Double Fudge (2 page)

"Oh, that."

I waited while Jimmy looked up at the sky, then down at the ground, then back at the sky.

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Finally he took a deep breath and said, "I might as well get it over with because sooner or later you're going to find out anyway. Probably sooner since it's happening on Saturday."

"What's happening on Saturday?"

"You know that artist's loft I told you about... where my dad's going to paint?"

"What about it?"

"We're going to live there."

"What do you mean
live
there?"

"We're moving to SoHo on Saturday."

"What do you mean
moving?"

"Come on, Peter. You know what
moving
means."

I kept shaking my head. It couldn't be true. It was just one of his jokes. Any second he'd poke me again and say
Gotcha!

"But I'm still coming up here to go to school," he said. "So we'll still see each other every day."

"What are you talking about? SoHo's like sixty or seventy blocks away."

"I didn't say I was going to walk. I'm going to take the subway."

"You're going to take the subway to school every day?" I asked. "By yourself?"

"What's the big deal? Plenty of kids in seventh grade take the subway by themselves."

I swallowed hard. I didn't know what the big deal

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was except I felt like I'd been punched in the gut for real and this time I felt like punching back. "Why'd your father have to go and get a place way downtown?"

"That's where the lofts are. You have to be an artist to get one. Besides, our apartment is too small. It's always been too small."

"You didn't used to think it was too small. One time you even invited me to move in."

"We were younger then," Jimmy said. "I didn't know as much as I know now."

"Just because your father's getting rich ..." I began.

Jimmy didn't wait for me to finish. "That's a really rude thing to say. He's not rich and you know it."

"What's rude about having plenty of money?"

"He doesn't have plenty of money. He'll probably never have plenty of money."

"Why are you acting like it's bad to have money?" I said.

"I don't know what it's like to have money, okay? All I know is my father got this loft downtown and we're moving in. It's not like we're leaving the city the way you did."

"That was just for one school year," I argued. It's true we spent last year in New Jersey. In Princeton, to be exact. Because my parents wanted to check out

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living outside the city. It was okay. But when school ended we decided to come back. Jimmy was so glad we celebrated for a week. "Besides," I told him, "I didn't have any choice about that."

"You think I have a choice?" Jimmy asked. "But to tell you the truth, I don't mind leaving."

"Thanks a lot."

"I'm not talking about leaving
you,"
Jimmy said. "I'm talking about leaving an ant-sized apartment with no furniture. I'm tired of sleeping on a mat on the floor inches away from my father's face. I'm tired of smelling his salami and onion burps all night. I need my own space."

I looked away.

"Are you trying to make me feel bad?" Jimmy asked. "Because you're doing a pretty good job of it."

I didn't answer. I couldn't.

"Look ..." he said, "you'll come down. We'll hang out. It'll be cool. Nothing's going to change."

"What's wrong, Pete?" Fudge asked when I went upstairs for lunch.

"What do you mean?"

"You look like you just lost your best friend." "Where'd you learn that expression... from Grandma?" Grandma has an expression to fit every situation.

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Fudge nodded. "So, did you?"

"Did I
what?"

"Lose your best friend?"

"I just found out Jimmy's moving down to SoHo."

Mom put a peanut butter sandwich in front of me. "Frank Fargo told me. It's really good news for them, Peter." She put an arm around my shoulder. "I know it's going to be hard to say good-bye to Jimmy but..."

"I'm
not
saying good-bye to Jimmy! Didn't Mr. Fargo tell you? He's still going to school with me. He's going to take the subway up here every day."

"Is SoHo like Princeton?" Fudge asked.

"Princeton's in New Jersey, Turkey Brain."

"SoHo is part of the city," Mom told Fudge. "You've been there."

"So ... ho ho ho," Tootsie said, sounding like some miniature Santa.

Mom was impressed. "That's right. SoHo."

"I hate SoHo!" I shouted. Then I ran for my room and slammed the door and when I did, Tootsie started bawling.

"Thanks a lot, Pete," Fudge called. "Everybody was happy 'til you got home!"

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The new people have a kid Fudge's age. We met in the lobby the afternoon before school started. "I'm Melissa Beth Miller and I'm in mixed-up group," she announced. She had kid tattoos plastered up and down her arms.

"I'm in mixed-up group, too," Fudge told her.

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"It's not
mixed-up
group," Mom said. "It's mixed group."

"That's a relief," Melissa's mother said. "We're new here and when we got Melissa's school assignment I was very concerned."

By then, Tootsie had fallen asleep in her stroller. She was barefooted and Turtle started licking her toes. I don't know what it is about toes but all of a sudden he's an addict. It's like he can't help himself. Baby toes, old people's toes, clean toes, disgusting toes. As soon as he sees a set of toes he's at it--sniffing, nibbling, licking. I'm hoping he'll forget about toes once it's winter and nobody's walking around in sandals.

The second I let go of his leash to fish our mail out of the box, Turtle took off. By the time I looked up, he was across the lobby, sniffing Olivia Osterman's big toe. It was the only one sticking out of her open-toed shoe. Mrs. Osterman spends a lot of time in the lobby, sitting on the leather sofa, watching people come and go. She's lived in our building longer than anyone--more than sixty years. She's close to ninety now. When she was younger she was a Broadway star. Grandma saw her perform. She still dresses up every day, wearing big hats and lots of jewelry. Everyone in

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the building knows her and stops to talk. She hands out little boxes of raisins to the kids, as if every day were Halloween. She carries dog biscuits, too, so all the dogs in the building are her friends.

The only problem is, she doesn't get why I named my dog
Turtle.
I've explained a million times that I had a tiny pet turtle and when my brother was three he swallowed him. So when I got a dog, I named him after my turtle. It makes perfect sense to everyone but Mrs. Osterman. "A turtle is a turtle," she says. "A dog is a dog. Would you name your cat
Monkey,
or your monkey
Kangaroo?"
I never know how to answer that question.

I was so busy thinking about Mrs. Osterman I didn't notice Mom, who was chasing half a dozen apples that had tumbled out of our grocery bag. Sometimes Mom tells me I'm just like Dad, that I don't notice what's going on right under my nose.

By then, Fudge and Melissa were racing around the lobby, laughing and screaming. "Fudge," Mom called. "You know you're not supposed to run in the lobby."

"Melissa," Mrs. Miller called, "come over here, please."

Mom laughed. "Welcome to our building," she said to Mrs. Miller. "It's not always this chaotic."

Right,
I thought,
sometimes it's worse.

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When Fudge came back and heard Mrs. Miller telling Mom she worked at the Social Services program at Roosevelt Hospital, he asked, "How much do you make?"

"Excuse me?" Mrs. Miller said, as if she couldn't possibly have heard what she thought she heard.

"Fudge," Mom said, "that's not a polite question." She shook her head at Mrs. Miller. "My son isn't usually so rude."

Oh yeah... he is, I
thought.

"I don't get why grown-ups don't like to talk about money," Fudge said to Melissa.

"Because they're grown-ups," Melissa said. "That's why."

Mom and Mrs. Miller half-laughed the way parents do when they're embarrassed but don't want to admit it. Then they exchanged business cards. "I'm a dental hygienist," Mom said.

"We could use a good dentist," Mrs. Miller said, reading Mom's card aloud.
"Dr. Martha Julie."

"The dentist with two first names," Fudge sang, hopping around Melissa. "You get to watch videos while she's checking your teeth."

"Which ones?" Melissa asked.

"Whichever ones you want. But she doesn't like it when you laugh hard, so don't bring anything too funny."

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"Funny is the best," Melissa said.

"I know," Fudge agreed.

"I'll call to set up an appointment," Mrs. Miller told Mom.

"I'm there Tuesdays, Fridays, and every other Saturday," Mom said. She picked up our grocery bags. "See you soon."

As I pushed Tootsie in her stroller, Mom tried to guide Fudge toward the elevator but he pulled back. "Guess what?" he called to Melissa. "Pete's best friend lived in your apartment. They didn't have any beds."

"That's because his father thought it was better to sleep on the floor," I said. I don't know why I thought I had to defend Frank Fargo, but I did.

"I have a bed," Melissa said. "Want to see it?" she asked.

"Can I, Mom?" Fudge said.

"Some other time," Mom said. "We have a lot to do to get ready for school."

Melissa walked us to the elevator. "See you in mixed-up group," she told Fudge.

"Mixed-up group for mixed-up kids!" Fudge sang, giving her a high five.

All through dinner I wondered if Fudge was really going into a class for mixed-up kids. Later, while Mom

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was getting Tootsie ready for bed, I decided to find out. "So what's with this mixed-up group thing?"

"It's called
mixed group,"
Mom told me.

"Look, Mom ... if he's repeating kindergarten you can tell me. I won't let the cat out of the bag."

"Meow," Tootsie said, as Mom changed her diaper.

"He's
not
repeating kindergarten," Mom said. "You know he's very smart."

"But he says his class is for
mixed-up
kids."

"I can't imagine where he got that idea," Mom said, looking at me. "Peter, you didn't suggest..."

"No way, Mom."

"Because this is an accelerated program. All the children are ready to read and write. They're just not old enough for official first grade. You know how smart Fudge is. You know he's very mature for his age."

I laughed. So did Tootsie, even though she didn't have a clue what we were talking about.

"He
is,
Peter!"

"Sure, Mom. If you say so."

"His self-esteem is at stake here. He should be proud to be in mixed group."

"I don't think you have to worry about his self-esteem. He thinks he's the greatest."

"Not if he's got the idea he's going into a class for mixed-up children."

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"What happens if he gets another Rat Face?" I asked. Rat Face was his kindergarten teacher last year, when we lived in Princeton. When she refused to call him Fudge he kicked her. In less than an hour he had to be transferred to another class.

"I've met the teaching team and they seem very nice. Fudge will be in William's section. This is his third year with mixed group. So he has some experience."

"Nobody has enough experience for Fudge," I said.

"Let's try to have a positive attitude, Peter. Okay?"

"I am positive..."
Positive it'll be a disaster, just like it always is with Fudge.

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