Hazy Bloom and the Pet Project

by Jennifer Hamburg

  I told Mom I was sorry and offered to drive to the store to buy more milk and butter, which I kind of knew was impossible on account of my being nine. Also, just to be clear, this was definitely not helping with the iguana situation. Thinking things couldn’t get any worse, I slinked away before Mom could discover any other horrible things I’d done.

  I was wrong.

  Dad’s drill of destruction.

  Why was our house so small? For once, I wanted some peace and quiet. I tried The Baby’s empty room but couldn’t find anywhere to sit (except the diaper pail, and trust me, you didn’t want to sit on that). Next I tried Mom’s office, but she had been cleaning her desk and had an enormous stack of papers on her chair. After attempting the bathtub, the back porch, and the attic (which seemed okay until I remembered what Milo had once said about a ghost who lived up there and ate kids whose names began with H), I found the only place where I could get away from the noise: the laundry room. I hopped up on the washing machine and crisscrossed my legs, ready to stay there forever.

  Except after four and a half minutes, I was bored out of my mind. I looked around. Maybe I could do some laundry? I mean, that would be a huge help for Mom and Dad, and that meant I could prove that I was … ding ding ding! Responsible! There was even a basket of dirty clothes sitting on the floor, just waiting to be washed. So, with this genius plan, I spent the next hour washing, drying, and even folding the clothes, including a wrap dress of Mom’s, which, let me tell you, was no walk in the park.

  When I was done, I stuck my head out the laundry room door and yelled to my family, “Clean clothes! Come and get ’em … while they’re hot!” I believe that’s what you say about baked goods and not laundry, but I couldn’t help it. I was excited to show off my very responsible deed.

  Mom, Dad, and Milo curiously made their way to the laundry room. When they got there, I proudly gestured to the basket of folded clothes, then patiently waited for them to thank me. That’s when I noticed the looks on their faces. They were not happy looks.

  “My soccer shirt!” Milo screeched, yanking it from the laundry basket. “It’s pink!”

  “Hazel, you washed my wallet!” Dad shrieked, taking a billfold from the pocket of a pair of jeans.

  “What’s this?” Mom asked, holding up a piece of fabric between two fingers.

  I told her it was her wrap dress.

  “WHAT?” she replied calmly (okay, more like howled furiously).

  Apparently, it was three sizes smaller than before I’d washed it. (It looked to be about 1/59 of its original size, but that’s not really the point at this moment in time.)

  Did I mention I’d never done laundry before?

  13

  The next day, Thursday, my family was still so angry about the laundry incident that I was actually happy to get to school. That is, until Mrs. Agnes pulled me aside.

  “So, Hazel,” she said. “How’s the planning for Pet Day going?”

  I wanted to tell Mrs. Agnes that it wasn’t “going” at all because I’d been kind of busy trying to prove to my family that I was responsible by doing things like laundry, which ended up being a total disaster but was partly my dad’s fault because he hadn’t stopped with the power tools for days now and it was driving me nuts, especially because it was for my dumb brother’s loft bed and not for my iguana. But I couldn’t tell Mrs. Agnes all of that.

  So instead I said, “Oh, fine. Terrific! Coooooouldn’t be going better.”

  Mrs. Agnes tilted her head quizzically. “Do you need help with anything?”

  “If you insist,” I replied. Because I did, for real live.

  Later that morning, I showed Mrs. Agnes my planning guide, and together we decided the first order of business was to divide the class into the following committees: Pet Wash, Fashion Show, Concessions, Pet Portraits, and Entertainment.

  Then, during free time, we suggested that everyone meet with their committees, and while they did this I flitted around the room, listening in to their conversations and saying helpful things like “Mmmmmm!” and “Oh yes!” and “Lovely idea!” Suddenly, this team-leader job didn’t seem so bad after all. It was actually kind of fun.

  Then things took an alarming turn. One by one, my classmates started coming up to me, each with a list of questions. The Pet Wash Committee needed to know what the budget was for buying pet shampoo. The Concessions Committee wanted to know where to order the food from. The Fashion Show Committee asked how many outfits they needed. The Pet Portraits Committee needed a deadline for getting the easels and art supplies.

  I was feeling more frazzled by the second. I didn’t want to answer all of these questions. I couldn’t answer all of these questions. I just wanted to sit at my desk and design a reading corner for Fred. (And yes, I’m aware that iguanas can’t read, but I also know they are very intelligent animals, so who knows what skills he might acquire?) The point is, I turned everyone’s questions over to Elizabeth. And also, at that moment I realized I was in way over my head.

  * * *

  By Friday afternoon, my list of Pet Day to-dos had grown to six pages. I had never been so happy for the weekend to come … until I remembered that meant being home with my family, who were all still peeved about the whole “Hazy ruined our clothes” episode.

  “Look at my sweatshirt!” Milo bellowed Saturday morning. “It’s supposed to be white, and now it’s … this!” He jabbed his finger at the formerly white sweatshirt, which was now an odd shade of purple and had a bunch of mysterious rough patches all over it (much like an iguana’s skin, I wanted to point out, but then thought better of it).

  “That’s it.” Milo glared at me. “You are NEVER sleeping in my loft bed! EVER!”

  “Like I ever wanted to!” I yelled back. Even though I kind of did. The truth is, I’d love to sleep way up off the ground, imagining I’m on a mountaintop high in the sky …

  Of course, all of that depended on Dad finishing the bed sometime this century. And by the constant sounds of drilling, sawing, and whatever else he was doing in there all weekend long, that didn’t seem likely.

  By Sunday afternoon, I’d decided that if I didn’t get out of the house soon, I might drill a hole through the wall myself. So I headed over to Elizabeth’s. And I’d like to say, sometimes being with your bestest friend is just the thing a girl needs. For the rest of the day, Elizabeth and I had a blast. We painted our toes. We practiced our handstands. We used gum to pretend we had braces. We sang karaoke. We had twelve rounds of a staring contest (I won eight, she won four). It was the most fun I’d had in a long time.

  I was about to head back to my house of horrors when it happened: prickles and goose bumps, hot and cold. Then, a tomorrow vision appeared … of a fuzzy purple monster and an ice pack.

  Now, I’ve used my share of ice packs, most recently when Milo and I were fighting over who would get the popcorn out of the microwave and we both slammed into the kitchen counter. But I couldn’t recall ever coming in contact with a fuzzy monster, which I considered a good thing. I certainly couldn’t imagine how those two things went together.

  When I told Elizabeth, she seemed alarmed.

  “How scary! What if a monster is going to sneak into your house? Or school? Or the rehearsal for my Pet Day performance, which would be totally distracting!”

  She seemed most concerned about that last one.

  I told Elizabeth we should sleep on it (the tomorrow vision, not the monster), and she agreed, adding that as my sidekick, part of her job was to help me figure out my visions.

  I was about to ask her what the other part of her job was, because I don’t think we ever ironed that out, but she was on to the next subject. Pet Day.

  “Did you call the pet-portrait artist?”

  I didn’t.

  “Are you making the goody bags?”

  I wasn’t.

  “Have you gathered the art supplies so we can make Pet Day posters tomorrow?”

  I hadn’t.

  But I
thanked her for reminding me, and if that isn’t leadership, I don’t know what is.

  Although I’m sure it’s explained somewhere in her planning guide.

  14

  Monday at recess, I set out paper, markers, and paint that I had very responsibly brought from the art room so my class could make posters for Pet Day. Shelby, Lila, and Derrick were creating signs for each station, while Zoe and Deacon worked on a giant banner. I myself was making a poster of a dog and cat frolicking on the beach, and yes, I realized this wasn’t entirely accurate since Pet Day was taking place at school, and also because I believe cats have a negative reaction to waves. But still, I thought it was a pretty good poster.

  Suddenly, Elizabeth rushed over to me.

  “Hazy Bloom, guess what!” She grabbed my hand and hissed in my ear, “I saw a fuzzy monster.”

  My eyes widened. “Here?” I said, slightly concerned. I thought that if a monster was approaching the playground, I would have noticed.

  She explained, “It’s tiny. And it’s not a real monster. It’s a pencil topper!”

  “A pencil topper?”

  “Yes! And you won’t believe who it belongs to.”

  I followed her gaze across the playground. It was Summer. She was sitting in a circle on the grass with a few kids from her class, jotting away, holding a pencil with—you guessed it—a fuzzy monster on top. First, I wondered where I could get one of those things, since it was totally adorable, for real live.

  Second, why would I have a vision about Summer? I mean, because of her amazing luau idea, she was my biggest competition for the (not)FUNdraiser. Maybe it had something to do with that? Plus, I hate to say it, but—I just didn’t trust her. Perhaps it was because of her extreme snootiness. In any case, I needed to get to the bottom of this. And I had a plan.

  “I think we should—”

  “Here’s the plan!” Elizabeth interrupted.

  Fine, we’d go with her plan.

  She continued. “Our goal is to get close to Summer, but not too close! Then we can hear what they’re talking about without being seen. So you’ll sneak through the playground, and I’ll sneak through the rotunda. When it’s clear to proceed, I’ll give you a signal. Like this.” She made some crazy signal with her hands that looked like she was swatting away ten flies. “When you see that, go to the front of the picnic tables but behind the slide, and that should get us close enough to see what’s going on!”

  I pondered all of this. “Can’t we just walk up to them and ask what they’re doing?”

  Elizabeth didn’t reply, but her look said it all. We were going with her idea.

  We named our mission OPT (“Operation Pencil Topper”), and after a quick secret handshake, we were off, heading our separate ways but maintaining eye contact the entire time.

  It was kind of fun, in a spy-movie sort of way, except for the part when I stepped in mud and my shoe came off. Eventually, we ended up at our meet-up spot—close enough to hear Summer and her friends talking, but not close enough that they’d see us.

  Unfortunately, some other kids had started a game of kickball right between them and us, and with all the yelling back and forth we couldn’t hear anything. I began to creep closer.

  “Hazy Bloom, what are you doing!” Elizabeth whispered.

  But I didn’t answer, because I was on a mission, for real live.

  A kid from the kickball game scored a point and everyone cheered.

  “Switch sides!” he called out.

  The two teams ran past each other, almost knocking into me. I dodged out of the way, and before I knew it, I was standing inches from Summer. I quickly turned away, pretending to focus on the game. But now I could hear every word she and her friends were saying.

  “Do you really think we can pull it off?” a redheaded girl was saying giddily. “Totally!” another girl said. “It will be hilarious.”

  My eyes widened. Pull what off? What will be hilarious? Something was feeling very wrong about the way they were talking.

  “Then it’s settled. We’ll do it!” Summer said.

  I peered over my shoulder and saw her using her fuzzy-monster pencil to write something down in her notebook. “This is going to be the best surprise ever.”

  I started putting things together in my head. Pull it off … hilarious … surprise … It sounded like they were planning some sort of prank. On who? Elizabeth and me? Our class? Or … were they planning to do something at Pet Day? Well, they weren’t going to get away with it. Not if I could help it!

  I stormed up to Summer. Actually, I was so close that I just kind of turned around. “For your information, I heard what you said,” I announced, an edge in my voice.

  Summer blinked up at me, clearly surprised. “Oh, hi, Hazy.”

  “Don’t ‘Hi, Hazy’ me! I know what you’re doing, and it’s not going to fly!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “A hilarious surprise? Pulling it off? You’re planning to ruin Pet Day!”

  “No, we’re not!”

  “Yes you are! I know what I heard!”

  “Well you heard wrong, because we were talking about Mr. Plinker.”

  “And another thing—” I stopped. “Mr. Plinker?”

  “Yes. We’re going to ask him to perform at the luau. As a surprise guest. He’s a great singer.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “Prove it.”

  “That he can sing?”

  “No! That that’s what you were talking about!”

  Summer held up a pad of paper that showed what she had written with her fuzzy-monster pencil. Mr. Plinker—surprise performer at Luau! That was proof if I ever saw it.

  Summer was now glaring at me. She stood up and looked me in the eye. “You know, I was going to invite you to our luau. But now, I’m NOT.” She turned to her friends. “Come on, guys.”

  Summer and her friends marched away snootily, glancing back at me and shooting me evil looks. As I was thinking about the fact that I had just eavesdropped on someone and then accused that person of planning to do something they were totally not planning to do, I saw an object slip out of Summer’s backpack. It was her fuzzy-monster pencil.

  I picked it up and called out weakly. “Hey, Summer, you dropped this—”

  And that’s when I saw the kickball hurtling toward me. I tried to duck, but it got me right in the cheek. Hard.

  Five minutes later, I was in the nurse’s office holding an ice pack to my face. Unfortunately, at that moment my vision made perfect sense.

  15

  By after school the next day, my cheek was feeling better. So when Mom asked me if I would watch The Baby while she did her yoga video, I said, “Yesireebob!” even though her name is not Bob, it’s Theresa. Besides, I was well aware I had some catching up to do in the “showing I’m responsible enough to have Fred” department. Babysitting was the perfect opportunity.

  Ten minutes later, I was very responsibly watching The Baby, who at the moment was spinning in circles, wobbling back and forth, then plopping onto the floor and shouting, “Oopsie!” Then he’d get up and do it all over again. It was hilarious. But after the ninth time, I told him to stop, because he was definitely going to get hurt (very responsible of me!).

  But did he listen? No. He just kept on spinning and plopping.

  “Alexander, stop,” I said gently but firmly.

  “Trabutzblech!” he said back as he bonked into the coffee table.

  I reached out and took him by the shoulders. “Hey. No more.”

  To my surprise, he stopped spinning and sat himself gently on the floor. Then he started throwing blocks.

  I ducked before one could hit me. “NO! NOT OKAY! STOP!” I yelled.

  The Baby looked at me very seriously for a second, then reached out his chubby little hand and squeezed my nose. Hard.

  “Ouch!”

  That was it. He was going in Baby Time-Out. I scooped him up as he flailed around like a wild octopus, wailing like
one, too. Flailing and wailing, wailing and flailing.

  “WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

  “Stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it!” I shouted.

  Milo flung open his bedroom door. “WHAT IS GOING ON! I’M TRYING TO FINISH MY HOMEWORK BEFORE DAD GETS HOME!”

  “Well, I’m trying to get this nutso baby to behave!” I screamed at him.

  “Well, you’re doing a terrible job!” Milo screamed back.

  I put The Baby down and glowered at Milo. “That’s it. You’re in time-out, too.”

  “You can’t put me in time-out! I’m older than you!”

  “Like I care!”

  “Like I care!”

  We went back and forth like this a few more times and then suddenly I looked down. “Where’s Alexander?”

  I scanned Milo’s room, hoping The Baby would pop up from the building materials still scattered all over the floor, or from under the mattress Milo had been sleeping on while Dad was working on the loft bed (which still didn’t resemble anything close to furniture, in case you were wondering). No baby.

  “Alexander?” I called out, panic rising in my chest.

  Nothing.

  Milo seemed a little freaked-out, too, but he was quick to say our house wasn’t that big, so The Baby couldn’t have gone that far. This was true, and I momentarily felt some relief. Surely he was around here somewhere.

  Then I saw that the front door was open. Uh-oh.

  As we raced down the hallway, terrible thoughts swirled through my mind. What if he wanders into the street? What if he falls into a ditch? What if he’s eaten by a bear? (And don’t tell me there aren’t any bears hanging out in the suburbs of Denver. Just because you haven’t seen one doesn’t mean they’re not here.)