by Judy Blume
The only problem is, she doesn’t get why I named my dog Turtle. I’ve explained a million times that I had a tiny pet turtle and when my brother was three he swallowed him. So when I got a dog, I named him after my turtle. It makes perfect sense to everyone but Mrs. Osterman. “A turtle is a turtle,” she says. “A dog is a dog. Would you name your cat Monkey, or your monkey Kangaroo?” I never know how to answer that question.
I was so busy thinking about Mrs. Osterman I didn’t notice Mom, who was chasing half a dozen apples that had tumbled out of our grocery bag. Sometimes Mom tells me I’m just like Dad, that I don’t notice what’s going on right under my nose.
By then, Fudge and Melissa were racing around the lobby, laughing and screaming. “Fudge,” Mom called. “You know you’re not supposed to run in the lobby.”
“Melissa,” Mrs. Miller called, “come over here, please.”
Mom laughed. “Welcome to our building,” she said to Mrs. Miller. “It’s not always this chaotic.”
Right, I thought, sometimes it’s worse.
When Fudge came back and heard Mrs. Miller telling Mom she worked at the Social Services program at Roosevelt Hospital, he asked, “How much do you make?”
“Excuse me?” Mrs. Miller said, as if she couldn’t possibly have heard what she thought she heard.
“Fudge,” Mom said, “that’s not a polite question.” She shook her head at Mrs. Miller. “My son isn’t usually so rude.”
Oh yeah . . . he is, I thought.
“I don’t get why grown-ups don’t like to talk about money,” Fudge said to Melissa.
“Because they’re grown-ups,” Melissa said. “That’s why.”
Mom and Mrs. Miller half-laughed the way parents do when they’re embarrassed but don’t want to admit it. Then they exchanged business cards. “I’m a dental hygienist,” Mom said.
“We could use a good dentist,” Mrs. Miller said, reading Mom’s card aloud. “Dr. Martha Julie.”
“The dentist with two first names,” Fudge sang, hopping around Melissa. “You get to watch videos while she’s checking your teeth.”
“Which ones?” Melissa asked.
“Whichever ones you want. But she doesn’t like it when you laugh hard, so don’t bring anything too funny.”
“Funny is the best,” Melissa said.
“I know,” Fudge agreed.
“I’ll call to set up an appointment,” Mrs. Miller told Mom.
“I’m there Tuesdays, Fridays, and every other Saturday,” Mom said. She picked up our grocery bags. “See you soon.”
As I pushed Tootsie in her stroller, Mom tried to guide Fudge toward the elevator but he pulled back. “Guess what?” he called to Melissa. “Pete’s best friend lived in your apartment. They didn’t have any beds.”
“That’s because his father thought it was better to sleep on the floor,” I said. I don’t know why I thought I had to defend Frank Fargo, but I did.
“I have a bed,” Melissa said. “Want to see it?” she asked.
“Can I, Mom?” Fudge said.
“Some other time,” Mom said. “We have a lot to do to get ready for school.”
Melissa walked us to the elevator. “See you in mixed-up group,” she told Fudge.
“Mixed-up group for mixed-up kids!” Fudge sang, giving her a high five.
* * *
All through dinner I wondered if Fudge was really going into a class for mixed-up kids. Later, while Mom was getting Tootsie ready for bed, I decided to find out. “So what’s with this mixed-up group thing?”
“It’s called mixed group,” Mom told me.
“Look, Mom . . . if he’s repeating kindergarten you can tell me. I won’t let the cat out of the bag.”
“Meow,” Tootsie said, as Mom changed her diaper.
“He’s not repeating kindergarten,” Mom said. “You know he’s very smart.”
“But he says his class is for mixed-up kids.”
“I can’t imagine where he got that idea,” Mom said, looking at me. “Peter, you didn’t suggest . . .”
“No way, Mom.”
“Because this is an accelerated program. All the children are ready to read and write. They’re just not old enough for official first grade. You know how smart Fudge is. You know he’s very mature for his age.”
I laughed. So did Tootsie, even though she didn’t have a clue what we were talking about.
“He is, Peter!”
“Sure, Mom. If you say so.”
“His self-esteem is at stake here. He should be proud to be in mixed group.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about his self-esteem. He thinks he’s the greatest.”
“Not if he’s got the idea he’s going into a class for mixed-up children.”
“What happens if he gets another Rat Face?” I asked. Rat Face was his kindergarten teacher last year, when we lived in Princeton. When she refused to call him Fudge he kicked her. In less than an hour he had to be transferred to another class.
“I’ve met the teaching team and they seem very nice. Fudge will be in William’s section. This is his third year with mixed group. So he has some experience.”
“Nobody has enough experience for Fudge,” I said.
“Let’s try to have a positive attitude, Peter. Okay?”
“I am positive . . .” Positive it’ll be a disaster, just like it always is with Fudge.
Richie Richest
I admit I was worried about my first day of seventh grade. I wondered if I’d be considered a new kid because I wasn’t there last year, to start middle school with everyone else. But how can you be a new kid when you’ve only missed one year? I’d be more like a new old kid, wouldn’t I? I mean, I wouldn’t know everyone at middle school but I’d know all the kids who’d been in fifth grade with me. And I’d still have the same best friend.
Fudge didn’t seem at all worried about starting a new school. He and Melissa skipped all the way there. I wish Jimmy still lived in our building so we could walk to school together. Instead I walked with Sheila Tubman. Not that I wanted to but what choice did I have? We went down in the elevator together. It would have been rude to cross the street just to avoid her, right? I was still hoping we wouldn’t be in the same homeroom or any of the same classes.
* * *
The bad news is, Sheila’s in my homeroom. She’s in my science class and Spanish, too. But I’m trying to keep a positive attitude, like Mom said. The good news is, Jimmy’s also in my homeroom and better yet, in my humanities section. We even have the same lunch period. And nobody at school acted like I was a new kid. Most kids either didn’t remember I lived someplace else last year, or didn’t care.
After school Jimmy came over, same as always. I told him about Melissa and her mother and how Henry painted the apartment and fixed up the kitchen. “They got a new refrigerator,” I said, expecting Jimmy to laugh and make some joke about salami and onion sandwiches. But he didn’t.
We hung out in the park for a while—at the top of our special rock—then, just like that, Jimmy said he had to go home. I forgot for a minute he’d moved, that he lived downtown now, that he had to take the subway home by himself. I walked him to Central Park West and Seventy-second Street.
Jimmy and I have been best friends since third grade. He lived around the corner then. It was the first place in the city I was allowed to walk by myself. I really liked Jimmy’s mom. She told me to call her Anita, not Mrs. Fargo. We had this special game. Every time I left her house she gave me a graham cracker, in case I got hungry on the way home. That was a big joke since it took about two minutes to get to my building. I was so mad at her when she took off for Vermont, leaving Jimmy with his dad. But then I was happy when Jimmy and his dad moved into our building. Then I was mad at her again, bec
ause Jimmy was.
Jimmy still doesn’t like to talk about the divorce or his mother. He keeps everything to himself. He visits her at Christmas and for a month in the summer. I hope I never see her again because if I do, I’ll tell her exactly what I think about what she did to Jimmy. And don’t tell me there are two sides to every story, like Mom does, because I’ve seen Jimmy’s side up close. Not that I want him to move to Vermont. That would be a lot worse than SoHo. I’d never get to see him then. Now I know how he felt when I left the city last year.
I watched as Jimmy disappeared down the stairs into the subway station. I wonder when Mom and Dad will let me take the subway to SoHo on my own?
* * *
That night at dinner, Fudge went on and on about his first day of school. “I have two teachers in my room, William and Polly. And a library helper. That makes three.”
“You need three teachers,” I said, “maybe more.”
“Because I’m smart, right?”
“Oh yeah . . . they don’t come any smarter than you.”
“How many teachers do you have, Pete?”
“A different one every hour.”
“Wow . . . you’re really smart.”
Dad said, “When you’re in seventh grade you’ll have as many teachers as Peter.”
“My library helper comes two times every week,” Fudge said. “He’s seventeen. Next year he’s going to college. Know what his name is? Jonathan Girdle.”
I laughed and said, “You probably got that wrong, Turkey Brain.”
“Peter!” Mom said. “What did we discuss last night?”
“Uh . . . I don’t know.”
“Self-esteem,” Mom said. “Don’t you remember?”
“What’s that got to do with . . .” I stopped before I finished. Was she talking about me calling Fudge Turkey Brain? Mom nodded like she could read my mind.
But Fudge didn’t pay any attention. He went on as if he were the only one at the table. “Jonathan told us some people think his name is funny, so I told him some people think my name is funny. Then this girl named Rebecca Noodle said a lot of people think her name is funny. Then Pluto Stevenson said everybody thinks his name is funny.”
“Pluto?” I said.
“Yes, Pluto. But he’s not my new best friend. My new best friend is . . .”
“Wait a minute,” I said, interrupting. “One day of school and you have a new best friend?”
“Yeah, Pete. I do.”
* * *
I have to hand it to Fudge. He always manages to find a friend. He never worries like I do, when I go someplace new, that maybe no one will like him. “Guess what my new best friend’s name is?” Fudge asked later that night. I was at my desk. I’d just finished my math homework and was about to start on Spanish. We’re having a vocabulary quiz on Friday.
“I’m doing my homework,” I told him. “You’re not supposed to bother me while I’m studying. And you’re supposed to knock if my door is closed.” Fudge and I each have half a bedroom. There’s a divider wall with shelves between us. But we have our own doors to the hallway.
“I brought you a rice cake,” Fudge said in his best-little-boy-in-the-world voice. He held it out to me.
He’s the one who loves rice cakes, not me. They make me gag. They’re like eating cardboard. “I don’t want a rice cake,” I told him. “You know how I feel about rice cakes. Anyway, aren’t you supposed to be in bed?”
“I can’t go to bed until you guess,” he said, nibbling at the rice cake himself.
“Okay . . . what am I supposed to guess this time?”
“Pay attention, Pete!” he said. “You’re supposed to guess my new friend’s name.”
“If you want me to guess, you have to give me a clue,” I told him.
“Okay . . . his first name is what I want to be when I grow up.”
“King?” I guessed.
“Wrong!”
“President?”
“Very funny, Pete. Try again.”
“Let’s see . . .” I pretended to think about it. “Oh, I’ve got it. Miser?”
“No!” He shoved half the rice cake into his mouth at once. “It’s Rich.” He waited for my reaction. When I didn’t say anything he repeated, “His name is Rich. Get it, Pete? It’s what I want to be when I grow up!” When I still didn’t say anything, he added, “We call him Richie. And his last name is even better. Here’s a clue. He’s related to someone very famous. Someone we know.” He stuffed the rest of the rice cake into his mouth and brushed off his hands. The crumbs landed on my Living Spanish textbook.
“I don’t know anyone really famous.”
“Yes you do.”
“I give up.”
Fudge whispered in my ear. “He’s You-Know-Who’s cousin.”
“We’ve been through this before,” I told him, wiping off my ear. “Harry Potter isn’t real. He’s a . . .”
But before I could finish Fudge spit on the back of his hand three times. “You said his name out loud? You have to spit three times or something terrible will happen. Hurry!” He spit on the back of his other hand. I don’t know why Fudge thinks you’re not supposed to say the name Harry Potter out loud, but he does. It’s some kind of magic he invented. I knew he was too young to listen to the book on tape but Mom and Dad played it anyway, driving back from summer vacation. To tell the truth, it’s easier to spit than argue with him. So I did. Three times on the back of my hand.
“Whew . . .” Fudge said. “That was a close one.”
“I hate to break it to you,” I told him, “but Potter’s a common name. I know at least two kids at school whose last name is Potter. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“You are so wrong, Pete!”
Uncle Feather agreed with Fudge. “You are so wrong, Pete . . . so wrong wrong wrong.”
“Cover Bird Brain’s cage, will you?” I said. “I can’t concentrate on my homework with him yakking.”
“Yak yak yak . . .” Uncle Feather said.
I reached for my headset and turned up the volume. Sometimes I wonder how I ever survived without it.
* * *
Richie Potter was at our apartment when I got home from school the next day. He’s two heads taller than Fudge and so thin you can count his ribs through his shirt. He has a brush cut, and big eyes that blink a lot, like maybe he needs glasses. I could see why Fudge got the idea he was You-Know-Who’s cousin.
He started wheezing right away. “Allergies,” he explained, digging his inhaler out of his backpack and puffing twice. “You must have dust mites.”
“I don’t know,” Fudge said. “But Pete has a dog.”
“Dogs are okay as long as they don’t lick me,” Richie said. “If they lick me I get hives.”
“What about brothers?” Fudge asked.
“Brothers are okay unless they lick their dogs.” He and Fudge started laughing. “Does your brother lick his dog?”
“Maybe,” Fudge said. “Hey, Pete, do you . . .”
“No!” I said.
Fudge and Richie laughed themselves silly.
“Want to see my bird?” Fudge asked. “He can talk.” Richie followed Fudge and I followed Richie. I like to be around when Fudge introduces his bird to a new friend. “Presenting . . .” Fudge said with a flourish, “the one . . . the only . . . Uncle Feather!”
“I have an Uncle Jocko,” Richie said.
“Is your Uncle Jocko a bird?” Fudge asked.
“No,” Richie said. “He’s my mother’s brother.”
“Uncle Feather’s not related to my mother or my father,” Fudge said. “He’s just related to me. He’s all mine.”
“So, what does he say?” Richie asked.
“Whatever you want him to say.
”
Richie thought about it. Then he said, “Zoopidee-zop.”
Uncle Feather just stood there, his head cocked to one side.
“Try something else,” Fudge said. “He likes real words. Especially bad words.”
So Richie said all the bad words he knew but Uncle Feather wasn’t impressed.
“You try,” Richie told Fudge.
“What’s up?” Fudge asked Uncle Feather. Usually Uncle Feather answers, “Whassup . . . whassup . . . whassup . . .” But this time, nothing.
“What’s wrong?” I asked Uncle Feather. “Cat got your tongue?” I wouldn’t say that in front of Tootsie or she’d start meowing. But Tootsie was taking her afternoon nap.
“Don’t tease him, Pete!”
“I’m not teasing him. I’m trying to get him to talk.”
“He’s not in the mood,” Fudge said. “Come on, Richie, let’s get a snack.”
I followed them to the kitchen. Mom was still in her whites from work.
“Are you a doctor?” Richie asked.
“No,” Mom said, “a dental hygienist.”
“One of my grandpas is a very famous neurosurgeon,” Richie said. “He fixes brains.”
“We know this girl who fell off her bike,” Fudge said, “and her brains came out her ears.”
“My grandpa could have put them back in,” Richie said.
“Too bad she didn’t know your grandpa,” Fudge said.
“What’s he talking about?” I asked Mom.
Mom shrugged and rolled her eyes as if she was wondering the same thing. Then she said, “Would you boys like a snack?”
“Yes, please,” Richie answered. “I’ll have broccoli.”
“Broccoli,” Mom repeated.
