Philip and the Girl Who Couldn't Lose (9781619501072)

by Paulits, John

Philip thought of how Jeanne sent him flying through the air and glared at her. “What do you want to bet?”

  “Bet,” Jeanne scoffed. “You don’t have anything to bet.”

  “You said you’d bet. Now you’re scared to.”

  “Scared? Of you? Ha!”

  Philip blurted out his challenge. “I’ll bet you five candy bars, any kind.”

  Jeanne considered. “Five candy bars?” She did the math to see how much money it would cost. “Yeah, I can bet you five candy bars. Whoever’s poster wins first prize gets five candy bars from the other. You swear?”

  “I swear.” Philip had a thought. “What if neither of us wins first prize? How will we know whose is better?”

  Jeanne smiled sarcastically. “There, see. You know why I’m going to win? Because I don’t think like, what if I don’t win. Mine will win first prize. Period. And you better pay off the candy bars because I’m going to tell people at school about the bet.” Jeanne turned and walked into the shoe store to join her mother.

  Philip stood still, shocked at what he’d done. Then he thought about what Jeanne had said about him. Why did he think neither of them would win? She was right. It wasn’t how to go into a contest. Well, he wouldn’t think that way anymore. No, sir. He planned to make the cleverest, smartest, most wonderful poster in the whole history of posters and win this contest and the five candy bars. All he needed was the cleverest, smartest, most wonderful idea he’d ever had. Suddenly, Philip’s confidence sagged. What had he done, making a bet with a girl who never lost? But it was too late to back out now. Philip walked into the arcade and looked for an empty machine. One idea, he repeated to himself as he slid his first quarter into the coin slot, one good idea. How hard could it be to come up with one good idea?

  Chapter Eight

  Philip’s one good idea didn’t come to him that day or the next, but he knew it would come eventually because he planned to take Jeanne’s advice and stop thinking like a loser. He’d think like a winner. He’d think like a winner about everything. He would make a contest out of everything he did and try to win every time. He would make his whole life a contest.

  “Philip, don’t gobble your food so,” said his mother the next night as the family sat at the dinner table.

  Philip slowed down when he saw he’d be the first one finished. He would be the dinner-eating champion.

  “Mom,” he asked, as he put the last forkful of mashed potatoes and peas—Philip liked to smoosh them all together—into his mouth. “What the fastest I ever took a bath?”

  “What kind of a question is that?” his mother asked.

  “I know,” his father interrupted. “Remember, honey, when you turned on the cold water instead of mixing it with the hot. Then you got impatient with Philip because he didn’t want to take his bath so you picked him up and plunked him down in the cold water?”

  Philip’s mother smiled. “Yes, he did climb out in a hurry.”

  “I don’t remember that,” said Philip, puzzled.

  “I think you were only two then,” his mother said.

  It sounded to Philip like he could never get into and out of the bathtub that fast again. He decided not to count his cold water bath. He wanted to set a new take-a-bath record tonight, but he couldn’t do it unless he knew the old record first.

  “What was the fastest regular bath I ever took?”

  “Philip,” his father said with an odd look on his face. “Who can remember one bath from another? Except for the cold one.”

  “Never mind. Never mind,” said Philip. Tonight would be the record. He wouldn’t play with a single toy in the bathtub. He’d wash, get out, and dry without a moment lost to splashing or to silliness.

  A knock sounded on the door, and Philip’s mother got up to answer it. Philip heard her say, “Come in, Emery. Would you like something to eat?” Emery and Philip’s mother walked into the kitchen.

  “No, I had dinner at home,” said Emery. “The babies were crying, and my mother was trying to get them quiet so my father told me to come over here. Out of harm’s way, he said.”

  “Well, we’re going to clean up in here, so why don’t you boys go outside for half an hour while there’s still some daylight?” Mrs. Felton suggested.

  A few moments later, the two boys sat on the step outside Philip’s front door.

  “Everybody’s trying to get rid of us,” said Emery. “It’s not so light out. I wonder why they didn’t just leave us at the hospital when we were born if they didn’t want any trouble. I wish they’d left my sisters there. I wouldn’t mind visiting them once in a while as long as they weren’t around all the time.”

  “Uh, oh. Look who’s coming, Emery.”

  The boys watched Jeanne walk down the sidewalk and pause in front of Philip’s house.

  “Hi,” she said brightly. She carried something in a brown paper shopping bag.

  “What do you got?” asked Emery.

  Philip said nothing, hoping she would go away without answering.

  “Poster paper,” said Jeanne with a smile Philip did not appreciate. “Poster paint. Everything I need.”

  “For school?” Emery asked.

  “Didn’t Philip tell you?” asked Jeanne. Emery looked at Philip. Jeanne talked on. “He’s going to win the twenty-five dollars in the Walk-Mor poster contest.”

  “What’s the Walk-Mor poster contest?” Emery asked. He directed his question to Philip, but Jeanne answered first.

  “You know the store at the mall?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They have a contest to make a poster for an advertisement for them. Philip said he’s going to win it.”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Philip glumly.

  “Yes, you did,” said Jeanne. “You said you already had an idea. He bet me he would win.”

  “I didn’t,” said Philip with some anger. “I said my poster would be better than your poster.”

  “Same difference because my poster is going to win the contest. So to beat me, your poster has to win the contest.”

  Philip wondered why it sounded so convincing when Jeanne said she would win the contest, and he sounded silly to himself when he said he’d win.

  “Why don’t you enter too, Emily?” said Jeanne.

  Emery’s temper flared. “Stop calling me Emily. It’s Emery, Emery. What’s wrong with you? I don’t like to draw, if you must know.” He turned to Philip. “What’s your idea, Philip?”

  “I’m not telling you with Miss Big Ears around. She’ll steal my idea.”

  Jeanne gave a loud, “Ha!” She smiled and said, “Don’t need it. Got my own. My poster’ll be finished this week. Make sure yours is done by next Saturday, Philip. Less than two weeks. Don’t make any excuses about forgetting.” She started away, swinging her shopping bag carelessly at her side. As she went, she called over her shoulder, “Boy, those candy bars are sure going to taste good.”

  “What candy bars is she talking about?”

  “We bet five candy bars my poster would beat her poster.”

  “You really bet her? That was dumb.”

  Philip didn’t respond.

  “You know you bet somebody who never loses anything, right? What’s your idea? Tell me. It better be a good one.”

  “I don’t have one, okay?”

  “You don’t have one! You better get one.”

  “I know I better get one. Why don’t you give me one?”

  “I don’t have any ideas, but I’m not the one who made such a stupid bet. Maybe you could draw some pictures of talking feet or dancing socks or smiling toes.”

  “Feet don’t talk; socks don’t dance; and toes don’t smile,” Philip snapped.

  “And you won’t win, either. What are you gonna do?”

  “I’m gonna think up the greatest poster idea ever.”

  “Go on, let me hear.”

  “Hear what?”

  “Your poster idea.”

  “I said I don’t have one.”

  �
��Yeah, but you said you were gonna think one up.”

  “I can’t think it up in half a second sitting here with you.”

  “Oh, there’s my dad waving at me. I gotta go. Good luck.”

  Philip watched Emery run down the sidewalk. Good luck? Philip couldn’t remember the last time he’d had any of that.

  Chapter Nine

  “Don’t need it. Got my own.” Philip heard Jeanne say those words again and again as he lay in bed that night. He didn’t have his pajamas on yet, and his light was still on, even though nine o’clock, his usual bedtime, had passed. His mother was out with her girlfriends, leaving his father in charge, and his father didn’t care what time he went to bed as much as his mother did. Philip wished he was in a better mood so he could do something more exciting with this extra time than lie in bed and stare at the ceiling thinking about Jeanne beating him in the poster contest.

  He’d almost told Emery how he felt about losing all the time, but then Emery started babbling about talking feet, dancing socks and smiling toes. Three ideas in a minute. Stupid ideas, but ideas. Philip still yearned for one idea. One good idea; just one; to prove once and for all he could win at something.

  He’d given up trying to make a contest out of everything that happened during the day. Whoever heard of a take-a-bath champion? In school he’d won the sharpen-a-pencil championship and the go-to-the-bathroom championship, but since nobody else tried to beat him, of course he won. No one else even knew they were in a contest.

  Philip heard the baby crying. He went downstairs and saw his father trying to get Becky quiet. He sat on the sofa and held her, trying to convince her to take her before-bedtime bottle, but she unhappily slapped it away.

  “You check her diaper?” asked Philip.

  “Yes, yes,” said his father. Gruffness edged his voice. “I just changed her. She’s supposed to drink this and fall asleep. For two months she drinks a bottle at nine o’clock and falls asleep. But tonight? No, not tonight. Not when I’m here. Not when she’s under my care. Come on, Beck. Drink your bottle. Please.”

  Philip moved closer. He sat next to his father, who leaned over and put the bottle of milk on the table. He bounced the baby, but it didn’t help. She continued to wail.

  “Here,” said Philip’s father. “Hold her a minute. Let me call your mother and ask if there’s something I should be doing.” Philip felt the baby slide onto his lap. His father got up and went into the kitchen to use the phone. Becky paused in her unhappiness a moment then started up again.

  “No, no,” said Philip softly. He bent close to Becky’s face and puffed a little air at her. Becky blinked her eyes and looked surprised. She stopped crying. Philip puffed twice more. Becky’s eyes blinked, and she made a funny face each time. She stayed quiet.

  “Why are you making so much noise?” said Philip softly. He puffed again.

  Becky blinked and made a noise. “Gaaa.”

  “Gaaa to you,” said Philip. Philip took Becky’s tiny hands in his own and stretched her arms wide. He puffed air at her.

  “Gaaa,” said Becky.

  Philip closed her arms and touched her nose with his finger. He puffed air at her again.

  “Gaaa gaaa,” said Becky.

  “You gaaa gaaa gaaa,” said Philip, and he stretched the baby’s arms wide, gave her a puff of air, and then wrapped her up. This time when Philip touched her nose, Becky’s head moved up, and she opened her mouth as if she wanted to bite his finger. Philip knew what that meant. He’d seen it before. He reached for the baby bottle and put the nipple into her mouth.

  When Philip’s father returned, he stood in the middle of the living room, his hands on his hips. “What did you do, Mr. Magic?” he asked.

  Philip shushed him. It felt good to Philip to be able for once to tell someone else to be quiet around the baby. Before she even emptied the bottle, Becky fell asleep. Philip’s father took the baby from Philip and carried her upstairs to her crib. Philip followed them and went into his own room to put his pajamas on.

  Philip’s father stuck his head in the doorway. “Thanks, Philip. You’re a handy guy to have around. I didn’t know what to do for the poor little kid.”

  “She just wanted to play a little, Dad.”

  Philip’s father shrugged. “I guess she did.”

  Getting Becky to drink her bottle put Philip in a better mood than he’d been in all day. Suddenly, he wanted to talk to his father and tell him about the contest; about losing; about Jeanne. Maybe his father would know what to do. Once in a while his father gave him some good ideas. When he looked up at his father, though, he found he couldn’t do it. The strange, happy look on his father’s face puzzled Philip. He didn’t want to spoil it by bringing up a problem. His father entered the room and sat on the edge of Philip’s bed.

  “You’re a real pleasure, Flipster. It was nice to see you taking care of your sister downstairs. Well, you get to sleep. School tomorrow. A million things to learn. I’ll see you in the morning.” Philip’s father leaned over and kissed his forehead.

  “Night, Dad.”

  His father switched off the light, and the room got dark. Philip breathed a deep sigh. He had nine days to deliver his poster to the shoe store; nine days to prove losing wasn’t the only thing he was good at.

  Chapter Ten

  On Sunday afternoon. Philip lay on the sofa in the living room, looking up at the ceiling. Only six more days to deliver his poster to the shoe store. What poster? Philip asked himself. No poster, he answered. He wished he knew where good ideas came from because he’d pack his suitcase and go there and grab one if he could. The doorbell rang.

  “Can you answer that, Philip?” his mother called from upstairs. Philip rose and walked to the door. When he opened it, he didn’t like what he saw. Jeanne stood on his doorstep, a large piece of cardboard, rolled up and securely tied, stuck out from under her arm. Jeanne smiled her usual “I’m so wonderful, don’t you think?” smile.

  “Hi, Philip.”

  Philip knew what Jeanne had under her arm. Her poster. He knew her destination. The Walk-Mor store in the mall. And he knew why she stopped at his house. To let him know her poster was on its way to first prize.

  “Hi,” said Philip.

  “My father’s driving me to the mall so I can deliver my poster. Want to bring yours along?”

  “Mine’s not finished yet.” Not finished because it’s not even started, Philip thought.

  “Want to ride over with me anyway?” asked Jeanne.

  “No,” Philip snapped as his temper bubbled up inside him.

  “Okay.” Jeanne turned around, but as she walked off, she called over her shoulder. “Don’t forget. Your poster has to be in the store by next Saturday.”

  Philip watched Jeanne go, hoping a hurricane would come along and blow her stupid poster straight into New Jersey. The day was sunny and cool, though, with no hurricanes in sight, but Philip did see Emery coming down the street.

  Philip watched as he stopped a moment to talk to Jeanne. He saw Jeanne look back at him and laugh. Emery looked his way, but at least he didn’t laugh. He and Emery had lots of disagreements, but at least he didn’t laugh. Emery and Jeanne separated, and Emery came up his walkway.

  “Hi, Philip. Jeanne’s taking her poster to the shoe store. You finish yours yet?”

  Philip shook his head.

  “I tried to make one,” said Emery. Philip closed the door behind Emery, and the two boys went into the living room. “But I couldn’t draw a shoe. Every shoe I drew looked like a submarine. Maybe I should enter a contest to sell submarines. What’s your poster like?”

  Philip looked his friend in the eye. “I didn’t start it yet.”

  Emery’s eyebrows popped up. “Still? You better hurry up! The contest’s next Saturday, you know.”

  “I know it’s next Saturday, but I can’t start it because I don’t know what to do.”

  “Uh-oh. You know I heard Jeanne telling people in school this week you said y
ou had the best idea for a poster ever. You better do one.”

  “I know I better do one. I know. I know. But I don’t know what to do.”

  “Think of things with shoes. Ballet shoes?”

  Philip looked at Emery. “What can I do with ballet shoes?”

  “I don’t know.” Emery smiled. “Stand on your toes?”

  Philip narrowed his eyes and glared.

  “I made a joke. You know how they stand on their . . .”

  Philip didn’t want to listen to any nonsense. “I know how they stand. What’s standing on your toes got to do with making a poster? I’m in trouble here. I don’t need people dancing on their stupid toes flying around in my head. I need an idea.”

  “Think shoes,” said Emery. “Think nothing but shoes. How about the shoemaker and the giant?”

  “The shoemaker and the giant?” said Philip. “Is that supposed to be an idea?”

  Emery laughed. “Maybe the giant can eat the shoemaker if he doesn’t make Walk-Mor shoes. I like that one. It’s funny.” He stopped laughing when he saw the look on Philip’s face. “You don’t think it’s funny?”

  “The giant should eat the shoemaker? You mean make a poster of a giant holding shoemaker in his hand and biting his head off with lots of blood splurting around? Lots of people will buy shoes from a crazy shoe store like that, won’t they? It’s not funny. It’s stupid!” Philip exclaimed impatiently. “Are you finished with shoe stories? How about The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe? Or Puss in Boots? You know any more?”

  “Sheesh. Don’t yell. I’m only trying to give you an idea.”

  “Thanks, but it’s not a contest to draw a shoe or anything that has a shoe in it. It’s a contest to make a poster that makes people want to buy Walk-Mor shoes.”

  “All right. All right. I won’t help anymore. I came over, though, so you could help me.”

  “Hi, fellows,” said Philip’s father as he came into the living room.

  “Philip’s trying to think of an idea to win the poster contest. He told everybody in school he was going to win.”