by Judy Blume
“Didn’t anybody ever tell you you’re not supposed to listen to private conversations?”
“No.”
I picked him up and turned him upside down. I held him that way until his face turned purple. “Put me down, Pete!”
“Not until you promise never to do that again!”
“Okay . . . I promise.”
I didn’t believe him for a second but I put him down anyway. “Now, go to bed!”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m afraid of the rollaway.”
“The rollaway can’t hurt you.”
“Yes it can. It can mash me. So I’ll sleep in here with you and Jimmy.”
“No you won’t!” I carried him down the hall and dropped him on the rollaway bed. Grandma and Tootsie were already asleep.
Fudge listened to Grandma, who was snoring softly. “No monsters tonight,” he whispered, pointing in her direction.
“Right,” I whispered back. “Now go to sleep.”
“Tuck me in,” he said.
I tucked him in.
“Now kiss me good-night.”
I was about to drop a light one on his forehead when he reached up, grabbed me around the neck and pulled me down. Then he planted a big, wet smackeroo right in the middle of my face. “Sweet dreams, Pete!”
The I.S.A.F. Club
Fudge was counting his Cheerios when Jimmy and I came down to breakfast the next day. As soon as we sat down Sheila waltzed in, wearing her fuzzy pink robe and her bunny slippers, as usual. Jimmy took one look and doubled over. Sheila poured herself a glass of juice, then made herself comfortable at the table between Buzzy Senior and Fudge. “Good morning, sweetheart,” Buzzy Senior said, kissing her cheek.
“Good morning, honey,” Fudge said, kissing her other cheek.
“What is this . . . Camp Kissy Face?” Jimmy asked.
“You wish!” Sheila said.
“Oh yeah . . . I really wish . . .” Jimmy said.
“Sheila’s my baby-sitter,” Fudge told Jimmy. “But maybe she’s going to be my wife, too.”
“Wife?” Jimmy said to Sheila.
“Maybe,” Sheila said. “Nothing’s definite yet.”
“It all depends on Mitzi,” Fudge said.
“Mitzi?” Jimmy asked.
“She’s my friend. She has monster spray. She’s trying to get some for me. Then I won’t have to get married.”
Jimmy gave me a look, then sliced a banana into his cornflakes.
“Buzzy Senior and Grandma are best friends,” Fudge continued. “But they don’t sleep in the same room.”
“Why don’t you save the morning report till after breakfast?” I said.
“I can’t.” He nibbled on his Cheerios, eating one little circle at a time. “I might forget.”
“Pass the milk, please,” Jimmy said. Grandma passed it to him and Jimmy poured some over his cereal.
“Jake will roll over if you give her cheddar cheese,” Fudge said, still going strong. “But if you give Tootsie cheese she spits it out.”
“Okay . . .” I said, “that’s it! Jimmy doesn’t want to hear any more. Jimmy wants to have his breakfast in peace.”
“Wait!” Fudge shouted. “I’m not finished!”
“Oh, yes you are!” I told him.
But did he listen? Does he ever listen?
“Libby works at Ickle’s Ice Cream Parlor,” he blabbed. “She puts extra sprinkles on my cone. Annnnnd . . .” He stretched out the word, making sure he had everyone’s attention. “Pete got dizzy from Izzy at the library.”
That did it! I reached across the table and grabbed him by his sweatshirt. “One more word and I’m going to let you have it!”
“Okay . . .” He went back to counting his Cheerios.
“What was that about Peter getting dizzy?” Sheila asked.
“That was a joke!” I told her.
“He felt like he was floating,” Fudge said.
I shoved back my chair and raced around the table, ready to destroy him.
“Grandma . . .” Fudge cried. “Heeelp . . . !”
Grandma shouted, “Enough!”
“Eeee . . .” Tootsie shrieked. “Eeee . . . eee . . . eeee . . .”
This time Grandma stood up and banged a wooden spoon against a pot. We all quieted down and ate our breakfasts, not that I was hungry anymore.
When we finished, we helped Grandma clean up. Then Sheila danced across the living room in her bunny slippers, singing, “He got dizzy from Izzy at the library . . .”
Mr. Fargo, who’d been sleeping on the couch, suddenly sat up. He looked confused. “Where am I?” he asked.
“You’re in Maine, Dad,” Jimmy told him. “Remember? You’re sleeping on the sofa in the Hatchers’ living room.”
“You mean the Tubmans’ living room,” Sheila said, as she danced out the door onto the porch. Jimmy followed her and I followed Jimmy. No way was I going to leave the two of them alone.
It was a warm, sunny morning, for a change. Everything smelled fresh and clean from last night’s rain. Too bad Sheila had to spoil it with her musical act. She danced from one end of the porch to the other, singing. “Dizzy from Izzy . . . la dee dah . . . maybe it’s love . . . la dee dah . . .”
“It has nothing to do with love!” I told Jimmy. “Fudge made the whole thing up!”
“Dizzy . . .” Sheila said, “floating? Sounds like love to me.”
“Yeah, Peter,” Jimmy said. “Sounds like love to me, too.”
“I’ve seen Izzy,” Sheila told Jimmy. “She’s got curly hair and a fat behind.”
“It’s not fat!” I shouted.
“If it’s not fat how come it wiggles when she walks?” Sheila asked, parading across the porch. She tried to imitate Isobel but wound up waddling like a duck instead.
“So when do I get to meet this Izzy?” Jimmy asked.
“I have an idea,” Sheila said. “We can ride our bikes to the library this morning.”
“I thought you have a job,” I said. “I thought you have to baby-sit Fudge.”
“Haven’t you heard?” Sheila asked. “Fudge is invited to Mitzi’s. All I have to do is walk him over and I’m free.”
“I hope my mother’s not paying you for that!”
“Business between your mother and me is private,” Sheila said.
Then Jimmy said, “I didn’t bring a bike.”
“No problem,” Sheila told him. “We have extras in the garage.”
“Jimmy’s here to visit me!” I told Sheila. “And I’ll decide what we’re going to do.” I went back inside, slamming the door as I did.
First he tells me he can’t stand Sheila. Next thing you know it’s like they’re best friends. Who needs this?
I went up to my room, kicked yesterday’s clothes out of the way, and sat on the edge of my bed.
In a minute Jimmy joined me. He sat on the edge of his bed. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what got into me. There’s plenty of reasons for feeling dizzy besides love.”
I didn’t say anything.
“You’re not mad, are you?” Jimmy asked.
“Why should I be mad?”
“Then you don’t mind if we ride into town?”
“Why would I mind? I was just trying to help you out since I know you can’t stand being around the Cootie Queen.”
“Yeah . . . but I feel kind of sorry for her, since her friend got chicken pox and all.”
“She told you about Mouse?”
“Yeah. And I know how disappointed you’d be if I’d come down with chicken pox.”
“You had them in second grade.”
“I kn
ow, but just suppose . . .”
* * *
Dad adjusted the seat on one of the extra bikes for Jimmy. Then he handed him a bike helmet. “Safety first,” he said. “The road to town is very busy.”
“We’ll be careful,” Sheila promised. “I took a course in bicycle safety so I know all the rules.”
“What don’t you know?” I muttered.
“I don’t know how to turn perfect cartwheels,” Sheila said. “But with Muriel’s help I’m improving.”
I jumped on my bike and rode away from the house, leaving Jimmy and Sheila behind. At the end of the dirt road I turned right and pedaled as fast as I could. I pedaled harder and faster than I ever had before.
By the time I got to the big hill I was really huffing and puffing. My heart was racing. And with the wind blowing in my face, I was gulping air. By then I was way ahead of Jimmy and Sheila. Who cares about the two of them anyway? Who cares that all of a sudden her stupid face doesn’t make him feel sick!
I struggled to make it to the top of the hill without slowing down. I was breathing as hard as I could when something flew into my mouth! I coughed. I gagged. I swallowed. I think it was a fly! I think I swallowed a fly! I gagged again and braked so fast I flew off my bike. Lucky for me I was wearing a helmet and landed in the soft dirt on the side of the road.
In a couple of minutes Jimmy and Sheila pulled up next to me and jumped off their bikes.
“What happened?” Jimmy asked.
“I swallowed something! I think it was . . . a fly.”
“A fly?” he said.
“I was going really fast . . . breathing hard . . . it flew right into my mouth.”
“How do you know it was a fly?” Sheila asked.
“What else could it be?” I said.
“A bee . . . a moth . . . a small bird.”
“It wasn’t a small bird!” I told her. “And a bee would have stung me. I’m almost sure it was a fly!”
“Eeeuuuw . . . that’s so gross!” Sheila said.
I started coughing and gagging again.
Jimmy whacked me on the back. “What should we do?” he asked Sheila.
“We’ll take him to Bicycle Bob,” Sheila said. “He’ll know what to do.”
“I think I’m going to puke,” I said.
“No you’re not!” Sheila said. “Just get back on your bike and keep your mouth shut!”
“Maybe he should keep it open,” Jimmy said. “In case the fly wants to get out.”
“It’s too late for that,” Sheila said.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“All right . . . fine,” Sheila said. “Keep your mouth open if you want.”
But I didn’t want to. I was afraid if I did, something else would fly in.
The bike shop was just up the road. When we got there Sheila called, “Bob . . . we have an emergency!”
Bicycle Bob came out of his shop carrying a wrench. “Hey guys . . .” he said. “What’s happening?”
“I was riding my bike really fast . . .” I told him. “I was breathing really hard . . .”
“A fly flew into his mouth,” Sheila said.
“And he swallowed it,” Jimmy added.
“Hey . . .” Bicycle Bob said, shaking my hand. “Welcome to the club!”
“The club?” I said.
“Yeah . . . the I.S.A.F. Club.”
“The I.S.A.F. Club?” I repeated.
“The I Swallowed a Fly Club,” Bicycle Bob said. “I’m a member myself.”
“You swallowed a fly?” I said.
“I’m approaching the half-dozen mark,” he said. “It’s hard to pedal fast and keep your mouth shut at the same time.”
“Does he need X rays?” Jimmy asked.
“Nah!” Bicycle Bob said. “He needs ice cream.”
“Ice cream?” I said.
“Yeah . . . go next door to Ickle’s and get yourself a vanilla cone.”
“Why vanilla?” Sheila asked.
“It’s the best cure for swallowing live insects,” Bicycle Bob said. “Unless you don’t like vanilla . . . in which case . . .”
“Vanilla’s fine,” I said.
“Good. You need money?”
“No. I’ve got enough.”
“Then you’re all set,” he said. “Give me your name and address so I can notify you about our meetings.”
“What meetings?”
“The I.S.A.F. Club meetings.”
“Oh, right . . .” I wrote out my name and address for him.
Then the three of us went next door to Ickle’s. I was glad Libby doesn’t work mornings. She was the last person I wanted to see now. Tony Ickle, the owner’s son, waited on us. I ordered a vanilla cone. Jimmy ordered a chocolate cone with sprinkles and Sheila ordered a strawberry.
“You’re Libby’s sister, aren’t you?” Tony said to Sheila.
“Yes.”
“Great girl, Libby . . .” he said.
You can’t mean Libby Tubman, I thought. You must mean some other Libby. Nobody in his right mind would call Libby Tubman great!
“What a hunk!” Sheila said as we left the store with our cones. “No wonder Libby loves to go to work.”
We sat in the little park next to Ickle’s and ate our ice cream. It felt weird to be eating ice cream at ten o’clock in the morning.
When we were done, Jimmy wiped his hands on his jeans and said, “Okay . . . I’m ready for the library.”
We walked our bikes up the street but when we got to the library I said, “I’ll wait out here.”
“Don’t you want to see Izzy?” Sheila asked. “Don’t you want to tell her you swallowed a fly?”
“Somebody has to watch the bikes,” I said.
“Nobody’s going to steal our bikes,” Sheila said. “This isn’t New York City.”
“Plenty of bikes get stolen here,” I said. “Just read the local paper.”
“Peter’s such a worrier!” Sheila told Jimmy.
“I don’t worry! I think ahead.”
“Too bad you didn’t think ahead before you swallowed that fly,” Sheila said.
The two of them went inside. They’re probably going to tell Isobel about the fly! I thought. She’ll probably come out to see if I’m okay. She’ll remind me about that baseball book I put on hold. And if she looks at me the way she did the other day I’ll get dizzy again. Then Jimmy and Sheila will know the truth . . .
They weren’t gone for long. “Izzy’s not there,” Jimmy said, disappointed. “She only works afternoons.”
“Too bad!” I said.
* * *
“What’s so great about swallowing a fly?” Fudge said that night. We were having an outdoor barbecue to celebrate the first warm night of our vacation. “One time I swallowed a turtle.”
“We know,” I told him.
“And I had to go to the hospital!”
“We know,” I told him.
“Everybody was worried,” he said. “And sad, too.”
“Nobody was sad but me,” I said. “Because it was my turtle!”
“I remember that turtle,” Jimmy said. “You won him at my birthday party.”
“Pul-eeese!” Sheila said. “Could we talk about something else? I’m trying to enjoy my supper.”
Fudge laughed. “That’s how Turtle got his name . . . right, Pete?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I named my dog after my first pet to remind me of what you did to him!”
Fudge danced around, holding up a french fry as if it were my turtle. “Oh turtles are so tasty,” he sang, “boiled, baked or raw . . .”
“Cut that out!” I yelled.
“You can’t make me!” He lau
ghed, daring me to try.
“Oh yes I can!” I reached out, grabbed him, then poured my whole cup of juice over his head.
He looked surprised. “Pete . . .” he cried, as the juice dripped down into his face. “How could you do that to me?”
“It was easier than I thought,” I said.
Baby Feet
Mr. Fargo set up an outdoor studio in the side yard. He spread his canvas on the grass, like a rug. On Saturday morning, I saw him climb a ladder with a bucket of blue paint. When he got to the top he tossed it at his canvas.
So when Sheila screamed, “Mrs. Hatcher . . . come quick . . . Fudge is all blue!” I figured he’d gotten into Mr. Fargo’s paint.
Grandma and Mom came running from one direction. Me and Jimmy from another. Fudge was sprawled out on the ground near his garden. His face was streaked with blue, his shirt was stained blue, his hands were blue, he had blue in his hair. Even his tongue, which hung halfway out of his mouth, was blue. “Mr. Fargo’s going to go nuts!” I told Mom. “None of us are supposed to go anywhere near his art supplies.”
“I don’t think it’s paint,” Mom said, spying an empty fruit basket on the ground. She picked it up and waved it at Fudge. “Did you eat up all the blueberries?”
Fudge moaned.
“You ate our blueberries!” I said. “Jimmy and I were on our knees more than two hours picking them. And Grandma was going to bake us a pie!”
“I didn’t eat them all,” Fudge said, in a very small voice. “Turtle ate some.”
“You fed Turtle blueberries?” I asked.
“He liked them.”
“Turtle’s a dog!” I said. At the sound of his name, Turtle appeared from behind the bushes. He plopped down next to me. “Let me see your tongue,” I said, opening his mouth. Blue! His tongue and teeth were all blue.
Fudge clutched his stomach and moaned again.
“Boy, are you going to be sick!” Jimmy told him.
“I already am,” Fudge cried. “My tummy hurts so bad!”
“I’m not surprised,” Mom said.
“I know exactly what he needs,” Grandma said, heading for the house. She came back with that peppermint medicine we get every time we have an upset stomach. “Down the hatch!” she sang, feeding him one teaspoonful.