Planet Tad

by Tim Carvell

  Well, Rex is back from the vet. It’s probably a good thing he doesn’t know how stupid he looks with this cone on:

  Sophie asked why he has to wear the cone. I told her it was so he could pick up satellite radio.

  Ugh. Bad news. We got a call today. Turns out, Rex has an owner. Also, his name isn’t Rex. It’s Mr. Kensington. I guess his owners were off on a cruise for the past three weeks, and their dog-sitter didn’t want to ruin their vacation, so she didn’t call to tell them he was missing. The owners were super grateful—apparently, Rex is a purebred German Spitz, and he’s, like, won prizes at dog shows. They said it was a good thing we found him, because they’re planning on making a lot of money by breeding him. My parents just kind of looked at each other, and then my mom said, “Good luck with that.”

  I don’t get the plot of Jurassic Park. Like, if you’re bringing back dinosaurs from the dead for a theme park, why not just bring back a few brontosauruses? Why would you bring back the velociraptors and the tyrannosauruses? Are there that many people who, when they find out there’s an island full of dinosaurs back from the dead, are going to go, “Which ones? Because if it’s just the vegetarians, I’m not interested”?

  June

  Just one more week left of school before summer. I can’t wait for vacation to start. Our teachers seem even more excited than we are—Mr. Parker was walking around the class whistling and humming today. And our principal, Dr. Evans, stopped Doug Spivak in the hallway to tell him that he’d managed to get a D-plus average, so he’d be going on to eighth grade. “Do you know what that means? We’re almost done with you!” she said, and they both started jumping up and down happily. I guess it’s nice that she cares so much about Doug.

  Oof. This morning, we found out that the seventh graders are all going to have to sing a song at the eighth graders’ graduation on Friday afternoon. I guess it was an idea dreamed up by the chorus teacher, Mrs. Valeri, who’s super mean—like, even the other teachers are afraid of her.

  So we’re all supposed to sing “I Believe I Can Fly.” Which is just stupid—I thought the idea was, we were done with school for the year, so we didn’t have to do what our teachers said anymore. And if we have to sing a song, why does it have to be some lame song about some stupid guy who thinks he can fly? And worst of all, we have to rehearse it every day with Mrs. Valeri during our lunch period. I can’t wait till I’m out of middle school and people can’t force me to do stupid stuff I don’t want to do ever again.

  We rehearsed our stupid song today at lunch. Mrs. Valeri kept getting angry at us because we weren’t singing it right. She kept saying, “You’re all off-key!” and I kept thinking: If we’re all off-key, then isn’t it possible that the key we’re singing it in is the key that it should be in?

  Today in rehearsal for the graduation song, Mrs. Valeri got really mad at Charlotte Regan for being “pitchy” and “sounding like a bag full of cats,” until Charlotte started crying and left the room. Mrs. Valeri said, “I’m sorry, but I just want to make sure the eighth graders have a good time at their graduation.” I guess she doesn’t care if anyone else has a good time at their graduation.

  Rehearsal today was even worse than yesterday. Mrs. Valeri shouted at Chuck and me and said we were “ruining the song on purpose,” and then said that anyone who she thought was “deliberately singing poorly” during graduation would get detention. I’m not even sure how you get detention during summer vacation, but Chuck and I agreed that we weren’t going to take that risk. So tomorrow during the song, we’re just going to mouth the lyrics.

  Well, I’m now officially an eighth grader! We sang at graduation tonight, and we’re done.

  But that wasn’t even the best part. The best part was, at lunch, Chuck told some other people at our table about our plan to mouth the words. And I guess they told some other people, and they told some other people, and everyone agreed that it was a really good idea. Because tonight, at the graduation ceremony, when it came time for all of us to sing, every single kid in our class just mouthed the words to the song. All you could hear was Mrs. Valeri playing the piano, and this slight smacking sound of everyone’s mouths opening and closing. My dad said it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. Mrs. Valeri ran after everyone afterward, threatening to keep them in summer school, until our principal, Dr. Evans, put her hand on Mrs. Valeri’s shoulder and said, “Give it a rest, Constance.”

  It was a good day.

  Yesterday was the last day of school! Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-ha! Summer!!!!! This is going to be the best summer ever!

  I spent the day doing nothing but watching TV and playing video games. I could get used to three months of this.

  Another day just sitting on the couch doing nothing. Watched The Shawshank Redemption on TNT twice in a row. I think The Shawshank Redemption may be the only movie they own.

  Today, my dad came home while I was watching The Shawshank Redemption for the fourth time and said, “How’d you enjoy your weekend off?” And I was like, “Huh?” And he said, “Well, you know that you’re getting a summer job, right? We’re not going to just let you sit here and rot your brain for three months. Besides, working teaches you valuable lessons.” I told him that I’d been working really hard for nine months straight, and didn’t I deserve three months off to recover? He just laughed and laughed and laughed, and when Mom came home, he made me repeat it to her, and then they both laughed together for a really long time.

  Well, I went to the local newspaper today to see if they needed anyone to deliver papers for them. The woman there gave me an application to fill out, and so I did. And then she asked me whether I had a bike, and where I went to school, and what my favorite subjects were, and what hours I was available to work. And then she told me that they weren’t hiring anybody, because they had all the paperboys they needed. I asked her why she’d gone to the trouble of asking me all those questions. She just shrugged and said, “Nobody ever comes to visit me in the circulation department.”

  Father’s Day is tomorrow. I never know what to get my dad. Today while he was watching a baseball game, I went in to ask him what he wanted, and he said, “Just a little peace and quiet.”

  Which seemed like an odd thing to ask for as a present, but I went to the store and bought him five sets of earplugs.

  Father’s Day is today. My dad really seemed to like the gift I’d gotten him—he said to my mom, “I can use these when we visit your family!” She didn’t seem to think that was funny at all.

  Today, I noticed something weird on a dollar bill: Next to George Washington’s picture, there’s a tiny signature. But it’s not George Washington’s signature—it’s the Secretary of the Treasury’s, whoever that is.

  As best I can tell, his name is Hnnnny Nnn Pnnlnjn.

  Being Secretary of the Treasury seems like a pretty cool job—you get to sign all the money. I wonder if part of the job requirement is that you have a good, official-looking signature. Like, I bet Traci Williams from my class could never be Secretary of the Treasury, because she dots the i’s in her name with hearts. Nobody would trust money with this on it:

  I went to the food court at the mall today, where the Cinnabon manager told me I was too young for them to hire. Stupid Cinnabon. I’m glad they didn’t hire me. If the manager’s any indication, everyone who works there winds up fat, covered with zits, and reeking of cinnamon.

  Great news! I got a job at the Hot Dog Pound! They’re that hot-dog place up by the interstate, and I went in today because they had a “Help Wanted” sign, and they had an opening! I asked if I was too young, and the guy behind the counter said, “You’re sixteen, right?” And I said, “No, I’m thirteen.” And he said, “What’s that? You said you’re sixteen?” in a way that sort of suggested that that was the right answer. So I told him yes. The only weird part is, he asked me how tall I was. When I told him, “I’m five-four and a half,” he said, “Perfect. Try not to grow before tomorrow.” Who knew hot-dog restaurants had hei
ght requirements?

  So I went to work today. I wore a pair of khakis and a button-down shirt, because Mom said it would impress the boss. But I shouldn’t have bothered dressing up, because I spent the day wearing a hot-dog costume.

  Let me say that again: I spent the day wearing a hot-dog costume.

  It turns out that was the job—to stand out in front of the restaurant as their mascot and wave at cars as they drive by. I can understand why the last guy to have this job quit: The costume is cramped and hot and hard to see out of, and it smells like someone else’s feet. Plus, in case I didn’t mention this: It’s a giant hot dog.

  This is way worse than Cinnabon could ever be.

  Today, during my fifteen-minute lunch break, Pam from the drive-thru told me what really happened to the guy who was in the suit before me: He didn’t quit—he passed out from heatstroke. She said he just kind of weaved all over the parking lot and then fell down with his legs in the air. “It was really funny,” she said, and then realized who she was talking to and was all, “Oh, but I’m sure it wouldn’t be funny if it happened to you.”

  I’m trying to drink lots of fluids so I don’t get heatstroke, but the restaurant makes us pay for the drinks we buy—even water! And since I’m only making 7 bucks an hour—5 bucks after taxes—and a drink is $1.75, I think I could wind up losing money this summer. Dad’s right: A summer job does teach valuable lessons. Like, for instance: Work sucks.

  My manager, Sean, came out today and told me to wave and dance more. “Nobody wants to eat at a place where the food looks depressed,” he said. “Look happy!” I pointed out that if I were really a hot dog, I wouldn’t be happy to stand and wave in front of a restaurant where my fellow frankfurters were being eaten. And he said, “Maybe you’re a really dumb hot dog, and you haven’t figured it out yet.” Great. I’m going to spend the summer not just being a hot dog, but being a really stupid hot dog.

  Sophie left for camp today. This is her first time going to sleepaway camp, and she was afraid of being homesick. I told her that homesickness was nothing to worry about, and that what she should really be afraid of are the Forest Strangler and the Summer Camp Claw-Handed Serial Killer and the Feral Wombats Who Are Able to Open Doors. I think her first night at sleepaway camp’s gonna be great.

  So I haven’t told any of my friends what I’m doing for a summer job, and today, Chuck and Kevin came to the Hot Dog Pound for lunch. I could see them through the peephole in my costume, but they couldn’t see me. And I could hear them pretending to sneeze and saying “Wiener! Wiener!” behind my back. I don’t know which is worse: that they did that to me, or that, if I weren’t inside the stupid costume, I’d probably be with them doing the exact same thing.

  I got a reprimand at work today. I don’t think I was doing anything too wrong, but Sean said that I couldn’t whisper to customers as they entered the restaurant, “You’re eating my babies.” I considered suggesting that, instead, I could yell “Bite me!” at people, but he seemed pretty annoyed with me already.

  Well, this was my last day at the Hot Dog Pound. Apparently, I passed out in the parking lot and Pam dragged me inside. It turns out I was horribly dehydrated. Sean promised to give me two weeks’ pay if I didn’t sue, and my dad said, “Don’t worry, we won’t make you find another job.” Which made me really happy, until he said, “There’s a lot of chores that need doing around the house, anyway.” So… I’ll still be working, just not getting paid. Great.

  July

  Spent today drinking Gatorade and recovering from yesterday’s dehydration incident. Watched a double feature of Night at the Museum and Night at the Museum 2 on TV, then fell asleep and had a weird dream about a movie called Night at the Zoo, where Ben Stiller’s a security guard at a zoo where, at night, all the animals magically turn into stuffed dioramas. It was kind of a boring dream, actually.

  Today’s the Fourth of July. My dad asked me how I was feeling, and I said, “Pretty good,” and he said, “Great! You can go clean the gutters!” I told him that, in the spirit of Independence Day, I shouldn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to. He said that that would only be true if he were forcing me to pay taxes without representation, or quartering soldiers in my room.

  Hooray! I was out mowing our lawn today, and some woman was driving by and asked me how much I charge per lawn. I guess she thought I was some sort of lawn-mowing service. I tried to think fast, and told her $15. She said, “Wow! $15? That’s so cheap!” And then she hired me to mow her lawn.

  So the good news is, someone’s going to pay me for the chores my parents have been making me do for free.

  Although the bad news is, I really, really wish I’d said $25.

  I mowed that lady’s lawn today, and she seemed pretty happy with it. She said she had some other friends who need yard work done, and she asked if she could give them my number. I told her yes. Then I started thinking that I could turn this into an actual business, so I took the money she paid me, went to Kinko’s, and made some signs to advertise my service. It took a few tries:

  Lawnmowing is really a much longer word than you would think it is:

  My arms are sore. I spent the whole afternoon mowing the lawn and trimming hedges for our neighbor Mrs. Graham. I think hedges are stupid—I told Mrs. Graham that when I have a house, I’ll have a yard full of cactuses. And she said, “Cacti. The plural is cacti.” And I told her that if that were the case, then wouldn’t more than one waitress be a group of waitri? She muttered, “Smart-ass,” and paid me.

  Here’s what I’ve learned after three days of doing yard work:

  • Mosquito repellent doesn’t work.

  • If you’re applying sunscreen, it’s really important to do it evenly. Otherwise, you’ll wind up with a big red splotch on your face, and your mom and dad will spend a whole dinner trying to figure out what country it’s shaped like, no matter how many times you ask them to stop.

  • Mowing lawns makes your back super sore.

  • Some people have much bigger lawns than others, so it’s really, really stupid to charge a flat rate.

  • Tylenol, sunscreen, mosquito repellent, and gasoline all cost a lot of money, which eats into your profits.

  I just got back from putting up some more of my flyers at the supermarket. On the way home, I saw a new person out in front of the Hot Dog Pound in the hot-dog suit. I wonder how many employees they go through in a summer.

  Argh. I was supposed to go to Six Flags with Chuck today, but this morning I woke up too sore to even move. So instead, I stayed home and sat on the couch all day, taking Tylenol and watching TV. At one point, I dropped the remote behind the couch and it hurt too much to get up and reach for it, so I wound up having to sit there, watching all of The Lake House and half of The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, before my parents came home.

  I kind of miss just going to school.

  I went down to the supermarket today to put up more of my flyers, and just as I got there, I saw a guy pulling down the ones I put up two days ago. I told him to stop, and he seemed sort of embarrassed, and said he was sorry, but he runs a lawn-mowing service, and I was really cutting into his business. I guess I charge only, like, one-quarter of what he does, so a lot of his customers went over to me.

  I felt kind of bad for him, and then I thought of an idea: I don’t like mowing lawns, and he doesn’t like losing customers. So I told him that I’d give up my lawnmowing business if he’d agree to pay me $7.50 for every lawn I didn’t mow. He said that sounded fair to him. So now I work for Frank’s Lawn Care as a lawn nonmower.

  I may have the best summer job ever.

  So tonight was kind of crazy. I was sitting around watching TV when my dad came home to find that Sophie had mailed a big envelope home from camp. He opened it up, and it was a construction-paper card that said “Happy Birthday, Mom!!!” That’s when both my dad and I realized that we’d forgotten my mom’s birthday, so he grabbed his car keys and we went to the mall—he found her some pe
rfume and a Michael Bublé CD, and I found a kiosk called “The Perfect Gift! Your Astrological Sign on a Mug!” I told the guy there that my mom’s birthday was today, and he gave me a box. It wasn’t until my mom opened it up that I realized that not all astrological signs look good on mugs.

  Why would you even sell that?

  Sophie’s been at camp for two weeks now, and I have to say, I’m beginning to miss having her around. Not so much because I miss having her annoy me, but because she always ate all the strawberry in the Neapolitan ice cream. With her gone, my mom’s saying, “I refuse to throw away perfectly good ice cream,” so my dad and I have to eat our way through the strawberry before my mom will buy a new carton of it.