Mitch and Amy

by Beverly Cleary

  “And be sure you don’t spoil it,” said Amy. “Do you want me to read the directions for you?”

  Mrs. Huff answered. “You don’t have to read for him, Amy. It will be good practice for him. And you can be setting the table for lunch.”

  People were always telling Mitchell he could read, but somehow he had trouble believing them. If he could read, really read, not just stumble along in an easy book, why was he always in the slowest reading group in his class?

  But Mitchell was not a boy to stay down-hearted long. He studied the printing on the pudding-mix box, which was much smaller than the printing in a Think and Do book.

  “Sound out the hard words if you have trouble,” said his mother, who was taking a package of hamburger out of the refrigerator. His mother was always telling him to sound out words.

  “Aw, Mom, it isn’t that hard to read.” Mitchell tore open the package and emptied the pudding mix into the bowl of the mixer and consulted the directions again before he took a bottle of milk from the refrigerator and carefully added two cups of milk to the yellow powder in the bowl. Once more he consulted the directions, reading each word slowly and carefully and feeling pleased that he really could understand the words and do what they told him.

  Next he took an egg from a carton in the refrigerator and cracked it gently against the bowl. He pushed his two thumbs against the cracked place, and the whole side of the shell caved in. Mitchell quickly held the egg over the bowl while the white ran out of the shell. “Yipe!” yelped Mitchell, bringing Amy to look over his shoulder.

  “Mom!” cried Amy. “Mitchell is putting egg in the pudding. He isn’t supposed to put egg in instant pudding!”

  “You are, too. It says so on the box.” The rest of the egg, shell and all, slipped out of his fingers into the bowl. “Now see what you made me do.”

  “It does not say you’re supposed to put egg in the pudding,” insisted Amy. “I’ve made instant pudding millions of times, and I know.” She snatched up the box while Mitchell wiped his eggy fingers on his jeans.

  Mitchell grabbed the box away from his sister. “I’m making this pudding,” he informed her.

  “All right, let’s not have a battle,” said Mrs. Huff. “Read it out loud, Mitchell.”

  “‘Empty two cups of cold milk into bowl. Sprinkle contents of package over milk. Beat with egg—’” Mitchell, who was usually nervous when reading aloud in front of Amy, was triumphant, but his triumph ended with the next letters printed on the box. “‘Beater,’” he said sheepishly. “‘Beat with egg beater for two minutes.’ I guess I didn’t read far enough.”

  “See!” said Amy gleefully. “I told you there wasn’t any egg in it!” Amy could read anything—pudding directions, newspaper stories in small print, even parts of grown-up books like Dr. Spock’s.

  “Don’t feel bad, Mitchell.” Mrs. Huff took a spoon from a drawer and dipped out the eggshell. “I don’t see why it shouldn’t be good with egg in it. Go ahead and mix it and see what happens.”

  “Raw egg. Ick,” was Amy’s comment.

  But after Mitchell had run the mixer for two minutes and poured the yellow liquid into bowls, the mixture was still runny and refused to turn into pudding. “Now what do I do?” he asked, disgusted with himself.

  “Cook it?” suggested Amy, tilting a bowl to see how runny the pudding was.

  “We can try.” Mrs. Huff scraped all the pudding into a saucepan and handed Mitchell a spoon. “The egg may thicken it. Keep stirring until it begins to bubble, and we’ll see what happens.”

  “Quit breathing in it,” said Mitchell, when Amy leaned over the pan to watch. “We don’t want any of your cooties in the pudding.” Amy backed away, and Mitchell stirred round and round until the mixture began to steam and then to bubble. He lifted a spoonful and watched the pudding trickle back into the pan. “Nope,” he said unhappily. “It isn’t going to work. I wrecked the pudding.”

  Mrs. Huff took the spoon and stirred a moment before removing the pan from the heat. “I’m afraid you’re right. It isn’t going to thicken.”

  Mitchell glared at Amy. If she started making fun of him, teasing him about stopping at “egg” when he should have gone on and read “egg beater,” poking fun at the runny pudding…. All Mitchell could think was Pow! and Mitchell was not supposed to hit his sister. Hitting was one thing his parents were very strict about, but it was a temptation sometimes. “Stupid old knuckleheaded me,” he muttered. If Amy was such a good reader, she could do the reading. He didn’t care.

  “Oh, come on, Mitch. It isn’t as bad as all that,” said Amy. “We could put it into glasses and drink it. Like a milk shake only different.”

  “Sure,” agreed Mitchell, relaxing. “It would still taste like pudding, and that way we wouldn’t have to waste it.” He never could tell about Amy. Sometimes she did just the opposite of what he expected.

  After a lunch of hamburgers topped off by a glass of lukewarm lemon pudding, Mitchell said, “Well, so long, Mom. I think I’ll go ride my bike.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t. Not yet,” said his mother. “Follow me into the living room.”

  “But, Mom, don’t you want me to get any exercise and fresh air?” Mitchell asked, hoping to divert his mother.

  “Not right now,” said Mrs. Huff cheerfully. “Not until you read two pages aloud to me.”

  “Do you want me to grow up weak and puny?” Mitchell asked.

  “Certainly,” agreed Mrs. Huff. “A weak, puny good reader.”

  “Oh, Mom, cut it out.” Mitchell could not help laughing as he followed his mother into the living room. He decided to try a different tactic. “How about Amy going over her multiplication tables?” he asked.

  “Because right now we are talking about you, not Amy,” said his mother.

  Mitchell flopped down on the couch beside his mother. Everyone seemed to have something to say about his reading. His third-grade teacher had written on his progress report that reading aloud during the summer should help him move up to a higher reading group in the fourth grade.

  “All you need is practice to help you gain confidence,” his mother kept telling him.

  “We’re glad to help you, Mitch. That’s what we’re here for,” his father repeated almost every day.

  “It isn’t hard, Mitch. Really it isn’t,” Amy insisted.

  Well, maybe reading was easy for Amy, but it wasn’t for Mitchell. Reading was not only difficult, it was embarrassing because Mitchell suspected everyone of thinking, How come Mitchell is in the low reading group when his twin sister can read any old thing she wants to?

  Mitchell glowered at the book that his mother opened and spread between them. Just because he had to read did not mean he was going to like it. “‘Jeff climbed up on the pony,’” he read to his mother while thinking, Stupid old babyish Jeff who rode a pony instead of a horse.

  “Climbed up on what kind of pony?” interrupted his mother.

  Mitchell stared at the sentence he had just read. What was wrong this time? It sounded right to him.

  “Look at each word as you read,” said his mother, as she had said many, many times before.

  “‘Climbed up on his pony,’” corrected Mitchell with a sigh. The pony, his pony. What difference did it make?

  “That’s right!” said his mother, as if Mitchell had done something remarkable. Well, she wasn’t fooling him even for a minute. He hadn’t. Mitchell liked stories, but he liked good stories like those his mother read aloud—The Jungle Book and the book about Robin Hood with the old-fashioned words like “odd’s bodkin.”

  At that point Amy came into the room with a book in her hand, a book three times as thick as Mitchell’s. She sat down in a chair and began to read.

  Mitchell scowled, but continued reading the story of Jeff riding his pony along with the ranch hands who were driving a herd of cattle. He must have skipped a word in a sentence, because suddenly what he was reading did not make sense.

  “Guess what
page I’m on now!” exclaimed Amy, interrupting.

  “Mom!” cried Mitchell. “Does she have to be in here when I’m reading?” Amy never hesitated to let people know she was in the fastest reading group in her class.

  “I’m on page ninety-two,” announced Amy.

  “I’ll bet that book doesn’t begin on page one,” said Mitchell. “I’ll bet it begins on about page twenty.”

  “It begins on page eleven.”

  “Then you haven’t read ninety-two pages,” said Mitchell hotly.

  “Amy, why don’t you read in your room for a while?” suggested Mrs. Huff.

  “But, Mom, it’s more comfortable in here,” protested Amy with an innocence that did not fool Mitchell. He knew there was something about his having to read aloud that always brought out the worst in his sister.

  For a minute Mitchell was hopeful. If an argument developed he might get out of reading. But no, Mrs. Huff sent Amy off to her room where, Mitchell noticed, she did not close her door. Grimly he read on, disliking Jeff and his pony more with each word. He read, his mother corrected, and a single paragraph seemed to take hours. Mitchell squirmed and picked at the rubber sole of his sneaker.

  “Go on, Mitchell,” urged his mother. “Don’t let Amy bother you. Just remember, some things are easier for girls than for boys.”

  Maybe his mother was right, but all the important things seemed to be easy for girls. Nobody talked about boys being in the highest ball-throwing group.

  Mitchell plodded on until he thought of a way to give himself a rest. He looked up from the book and said rapidly, “Is your family getting the vitamins it needs? Eat Superbread, the bread enriched with one million vitamins to help your children grow!”

  “What on earth—” began Mrs. Huff.

  “That’s the commercial,” explained Mitchell.

  “Oh, Mitchell—” Mrs. Huff laughed as Amy, book in hand, came back to the living room to see what was funny. “Please. Spare us commercials in books. That’s one place we’re safe from them.”

  Mitchell, who had gained a moment of rest from reading, knew he was dangerously close to a lecture on the evils of television. His mother often said that if it weren’t for the French Chef they would get rid of the television set. While Amy settled herself once more in the living room, Mitchell quickly returned to stupid old babyish Jeff and words, words, words. Words with endings that had to be looked at carefully. Mean words that looked like one thing, but if he missed a single letter somehow turned into something quite different. Little words that didn’t seem worth bothering with, but if Mitchell failed to bother with them, suddenly the whole sentence was saying something it was not supposed to say. And the worst part of the whole thing was it was all so boring and babyish. Stupid old babyish Jeff. Nobody ever broke up Jeff’s skateboard and threw the pieces at him. Nobody ever tried to get Jeff. Oh no. Old Jeff rode around on his pony, and anybody could tell from the pictures that everything turned out just dandy.

  “Mom, I’ve been reading for hours,” Mitchell finally protested, when he had sent Amy into giggles by reading “stamper” when the word was “stampede.” “Can I stop now?”

  Mrs. Huff smiled in a tired sort of way. “It’s only been ten minutes. Come on, finish this page.”

  Mitchell flopped back on the couch, his eyes closed and his tongue hanging out to show his mother how exhausted he was.

  “You poor boy.” Mrs. Huff pretended sympathy. “Come on, pull yourself together. There are only four more lines.”

  Four more horrible lines full of horrible words about stupid old babyish Jeff and his stupid old babyish pony. Mitchell groaned and tried not to think, Stupid old babyish me.

  “Guess what page I’m on now?” said Amy.

  Mitchell was not going to take any more remarks from Amy. He was in no mood to listen to his sister brag about being on page ten million. “You keep quiet!” he yelled, sitting up.

  “I don’t have to!” Amy yelled back.

  “Now, Amy, stop interrupting,” said Mrs. Huff. “Mitchell is reading.”

  Encouraged because his mother was on his side, Mitchell decided to tear into those four lines and get them over. He held the book, so that his mother could not see the text and slow him down with corrections, and read as rapidly as he could, “‘The cattle were frightened. They began to run. Jeff saw someone coming. “Look!” said Jeff. “Here come our fiends.”’” There Mitchell had finished the page, and fiends was one mistake he had made on purpose.

  “Fiends?” said Mrs. Huff, while the sound of Amy’s laughter floated across her book. “Mitchell, look again.”

  His mother and Amy did not understand that he had deliberately made a mistake, because any boy would rather read a book about fiends than a book about friends, but did the people who wrote books know this fact? No, they did not. They were too dumb, just as his mother and sister were too dumb to know when he made a mistake on purpose. Mitchell held the book up close to his face and glared at the word. “‘“Here come our friends.”’” He finished with a yell and slammed the book.

  “That’s right, Mitchell,” said his mother calmly. “All you have to do is look at the words carefully.”

  “Stamper,” Amy said softly to herself and giggled.

  “You shut up!” yelled Mitchell.

  “Now children,” said Mrs. Huff. “You know, Mitchell, it’s too bad stamper isn’t a real word—a sort of combination of scamper and stampede. And now why don’t you go outside and play?”

  Amy put down her book. “Yes, Mitch,” she said, “why don’t you stamper out and play?”

  “That’s enough, Amy.” Mrs. Huff spoke sharply.

  Mitchell managed to give Amy a quick sidewise kick as he walked past her on his way to his room. He could not possibly have hurt her because he was wearing sneakers, but still Amy said, “Mom, Mitchell kicked me!” as she stuck one foot out in front of her brother.

  Mitchell was too quick for her. “Tattletale,” he said, sidestepping. “And stop trying to trip me.” This did not count as tattling, because he was speaking to his sister and not to his mother.

  “Mitchell, don’t kick your sister. Amy, stop teasing your brother.” Mrs. Huff picked up a library book of her own and began to read.

  “Funny little boy,” said Amy in her annoying pat-the-little-fellow-on-the-head voice.

  “Hah!” said Mitchell darkly. “You can’t call me little. I’m taller than you.”

  “But I’m older,” said Amy, sitting up straight.

  “Ten minutes is all,” scoffed Mitchell.

  “Ten minutes, but I’m still the oldest.” Amy was not ready to let the argument die. “You’ll never be as old as I am. Never, never, never!”

  “Shut up!” yelled Mitchell, because he had no answer.

  Mrs. Huff looked up from her book. “Children, stop this instant.”

  “He started it!” “She started it!” Mitchell and Amy spoke at the same time. They tried again. “Well, he did!” “Well, she did!” Still they spoke in unison. They glared at one another, each silently daring the other to speak first.

  “Icka bicka backa soda cracker,” said Mrs. Huff, and went on with her reading.

  Mitchell and Amy looked at one another in surprise.

  “Mom, what are you talking about?” asked Amy. “What do soda crackers have to do with it?”

  “Don’t you know?” asked Mrs. Huff. “It’s a counting rhyme we used when I was about your age. I think of it every time you two start fighting.”

  “How does it go?” Amy was always interested in rhymes. Maybe that was why she was such a good reader. Beginning back in the first grade, reading workbooks were great on rhymes. Cat, take away c and put an r in its place and what do you have? Rat. Amy had always enjoyed that sort of thing.

  Mrs. Huff began to recite,

  “My mother, your mother,

  Live across the way.

  Fifteen-sixteen East Broadway.

  Every night they have a fight
/>   And this is what they say.

  Icka bicka backa soda cracker

  Out goes she.”

  Amy was delighted and picked up the verse at once. “My mother, your mother, live across the way—”

  The fight was over, the out-loud part of it, but Mitchell went right on fighting in his thoughts. Icka bicka backa soda cracker, out goes Amy, he thought crossly, as he went into the kitchen and grabbed a banana and stuffed it into his pocket before he left the house and wheeled his bicycle out of the garage.

  When Mitchell reached the street, he pedaled as hard as he could; pumping his legs up and down made him feel better. First Alan and the skateboard. Then the runny pudding. And then Amy hearing him make a stupid mistake like stamper. She thought she was so good, reading all those thick books while he stumbled around in thin books. Well, Amy was good, and Mitchell had to admit that he was proud of her. The trouble was, he wanted to be proud of himself, too.

  Pumping a bicycle in a hilly neighborhood was hard work, and Mitchell gradually slowed down. Oh well, he thought, as he pulled the banana out of his pocket, things were sure to be better in the fourth grade. When he came to a level spot in the street he rode without using the handlebars while he peeled the banana and stuffed the skin into his pocket. He must remember to throw the skin into the garbage can, he thought as he pedaled along. Last week his mother had put a pair of jeans through the washing machine with a banana skin in the pocket.

  4

  Amy and The Audio-Visual Aids

  Afterward Amy was sorry for the way she had behaved when Mitchell was struggling to read aloud. She really did not want to hurt his feelings, but whenever she saw him sitting there on the couch with their mother she could not help feeling left out. Acting that way was silly, she knew, because reading aloud was a chore for Mitchell, just as multiplication tables were a chore for her, a chore she managed to avoid until the day finally arrived that she and Mitchell had waited for so long, their first day in the fourth grade.

  As Amy had hoped, the morning turned out to be foggy, with moisture dripping like rain from the eucalyptus trees. By noon the sun would be out, but in the meantime Amy had a good excuse to wear her new pleated skirt, which was just enough too long to make her feel like a ten-year-old instead of a nine-year-old. Amy noticed that Mitchell, who had been saying that school was a bad word, was in a hurry to leave that first morning, and she wondered if he was trying to avoid Alan Hibbler. Mitchell had not mentioned the skateboard incident again, but Amy had not forgotten it and she was sure her brother had not forgotten it either.