by Judy Blume
“Then why do they call it mud pie?” he asked.
“Because it looks like mud,” I explained.
“Yum . . . mud pie,” Mitzi said, licking the dirt off her fingers.
“Spit that out right now!” Sheila told her. “That’s full of bacteria.”
“Yum . . . bacteria!” Mitzi said. “I love bacteria. Don’t you, Fudge?”
“Bacteria’s my favorite,” Fudge said. Then he looked up at me. “What’s bacteria, Pete?”
“They’re like germs,” I told him.
“Yum . . . germs!” Mitzi said. “Germs are really tasty.”
“Cooties are tasty, too,” Fudge said. “And slugs. Slugs are fat and juicy!”
“You two are disgusting!” Sheila said.
“Germy germy germs and sluggy sluggy slugs,” Mitzi sang.
“Yummy yummy down my tummy!” Fudge held his arms straight out to the sides and began to twirl. Mitzi copied him. They twirled around and around—faster and faster—until they got so dizzy they fell to the ground, screaming and laughing. Then they started all over again.
“Stop that!” Sheila shouted.
“We can’t,” Fudge yelled, twirling and whirling.
“It’s Fudge-a-mania!” Mitzi shrieked. “Once you get it you can never stop.”
“I’m going to count to three . . .” Sheila shouted.
But Sheila’s threat didn’t bother them. “You better watch out,” Fudge sang, “because it’s catching!” He twirled over to me and swatted my behind. “Now you’ve got it, Pete! You’ve got Fudge-a-mania too!”
I started twirling, slowly at first—then faster and faster—until everything was a blur. I twirled over to Sheila and smacked her on the back. “Look out, Sheila . . . you just caught it from me!”
“I did not catch anything from you!” Sheila shouted. “I will never catch anything from you!”
The door to the house slammed and out marched Libby. She was wearing her Snoopy T-shirt. It’s so big it hangs down to her knees. She stomped across the yard. “Just what exactly is going on here?” she asked. She didn’t wait for an answer. “And how am I supposed to sleep with this racket?”
“Sleep?” Mitzi asked. “Now?”
“Yes, now!” Libby said. “It’s only ten o’clock in the morning!”
“You sleep until ten o’clock in the morning?” Mitzi said, like she couldn’t believe it.
Libby put her hands on her hips and glared. “I try!”
“But morning is the best time to play,” Mitzi said.
“Who is this kid?” Libby asked Sheila.
“Mitzi Apfel,” Sheila said. “A neighbor.”
“I’m five,” Mitzi told her. “And I walked here all by myself. I didn’t need anyone to show me the way.”
“I’ll tell you what you need . . .” Libby began.
But Mitzi didn’t wait to hear what Libby had to say. She raced off, shouting, “It’s Fudge-a-mania!”
Fudge followed Mitzi.
Sheila chased both of them.
“You’re all maniacs!” Libby shouted.
“Fudge-a-maniacs,” I added.
Either Libby didn’t get my joke or she decided to ignore it. Because she said, “This is all your fault, Peter! Chaos follows you and your family.”
“Chaos,” I said. “I don’t believe I know him.”
That got Libby really mad. “Chaos,” she yelled, “a state of utter confusion or disorder!” Then she stomped back to the house and went inside, letting the screen door slam behind her. I couldn’t help laughing.
* * *
When Mom and Dad saw Fudge’s garden, I expected them to really let him have it! They’ve always taught us to respect other people’s property. But when Fudge explained his reasons for planting rocks Mom said, “That’s very good thinking.”
“A good baby-sitter encourages creative thinking,” Sheila said.
“But doesn’t this show a lack of respect for other people’s property?” I asked.
“Well . . .” Mom said, “it would have been better if Fudge had checked with us before he started. But his idea was so well-thought-out. Rocks don’t need sun or water, animals can’t eat them . . .”
“Yeah . . . yeah,” I said. “I’ve heard all about it.”
Grandma wandered across the yard with Buzzy Senior. She took one look at Fudge’s garden and said, “Isn’t my grandson an original, Buzzy?”
“Actually, it was mostly my idea!” Sheila said.
“That’s not what you said this morning!” I shouted at Sheila. “This morning you said it was his idea.”
“Just shut your face for once, Peter Hatcher!” she shouted back.
“Who’s going to make me?” I yelled.
“Children . . .” Grandma said. “Let’s be kind.”
“Kind is a word your grandson doesn’t know, Muriel!” Sheila shouted.
“He knows it,” Grandma said. “But sometimes he forgets what it means.”
“And she doesn’t?” I asked.
“Sometimes she forgets, too,” Grandma admitted.
“I don’t see why you two can’t get along as well as your dogs,” Buzzy Senior said.
I looked toward the house. Turtle and Jake were playing together. You’d think Turtle would show more loyalty. You’d think he’d understand about Sheila and me.
Tootsie grabbed my leg. “Up, Pee . . . up . . .”
“Not now!” I said.
“Now . . . now . . . now . . .”
But I wasn’t in the mood for baby tricks. So I shook her off and she fell over on her backside. It took a few seconds for her to react. Then she scrunched up her face—her mouth started twitching—her breath came fast. She made her little hands into fists, shut her eyes tight and opened her mouth. WAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!! Once she got going, you could hear her a mile away.
“What happened, Tootsie Pie?” Dad asked, as he lifted her into his arms.
Tootsie kept screaming and Mom looked at me. “Was that necessary, Peter?”
“Was what necessary?” I said.
Mom just shook her head.
“You see how much trouble you cause for everyone?” Sheila shouted at me.
How come I’m getting blamed for this? I thought. All I did was ask one simple question.
Fudge held his arms out to Mom. “Up . . .” he said. “Up . . . up . . . up . . .”
“You want to play baby?” Mom asked.
“Goo goo gaa gaa,” Fudge said, jumping into Mom’s arms.
“You’re getting heavy,” Mom said, planting a kiss on his head.
“But not too heavy for my mommy . . . right?”
I shook my head, then turned away and watched Dad, galloping around the yard with Tootsie on his shoulders. In a minute Tootsie was laughing. I remember when Dad carried Fudge that way. And there’s a photo of me on his shoulders, too. I’m laughing really hard and grabbing Dad’s hair. He had a lot more to grab then.
“Go, horsey . . .” Tootsie called, as Dad galloped in the other direction.
Being a baby is so easy, I thought. Riding around on Dad’s shoulders, knowing he’d never let you fall. And doing and saying whatever you please, without worrying about what the other guy will think.
Grandma put her arm around my shoulder. “It’s not easy being the firstborn, is it?”
I looked at her and smiled. She knew exactly what I was feeling.
Dizzy from Izzy
I hung out at the beach almost all day on Friday, hoping to catch a glimpse of Big Apfel. I guess Mrs. A finally noticed because she came out on her porch and said, “If you’re looking for Fudge he’s down at the tide pool with Mitzi and Sheila.”
“I’m not looki
ng for him,” I explained. “I . . . uh . . . just wanted to ask Big a question about the game.”
As soon as I said Big I wondered if I should have called him Mr. Apfel instead.
But Mrs. A acted as if it was okay. She said, “Big’s on a fishing trip. He’ll be back in a few days.”
A few days! “What about the game on Sunday?” I asked.
“There’s no game this Sunday,” Mrs. A said. “It’s the annual antique show. They set it up on the high school field.”
“Antique show?”
“Yes,” Mrs. A said. “And Big gets so upset about the game being canceled, he has to leave town. But don’t worry . . . he’ll be back before next Sunday. Big never misses a ball game.”
I guess Mrs. A could tell how disappointed I was because she said, “I just baked chocolate chip cookies . . .”
“No, thank you,” I said. “I’m not very hungry.”
I ran home and announced the bad news. “No ball game this Sunday because of some dumb antique show!”
“I read about that in the local paper,” Mom said. “I think we should go.”
“Forget it,” I told her. “You’re not getting me anywhere near those stupid antiques!”
“It’s good there’s no game,” Fudge said, “because I still don’t have a mitt-sy.” He looked at Dad. He’s been begging for a mitt-sy ever since Mitzi showed him hers, two days ago.
“Tomorrow afternoon,” Dad told him.
“Promise?” Fudge asked.
“Promise,” Dad said.
* * *
When Mitzi came over the next morning, Fudge said, “I’m getting my mitt-sy this afternoon.”
“That’s nice,” Mitzi said. But she was more interested in the book she was carrying than in Fudge’s baseball glove. “Did you know I can read?” she asked.
“So can I,” Fudge said.
Mitzi held up her book and pointed to the title. “What does this say?”
“I can’t read everything,” Fudge said. “I can read Hop on Pop and dinosaur books.”
I don’t know if he can really read Hop on Pop or if he’s memorized it. But it’s true that he knows all the words.
“The name of this book is Tell Me a Mitzi,” she said, smiling.
“Is it, Pete?” Fudge asked.
“That’s what it says,” I told him.
Fudge looked surprised.
Mitzi opened the book. “And it’s all about me and my baby brother, Jacob.”
“You don’t have a baby brother,” Fudge said.
“I do so. And his name is Jacob.”
“Where is he?”
“In Boston with Mommy and Daddy. He’s not old enough to visit Grandma and Big by himself. He can’t even talk. And he makes poop in his diaper.”
“So does Tootsie,” Fudge said.
“I hold my nose when Jacob gets changed,” Mitzi said.
“I hold my nose when Tootsie gets changed,” Fudge said.
“One time Jacob got into his diaper and played with his poop,” Mitzi said. “Ooohhhh . . . it was so bad!”
“This conversation is getting pretty bad!” I told them.
They looked at each other and laughed.
“Let me see that book,” Fudge said.
Mitzi handed it to him and he flipped through the pages. “How come it’s about you?”
“Because I’m special,” Mitzi said.
* * *
That afternoon I went to town with Dad and Fudge. The sports store had only one baseball glove small enough to fit him but he didn’t mind. “Now I have my own mitt-sy,” he told the clerk.
“Yes,” the clerk said. “I guess you do. And if you put a few drops of oil on it every day you’ll make it nice and soft.”
“A few drops of oil,” Fudge repeated, as we left the store. He was wearing his glove and kept punching his fist into it the way Mitzi had with hers.
When Dad told us he had to stop off at Sawyer’s Market, Fudge asked if he could go to the library.
“Sure,” Dad said.
The library is next door to Sawyer’s. From the outside it looks like a little house. There are pots of flowers on the steps and even a screen door. But inside it’s like a regular library. I left Fudge in the children’s room and headed for the sports section. There were a lot of books about baseball. I was browsing through one that looked interesting when Fudge tugged at my shirt. “I can’t find it,” he said.
“Find what?”
“The book I want.”
I figured he was looking for something like Your Favorite Brontosaurus or The Last Tyrannosaurus Rex. So I said, “Go ask the librarian.”
“You come, too.”
“I’m busy.”
“Please, Pete! This is important.”
“Oh . . . all right.” I walked him to the check-out desk. The regular librarian wasn’t there. Instead, there was a girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen. She wore a pin on her shirt that said Library Assistant. She was reading a book. It must have been really good because she didn’t even notice we were standing in front of her until Fudge spoke. “Do you have Tell Me a Fudge?” he asked.
I almost fell through the floor.
“Pardon?” the girl said, looking up at us. Her eyes were a deep, dark brown—like the best chocolate.
“Tell Me a Fudge,” he repeated. “That’s the book I want.”
“It doesn’t sound familiar,” she said.
“It could be called Tell Me a Farley,” Fudge said.
I coughed twice but she didn’t even glance my way. “Did you look it up in the card catalog?” she asked Fudge.
“No,” Fudge said.
“Well, let’s give it a try. Our computer’s down today.” She marked her place in the book she was reading. When she closed it I tried to read the title upside down. I think it was called Beginner’s Love but I’m not sure.
Fudge followed her to the card catalog and I followed Fudge. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Isobel,” she said. “But my friends call me Izzy.”
“Izzy . . .” he said. “I like that.”
“What’s yours?” she asked him.
“Farley,” he said. “But my friends call me Fudge.”
“Oh . . .” Isobel said. “What an interesting name.” She thumbed through the cards in the T drawer. “We have Tell Me a Mitzi and Tell Me a Trudy. But I don’t see Tell Me a Fudge or Tell Me a Farley.”
“It has to be there,” Fudge said.
Isobel went through the cards again. “Nope . . . I’m sorry.”
Fudge scrunched up his face and his breath came fast. Oh, no! I thought. He wouldn’t . . . not here . . . not now . . .
But I was wrong. “It’s not fair!” he cried, throwing himself on the floor. Then he kicked and he banged his fists and he screamed. “It’s not fair!!!”
Isobel looked at me. I wanted to disappear. Lucky for us, there were only a few other people in the library. One woman came over to see what was happening, but she wasn’t impressed. She shook her head, then went back to the stacks, where she’d been browsing. A man stuck his head out of a reading room and called, “Quiet, please . . . this is a library!”
But Fudge kept on kicking and screaming and banging his fists.
“Stop!” I hissed. “You’re making a scene.”
“I can’t help it,” he cried.
“You’re too old for this.”
“I’m not too old. I’m only five.”
I would have walked out and left him there, except for Isobel. She kneeled beside him. “Fudge . . .” she said, very softly.
Fudge looked at her. His face was blotchy red and his nose was runny.
“Who knows more about
a Fudge or a Farley than you?”
“Nobody . . .”
“Exactly,” she said. “So maybe you should write this book yourself.”
“I can’t write,” Fudge said. “My fingers hurt from just printing my name.”
“Maybe you can tell the stories to someone else . . . like your brother . . . and he’ll write them down for you.” Isobel smiled at me as if we were sharing some secret. I think I smiled back but I’m not sure. I felt like I was in a dream and everything was happening in slow motion.
Fudge sat up. “I’ll think about it,” he said. Isobel handed him a tissue from her pocket. But he doesn’t know how to blow his nose. So he just wiped the whole mess across his face. Then he stood, took Isobel’s hand and walked back to the check-out desk with her.
“That’s a nice-looking baseball glove,” she told him.
“I call it my mitt-sy,” Fudge said. “And I’m going to oil it every day . . . to keep it nice and soft.”
I wondered if Isobel oiled her skin. I wondered if it felt as soft as it looked. My mind drifted off . . . I pictured myself on a desert island with Isobel. It doesn’t matter that I’m years older than you, Peter, she was saying, because you’re so mature for your age . . .
Fudge tugged at my hand. “Pete . . .”
“What?”
“I’ll go tell Dad we’re done, okay?”
I nodded.
As soon as Fudge was gone Isobel said, “Did you want to check that out?” When I didn’t answer she reached for the book I was holding. “Do you have your card?” she asked.
“My card?”
“Yes . . . your library card.”
“No . . . I guess I forgot it.”
“That’s okay . . . I can hold the book for you until next Saturday.”
“Next Saturday,” I said.
I don’t know how I got out of there, my legs were shaking so bad. I was feeling kind of weak all over and dizzy, too.
Fudge came out of Sawyer’s Market just as I came out of the library. “Dad says he’s next on line. He’ll meet us back at the car.” He stopped for a minute and looked at me. “What’s wrong, Pete?”
“Nothing . . . why?”
“You look weird. Are you going to puke?”
“No . . . I’m just a little . . . dizzy.”
