at finding stuff on the computer than I am. It’d take me too long. My father said I could use his computer. It’s really fast. Can Philip stay for dinner at my house tonight? My mother said to ask him. The Wizard of Oz is on TV tonight at seven.”
“What’s your mother making?” asked Philip.
“Hamburgers, French fries. Good stuff.”
“Can I?” Philip asked his father.
“I suppose. I’ll come by to get you at nine when the movie’s over.”
“Let’s go,” said Emery. “I want to get this stupid homework done.”
Philip and Emery said good-bye to Mr. Felton and headed off to Emery’s house.
Chapter Eleven
Monday and Tuesday went by, and still Philip could not find an idea for his poster. Wednesday afternoon after school Philip sat in the living room watching his mother feed the baby. The phone rang.
His mother nodded toward the phone. “Philip, please.”
Philip picked up and heard his father’s voice. “Hi, Dad. What do you want?”
“Not out playing?”
“No, I’m still thinking.”
“The poster?”
“Yeah.”
“You only have a couple days left.”
Philip rolled his eyes. “I know.”
“Philip, here’s what I want you to do. Go take a walk through the neighborhood. Look around at everything. Think over everything you’ve done this past week. Somewhere in there has to be an idea for a shoe poster. I’m going to stop by the art supply store tonight and bring home everything you need to make a poster. All you need to do is find one idea.”
All? Ha! “Suppose I can’t find one idea?”
“That’s not how we’re going to think. Do what I told you. Take a walk. Let your brain work. Let your mind roam free. The one good idea will be there. I’m counting on you. Now, put your mother on.”
Philip handed the phone over to his mother and went outside. Walk? Let his brain work and his mind roam? Think of things he’d done all week? Philip couldn’t imagine what his father meant, but he started thinking anyway.
Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday—school. Nothing happened in school worth a shoe poster. Emery stepped on his foot in line once, but he didn’t see how he could make a poster out of smashed toes. Jeanne had hit more home runs at lunch. No, no poster idea there. He decided to go further back through the week. He’d helped Emery with his research homework. Pilgrims; buckle shoes. No, no idea there. They’d watched The Wizard of Oz afterward. He could imagine making a poster to sell yellow bricks but not shoes. Dorothy and her friends wanted a home, a heart, some courage, and a brain. None of them wanted shoes. Except the witch. She wanted Dorothy’s ruby slippers. “If you’re a witch, buy Walk-Mor shoes.” He didn’t think many witches shopped in the mall, and he didn’t think Walk-Mor customers would like being called a witch. Wait, wait! Philip stopped walking. He found himself standing in front of Mrs. Moriarty’s house. He looked across her front lawn toward her house as an idea shimmered in his brain. Did it make sense? Philip considered it carefully. Yes, yes, yes! It did make sense! Even if it didn’t, it would have to do because it was a real idea. The only one he’d had all week that made any sense at all. And he could make a poster from this idea. He absolutely could!
Philip decided to celebrate with a visit to Mrs. M.’s for some candy. He’d been so worried lately about his poster, he’d scarcely felt like eating candy. That proved how serious things had been, but no longer.
He knocked at the front door. No one answered, but Philip thought he heard noise from inside. He tried the door. It was locked, so he went around back.
Philip opened the back door. “Mrs. M.,” he called.
“Oh, is that you, Philip?” came Mrs. Moriarty’s voice. She sounded strange. Philip walked into the living room and saw Mrs. Moriarty sitting at the bottom of the steps leading to the second floor. “Oh, Philip, I’m so glad you’re here.”
Philip noticed Mrs. Moriarty didn’t try to get up. She wiped her hand across her forehead. “What are you sitting there for?” he asked.
“I tripped on these stairs, Philip, and hurt my ankle. When I try to stand, it hurts something awful.”
“Want me to help you up?”
Mrs. M. smiled. “No, Philip, but you can make a phone call for me.”
A frightened feeling formed in Philip’s stomach. “Who should I call?”
“Can you dial 911 and get an ambulance for me?”
“An ambulance! Are you really hurt?”
“I don’t know, but I think I may be.”
Philip stood dumbly for a moment.
“911,” Mrs. M. repeated.
Philip went back into the kitchen and reached for the wall telephone. “What should I tell them?” Philip called.
“Tell them a fat lady broke her ankle and needs help.”
“I can’t tell them that.” Philip smiled. If Mrs. M. could joke around, she couldn’t be hurt too badly. He felt better.
“Just tell them a lady fell on the stairs and can’t get up. Her leg may be broken and give them my address. 1159 Tumblejack Drive.”
“I know your address,” said Philip as he punched 911. He followed Mrs. Moriarty’s instructions and in only five minutes Philip answered a knock on the door, and two men bustled in. He pointed to Mrs. M. and stood out of the way. The men spoke to Mrs. Moriarty for a moment before one of them went back to the ambulance and brought a folded up bed with wheels into the house. The two men managed to get Mrs. Moriarty onto the bed and rolled her out the door.
“Lock up for me, Philip,” Mrs. M. said to him as the men took her out. �
�Tell your mother I’ll call her when they put me back together.”
Philip watched the ambulance drive away. He went back inside Mrs. M.’s house. The house felt spooky with no one but himself inside. He didn’t want to stay. Before he left, though, Philip went to one of the many candy dishes Mrs. M. had and looked inside. Candy corn. Philip popped some into his mouth and took an added handful. He left through the front door, locking it behind him. He headed back home, popping candy corn into his mouth as he walked, hardly believing what an hour he’d just had.
Chapter Twelve
Philip told his mother about Mrs. Moriarty, and as soon as Philip’s father got home from work, Mrs. Felton had him drive her to the hospital. Philip, his father, and the baby waited downstairs while Mrs. Felton went up to see Mrs. Moriarty.
“How is she?” asked Mr. Felton when his wife reappeared from the elevator.
“No broken bones. Something to do with stretched ligaments in her ankle. She’s going to stay here overnight while they get the swelling down, and she’ll probably go home tomorrow.”
“Did you start dinner?” asked Philip’s father.
“No.”
“What say we go to the diner then and celebrate Mrs. Moriarty’s safe escape?”
“Why not?” said Philip’s mother. “She said she didn’t know what she would have done if Philip hadn’t come along to rescue her.”
“Way to go, hero,” said his father.
“I only made a phone call,” said Philip. “Can we go to the Chinese restaurant instead of the diner?”
His parents looked at each other, and then his father shrugged. “Since you’re the hero of the day . . .” So off they went to Hong Fat’s Golden Wok.
When they got home from dinner, Philip’s father toted a shopping bag full of art supplies to Philip’s room.
“I didn’t forget,” he said. “Did you do what I told you? Did you get an idea?”
“I did, Dad. I did. I got it standing outside Mrs. M.’s house before I found her.” Philip went on to tell his father his idea for the poster, and how he’d stopped in to see Mrs. Moriarty.
“Sounds like a terrific idea to me,” said his father. “Here’s plenty of paper. Take your time. Let me know how it comes out.”
Philip flashed his father a thumbs-up and went to work.
~~~~~
Two nights later, Philip lay on his bed when he heard his father’s car pull into the driveway. His father hadn’t bothered him about the poster since he’d given him all the supplies. Philip waited to hear his father’s footsteps come up the stairs, and soon his door opened.
“Hi, Flipper. Get your poster done? I’d like to see it.”
Philip looked at his father. “I didn’t do it.”
His father looked over the room and saw the art materials spread out on the floor. Large pieces of crumpled poster paper lay tossed about.
“What happened? You had a good idea.”
“I can’t do it. It doesn’t come out right. Everything is too small; then it’s too big; then it’s crooked. I can’t draw. I can’t color. The idea is stupid anyway.”
“But other than that, everything’s fine, I’ll bet. Now, let’s not panic, Flipper. After dinner you and I are coming back into this room, and we’re not leaving until you get your poster done.”
“I don’t want to do it.”
Philip’s father thought a moment. “What else is wrong?”
Philip felt tears rise up into his eyes. He tried not to blink, but he had to, and when he did, two tears rolled down his cheeks.
“Tell me,” his father said.
Philip shook his head.
“Tell me, Philip. I’ll help you. The two of us can handle the problem, whatever it is. Tell me. Please.”
Philip felt more tears rising into his eyes. He tried to freeze his eyes open, but it didn’t work. He blinked and more tears rolled down.
“Jeanne’s class in school had their own poster contest. Same as the shoe store. They each made one poster for the store and one for the class. Hers won. And hers looked so stupid! I never saw such a stupid poster. Two big feet with eyes and hands, and the hands are over the eyes looking around like Indians do; and the feet are saying, ‘If I have to Walk More to find Walk-Mor shoes, I’ll Walk More.’ And then lots of little shoes with Indian feathers and letters on them are dancing around spelling out Walk-Mor, Walk-Mor. So stupid.”
“Go on.”
“Her teacher sent her over to our class to show off her winning poster, and in front of everybody she says . . .” Philip curled his upper lip so he could mimic Jeanne exactly. “‘This is the poster you’ll have to beat tomorrow, Philip.’ The teacher asked her what she meant, and she told the whole class about our bet. I hate her.”
“We’re going to make a poster.”
“And I always lose at everything. I can’t beat Emery at chess or checkers. They pick me last in the football games. I can’t catch a football. In punch ball, my hits dribble along the ground. I can’t . . .”
“Whoa, whoa. Philip Felton. You really are feeling sorry for yourself.”
“I don’t care. I lose at everything. I’m going to lose the poster contest. Everybody’ll know I’m a loser.”
Philip closed his eyes. He heard his father take a deep breath.
“Philip, let’s think about this. Emery learned chess long before you. You play football with the bigger boys, and there may possibly be some things in this world you aren’t good at. Same is true for everybody.”
“Yeah, everything. I’m no good at everything.”
“No, not everything. Your mom and I were talking last night, and we both said how proud we were of you for some of the things you did the past few days.”
Philip’s head snapped up.
“Like what? I didn’t do anything good. I dropped an easy touchdown pass after school yesterday. I can’t do this stupid poster.”
“Philip, don’t talk. I’m thinking about other things even more important, believe it or not, than football or the poster contest. Things that show what kind of person you are. The way you took care of Becky when I couldn’t get her to stop crying. It was wonderful to watch, Flipper. Not wonderful for you, I know,” his father said before Philip could argue. “But for me, your father, to watch how you loved the baby. You didn’t always, remember? You made me happy and proud, Flipper. And think of how you helped Emery with his homework. Do you think Emery cared about your catching footballs when he asked you for help? He came to you as a friend, and you treated him as a friend. Very impressive to see from you, Philip. And Mrs. Moriarty hasn’t stopped talking about you since she got home. She’s called everybody in the neighborhood to tell them how wonderful and brave and helpful you were when she got hurt. I’ve had three people come up to me and compliment me, Philip, on what you did. I can’t tell you how proud that makes me feel.”
Philip looked into his father’s eyes.
“And we are going to make a poster tonight certain to break poor little Jeanne’s heart.”
Philip couldn’t help but smile at his father.
“Are you ready?” his father asked.
Philip nodded.
“Okay. Let’s have dinner and then get to work.”
Chapter Thirteen
Philip knelt on a chair and looked out the window on Sunday afternoon. He saw Jeanne in her father’s car as it drove by. He knew she was on her way to the mall. The Walk-Mor shoe store planned to announce the winners of its contest at two o’clock.
“Dad,” Philip called. “Aren’t you ready yet?”
His father came down the steps buttoning his shirt. “Philip, it’s only one o’clock. We’ll have lunch then go to the contest. Relax.”
“Jeanne just drove by.”
“By herself?”
“No, with her father . . . by herself. Right, Dad.”
Philip’s father laughed.
“Relax. I’ll bet they’re going to lunch before they go to the contest. So relax. Relax. Ree
ee-lax.”
Philip’s mother called them into the kitchen.
Halfway through his sandwich, Philip said, “This is the slowest lunch I ever ate.”
Philip’s father held up his hand. “Relax, Philip. There’s nothing you can do until two o’clock.”
Philip finished his sandwich as his father drank his coffee like he had all the time in the world. Finally, the bottomless cup of coffee ended, and his father looked at his watch.
“Time to saddle up, pardner.”
Philip jumped and ran outside to the car. His father opened the car door, and by two o’clock they managed to crowd into the Walk-Mor shoe store along with an assortment of parents and poster-makers to hear the results. Philip looked around and saw Jeanne standing near the front of the crowd with her father. Suddenly, he felt very insignificant. When his father inspected his poster and pronounced it excellent, Philip believed him. He’d felt quite sure of himself. Then. But as Philip looked around the store at all the children who had submitted posters, all certainty deserted him. He could never make a better poster than every single poster entered in the contest. And Jeanne had already won one contest with her poster. Philip decided he’d be glad when this whole afternoon came to an end. Philip paid close attention when a man stepped onto a small platform near the cash register of the store. Before the man spoke, Philip felt a tug on his sleeve. He turned and saw Emery.
“What are you doing here?” Philip whispered.
“Shhh,” said Emery. “Here he goes.”
A thin man in a suit smiled out over the audience and raised his hands. The man looked young but had very little hair. When everyone got quiet, he spoke. “I am Mr. Sherwood Bobson, the store manager, your host for today.” For some reason, he laughed. No one else did, though, and his smile disappeared.
“We are about to announce the winners of our contest. Nearly one hundred fifty posters were submitted, and although all the posters were wonderful, we had to choose the three we liked the best.”
One hundred fifty! thought Philip. His could never be the best out of so many.
Philip and the Girl Who Couldn't Lose (9781619501072) Page 4
