Penelope Crumb Finds Her Luck

by Shawn Stout

  ALSO BY THE SAME AUTHOR:

  Penelope Crumb

  Penelope Crumb Never Forgets

  PHILOMEL BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Young Readers Group

  Published by The Penguin Group

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  For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com

  Copyright © 2013 by Shawn K. Stout.

  Art coyright © 2013 by Valeria Docampo.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission in writing from the publisher. Philomel Books, Reg. U.S. Pat. & Tm. Off. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Stout, Shawn K.

  Penelope Crumb finds her luck / Shawn K. Stout ; with art by Valeria Docampo.

  pages cm

  Summary: Blaming The Bad Luck for not being anyone’s Favorite, fourth-grader Penelope Crumb hopes to change this situation by becoming the lead artist for the mural her class is painting for the residents of Potwaller’s Blessed Home for the Aging.

  [1. Luck—Fiction. 2. Friendship—Fiction.] I. Docampo, Valeria, 1976– illustrator. II. Title.

  PZ7.S88838Pem 2013 [Fic]—dc23 2012048885

  Published simultaneously in Canada. Printed in the United States of America.

  ISBN 978-1-101-60090-0

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Contents

  Also by the same author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Acknowledgments

  For Anna and Lily

  1.

  Sometimes I worry about getting the Bad Luck. I don’t know how you catch the Bad Luck exactly, but I guess it’s a lot like catching the stomach flu. Or getting warts. (Truth be told, if you’ve got the stomach flu AND warts, then your luck probably isn’t so good.)

  Some people seem to have the Bad Luck an awful lot of the time. Except for my dad being Graveyard Dead and me having an alien for a brother, my luck has been pretty okay up until now. Not real good, but not real bad either. That’s the way I like it. Because here’s one thing I know about the Bad Luck: It comes right along with the Good Luck. You can’t have one without the other.

  Which makes me nervous, because today has a lot of the Good Luck in it:

  1. Mom left for work early.

  2. Orange Popsicle for breakfast. For real, two.

  3. Found long-lost T-shirt in rag bag. Still fits except for part that covers my stomach.

  4. Alien overslept and missed bus.

  5. Two orange Popsicles in lunchbox. For real, four.

  6. No surprise test on decimal points.

  7. Angus Meeker home sick with the stomach flu.

  8. Not one mean comment about how big my nose is.

  9. Patsy Cline smiled at me.

  With all that good stuff, I just know that the Bad Luck is right around the corner. But I can’t think about corners so much right now because Miss Stunkel is letting us use clay in art class. And so I am busy making a cow.

  Patsy Cline Roberta Watson, my used-to-be best friend, is crazy about cows. Instead of spots like real cows have, I draw hearts in the clay with my pencil point. Just because.

  I set the cow on the corner of my desk, so it’s as close to Patsy Cline as it can be without jumping over the space between our desks. Patsy Cline is smushing her clay into something that could be a worm that’s been run over by a delivery truck. Or else a horse with pneumonia. Patsy Cline isn’t so good at art.

  I make a cuuullllggggh noise with my throat and wait for Patsy to look this way. She does, thank lucky stars, but she has a look on her face that says, You Should Cover Your Mouth.

  “Sorry,” I say, even though I am really not sorry because it was only a pretend cough and therefore only pretend germs that Patsy doesn’t need to be afraid of. “But look.” I point to the cow.

  When she sees it, her eyes get big and almost weepy and she says, “Oh, how I wish cows had hearts like that in real life.”

  Which makes me smile.

  But then Vera Bogg, who is Patsy Cline’s brand-new best friend, crinkles up her teeny nose and says, “But cows do have hearts, Patsy Cline.”

  Good gravy. That’s Vera Bogg for you.

  With her pink fingernail, Vera presses a smiley face into a small ball and then stacks it on top of two others. “I think it would be better if you made it more like a real-looking cow,” Vera says to me, pushing her pink headband back on her head. “And where’s its tail?”

  I am about to tell Vera a thing or two about art, about Patsy Cline, and about cows, but instead I flatten the cow with my fist. If Vera Bogg doesn’t know that art doesn’t have to be real-looking, that everybody knows cows have hearts on the inside, and that Patsy Cline is allergic to things with tails, then I’m not going to be the one to tell her.

  Miss Stunkel walks up and down the rows, and when she gets to my desk, she looks at my flattened cow and says, “Penelope, you’ve made a pancake? How nice.” Only, she says it in a way that makes me think she only eats waffles.

  She nods at Patsy Cline’s sick horse as she passes, which is now just about dead, and then stops right in front of Vera Bogg. “Oh, Vera,” she says. “What a delightful snowman. You’re really something.” And she makes a big deal out of the something.

  Vera Bogg’s face gets as pink as the rest of her. It’s the kind of pink that makes me feel like a raw hot dog. The sort that makes you sick if you don’t cook it long enough. Vera Bogg is Miss Stunkel’s All-Time Favorite. She’d have to be to get a big-deal something for a boring old snowman.

  If Mister Leonardo da Vinci was here, he would surely say, “It seems apparent to me, oh me oh my, that Miss Stunkel couldn’t tell a craggy rock from a masterpiece.” Because that’s how dead artists talk.

  Then Vera Bogg starts telling Patsy Cline how wonderful Patsy’s clay sculpture is, and how she wishes she could make something that good. I can’t help but roll my eyeballs. Even Patsy Cline looks a little suspicious, but then she says, “Do you know what it’s supposed to be?”

  Vera’s eyes get wide, and after staring at the lump on Patsy’s desk for a long time, she says, “Well, it looks like it could be a lot of things.”

  “It’s a fiddle,” says Patsy Cline.

  “That’s just what I was going to say,” says Vera. “A fiddle.”

  Patsy Cline nods and smiles, and all I can do is shake my head. Because how Vera Bogg, and not me, can be Patsy’s All-Time Favorite is som
ething I will never ever understand.

  Meanwhile, I’m molding my pancake into a hungry tiger, which I plan on training to bite at Vera Bogg’s ankles, and Miss Stunkel says she has an important announcement so listen up.

  A man with a beard that’s just on his chin and not on his cheeks comes into the classroom and sits on top of Miss Stunkel’s desk. Not in a chair, but on her desk. Which I don’t think Miss Stunkel likes too well because she gives him a look that says, Chairs Are Chairs for a Reason.

  Miss Stunkel says, “I’d like to introduce you all to Mr. Rodriguez. He is visiting schools in our area to talk about an exciting new art project.”

  Right away my ears perk up.

  Mr. Rodriguez swings his legs and smiles. “Hey,” he says. “So, like Miss Stinkel said . . .”

  “Stunkel,” says Miss Stunkel, and she points her chicken-bone finger at us to make sure none of us thinks that’s funny. Even though it very much is the funniest thing ever.

  “Sorry, wrong tense,” says Mr. Rodriguez, clearing his throat. “Stunkel. Anyway, I’m going all around town to get some volunteers to help with an art project. We’re painting a mural at Portwaller’s Blessed Home for the Aging.”

  “Ooh.” I drop the tiger and raise my hand high.

  Mr. Rodriguez smiles at me, and then Miss Stunkel tells me to hold on and that Mr. Rodriguez is not finished. But I don’t need to hear anything else, because I would paint a mural on the moon. On a moon rock. On a MoonPie, even. I, Penelope Crumb, am going to be a famous artist when I grow up, and painting murals is what famous artists do. Just ask Leonardo da Vinci. (Which you could do if he wasn’t already dead.)

  “The theme of the mural is Mother Goose,” says Mr. Rodriguez, “and if you want to do this, you have to show up for the next couple Saturdays and Sundays. So, if you have soccer practice or lunch with Grandma every Sunday, you’ll probably have to make other plans.” He swings his legs again and smiles. Then he says how it will mean so much to all of the people in the Blessed Home for the Aging and how they don’t have so much to live for anymore, seeing how they are so old and almost dead.

  Miss Stunkel rubs her Thursday lizard pin and says, “So, if this sounds like something you’d like to participate in, raise your hand.”

  My hand is still up, but Miss Stunkel is busy looking around the room and writing down the names of other kids on a piece of paper. I stick my other hand in the air and make big circles so she won’t miss me. And it works, too, because Mr. Rodriguez points right at me and says to Miss Stunkel, “There’s a live one over there.”

  Miss Stunkel sighs and says, “Penelope Crumb, I’ve already got your name on the list. So unless you’re trying to message Mars, please put your hands down.”

  Everybody laughs, which makes my cheeks burn. But then Mr. Rodriguez scratches his chin beard and says to me, “I think it’s pretty righteous that you’re so excited about art.”

  Righteous. I don’t know what that means exactly, but it sounds like he thinks I’m right. Which is something Miss Stunkel never says I am. I smile and give him a look that says, Please Tell My Teacher That She Is Very Wrongeous. And it’s a good thing that Miss Stunkel isn’t very good at telling what different kinds of faces mean because I would definitely get a note sent home for that one.

  That’s when Patsy Cline raises her hand and says, “What if you aren’t any good at drawing?”

  Which really is a surprise. Not because Patsy Cline isn’t any good at drawing—she’s not—but that she would even want to do an art project at all. Especially on Saturdays and Sundays when her mom makes her practice for singing competitions.

  Mr. Rodriguez says, “That’s nothing to worry about. And I bet you’re better than you think.”

  She isn’t.

  Patsy Cline smiles and gives me a look that says, Maybe I’m Not So Bad After All. I put on a smile that says, Well, You’re Definitely Not the Worst, Patsy Cline. Because that’s the truth. And even if it wasn’t, that’s the kind of thing you say to your used-to-be best friend. Especially when you’d like more than anything to get her back.

  And then I think what good luck this is because now I’ll have Patsy Cline all to myself, thank lucky stars. And after she sees me paint, she will surely say, “Penelope Crumb, you are my Favorite, because you are the most wonderful artist, and I was so wrong to throw you over for Vera Bogg, because anybody who wears that much pink can’t be right in the head.”

  But then the Bad Luck peeks out at me from around the corner. Because the next thing I see is Vera Bogg raising her hand.

  Maybe it’s those pink fingernails, but all I can think of is that I don’t want the Bad Luck to get any closer. And the next thing I know, the tiger is in my hand, but only for a second because then it leaps at Vera.

  And I have to say, for an untrained tiger, it’s pretty good. The tiger knocks her hand down and then hits her desk and falls to the floor. I think its head falls off, poor thing. And Vera screams.

  That’s when I know the Bad Luck has found me for certain, because Miss Stunkel pulls out her chicken-bone finger and points it at me and says I can be sure she’s sending a note home.

  2.

  Terrible practically knocks me over. “Watch out,” he says as he swings open the door from our apartment. He happens to be the one who isn’t watching out, but I decide to keep that to myself because the last thing I need after a day of the Bad Luck is an alien attack.

  As he pushes past me toward the stairs, he clips my arm and I drop the note from Miss Stunkel. He drops something, too: a football helmet. And that’s when I notice he’s got a whole football outfit on. Which doesn’t make any sense, because I’ve been studying my brother real close since he turned into an alien—mostly to make sure he doesn’t try to turn me into one, and also to report back to NASA—and if there’s one thing I know, it’s that aliens don’t play sports. At least, this alien doesn’t.

  “I said watch out,” he says just in case I didn’t hear him the first time. And he gives me a knuckle punch in my arm.

  I rub my arm. “You’ve got on a football outfit.”

  “It’s a uniform, genius. Not an outfit. Don’t you know anything?” Then he goes for his helmet, which rolled behind him.

  While he’s busy doing that, I look for my note. I want to grab it before he can read it and tell me how I’m such a weirdo and how if I get one more note sent home, Mom is going to ship me off to Texas to live with Aunt Renn.

  Miss Stunkel’s note is by his foot, and I leap on it before he has a chance to snatch it up. I land on his shoes, and his laces poke at my stomach, but I get my note anyway and quick shove it under my shirt.

  He hollers my name. And that’s when I get hit with the smell. Aliens have the worst-smelling feet, subway-in-the-summer-smelling feet. Because that’s where their brains live. (In their feet, not in the subway.)

  “Bluch!” I pinch my nose, but the stink has already half killed me. I know this because I can’t feel my hair or eyebrows.

  “Get off,” says Terrible, trying to shake me off his shoes.

  I try to get away, I really do, but now I can’t feel my knees.

  “Stop playing around!” he yells.

  And while I’m down on the floor, I see another note just behind his legs. Which makes me wonder, did Terrible get a note sent home, too? Before I lose feeling in my fingers, I give his bare ankle a pinch, which makes him yell something awful. I shimmy on my elbows through his legs.

  Then I grab up the note and turn it over, and I can see his name written in real bubbly, purple ink. Girl-letters. There’s even a swirly line underneath with maybe some hearts or smiley faces, but I can’t tell for sure because Terrible yanks the note from my fingers before I can get a real good look.

  From the floor, I ask, “Who’s that from?” I ask real nicely like we’re two friends sitting on a porch swing sipping a glass of
mint iced tea. And not like I’m lying here on the floor hoping he won’t stomp on me for trying to steal his secrets.

  It doesn’t work.

  Sometimes aliens are smarter than you think.

  He says, “You don’t want to mess with me.” Then he steps over me and tucks the note into his helmet.

  Now, it seems to me that keeping a note inside a helmet is a very bad idea because it would do a lot of head-itching. And you can’t scratch because of the fact that you have a helmet on your head. And then you are trying to concentrate on making a catch or knocking someone over or whatever you do in football, but you can’t because of that itch, thanks to the note that you stuffed up in there.

  Plus the fact that a note could fall out of a helmet kind of easy. Like it already did. I tell him all this, because I am a very helpful-type person, but he gives me another knuckle punch and then disappears downstairs.

  • • •

  I’m still on the floor when Littie Maple finds me. “What’s the matter?” she says.

  I pull Miss Stunkel’s note out from under my shirt and hold it up.

  “Oh, Penelope.” Littie shakes her head at me. “Not again.”

  “You don’t know what it’s like,” I tell her. Because Littie is homeschooled, always has been, she’s never had to deal with a Miss Stunkel. “She’s got it in for me. Because I don’t have pink fingernails and make dumb snowmen out of clay.”

  “Are you talking about your teacher or somebody else?”

  “My teacher,” I say. “Who else would I be talking about, Littie Maple? My word.”

  Littie rolls her eyeballs at me. “I was coming over to tell you some news, but it seems like you aren’t in the frame of mind to hear anything good.”

  I sit up. “I could use some good news. Definitely, you know, if it’s good.”

  Littie looks at the ceiling like she’s not so sure she wants to tell me. But I know Littie Maple, and she can’t hold on to information for very long before it finds a way out. Finally, she gets a look on her face that says, I’m Gonna Burst, and then she squats down beside me and puts both hands on my arm. “There’s going to be a new Maple in the family.”