Charlie Bumpers vs. His Big Blabby Mouth Read online

  Oh no! I thought. Not that! I HATE learning lessons!

  “But it seems pretty complicated now. So even though it really isn’t a good time for me to do it, I’ll come to your class.”

  I leapt up off my knees. I gave him a huge hug. Two hugs. Three hugs.

  “Thanks, Dad. Thanks so much! It’ll be great!”

  “I don’t know about that, but I’ll do my best.”

  “It’ll be great,” I said.

  Mom was shaking her head, but smiling a little. “Get your pajamas on,” she said.

  I turned and bounded up the stairs. Halfway up I thought about the other things I’d told the kids at school—about Dad almost being president, and about how he would bring in something cool to hand out. But it didn’t seem like a good idea to bring that stuff up now.

  One thing at a time.

  6

  My Big Blabby Mouth

  First thing Monday morning I told Mrs. Burke my dad was definitely coming in.

  She smiled. “Great, Charlie. That will be a wonderful addition to the week.” She handed me a big envelope. “Now, I’d like you to take this down to the office.”

  Stupific! I’d forgotten about being Mrs. Burke’s Master Messenger! This was going to be a great two weeks. I burst out the door.

  “No running like Mercury!” she called.

  Right. I slowed down.

  Our school hallways are like a big square. The office is on the other side of the school from the fourth- and fifth-grade classrooms. You can either go one way, down the first- and second-grade hallway and by the cafeteria, or the other way, past the fifth-grade classes on our hall, and then by the third-grade and kindergarten classes and library. It’s a little faster to go by the first- and second-grade classes, so I went that way.

  I reached the end of our hallway and turned the corner to the first- and second-grade wing.

  I looked down the hall. No one in sight!

  No running like Mercury! Mrs. Burke had said.

  But then I thought about my favorite superhero, Buck Meson. In one episode, he had special rockets on his feet. It was unbelievable how fast he went. He approached the speed of light.

  Mercury didn’t show up in the hallway.

  But Buck Meson did.

  “Rockets engaged,” I whispered to myself.

  I flew down to the office in record time—the fastest and best messenger in the history of King Philip Elementary School.

  I delivered the package, then flew back, skidding to a stop right before I got to my classroom.

  Rockets off!

  Perfect. Mission accomplished!

  I walked in slowly, hands in my pockets. Mrs. Burke was busy and didn’t notice as I slipped into my seat.

  “That was fast,” Hector said.

  “Just call me Buck Meson,” I said, giving him a big grin.

  “If anyone catches you running in the hall,” Samantha hissed, “you’ll lose your job.”

  I ignored her.

  Mrs. Burke looked up and saw me back at my desk. “Did everything go all right?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  “No running?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said. (Which was true. I was flying.)

  “Good for you,” she said.

  I turned and grinned at Samantha. She rolled her eyes and flipped her hair back like she couldn’t care less. But Samantha flips her hair when something bothers her. I guess that something was me.

  At lunch that day, Robby Rosen started bugging me about my dad coming in. “What’s your dad going to do, anyway? I hope it won’t to be too boring.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “It definitely won’t be boring.”

  “But what does he do? Will he bring in something for us?” Robby asked.

  “Yeah,” Joey chimed in, “like Maria’s parents bringing in cookies?”

  “Or Tricia’s dad bringing in baseball caps?” Robby said.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “What about bringing in calculators?” Alex asked.

  “I’m not sure about that,” I said. “He might.”

  “If he’s the president of the company, he could,” Joey said. “The president can decide what he wants and just do it.”

  Tommy and Hector sat there, quiet as mice. I’d never told either of them that my dad was president or anything like that. “I didn’t say he was president,” I said.

  “I thought you did,” Sam said.

  “I said he’s really important, like almost the president.”

  “That means calculators for everyone!” Alex shouted, spinning in circles on his seat. “Sweet!”

  Everybody at our end of the table nodded. Even Tommy and Hector.

  “We’ll see,” I said. Which in adult language means “I hope you forget.”

  I never should have said anything about my dad.

  Me and my big blabby mouth.

  7

  At Least Vice President

  We were almost done with dinner, and I had to ask Dad about the calculators. Very carefully.

  “Hey, Dad,” I said in my most polite voice.

  “Yes?” He looked at me suspiciously.

  “You use a calculator at work, right?”

  “You know I do, Charlie. I work in numbers all day and I can’t do everything in my head.”

  “Yeah, I know. I was just wondering, are there a lot of calculators at work?”

  “Everybody in my department has one.”

  “Are there extras?”

  “Sounds like Charlie wants a new calculator,” Matt sang out.

  Boogers. I’d forgotten one of the most important rules of being a kid: If you want something from your parents, don’t ask when your big brother is in the room.

  “No, I don’t,” I said, glaring at Matt.

  “Then what do you want, Charlie?” Dad asked.

  “When you come in to my class, are you going to do some of those tricks on the calculator that you showed us?” I asked. “You know, like the one where you can make it show all 9s?”

  “I could do that,” he said.

  “Well, some of the kids might not have a calculator.”

  “So I should bring some they could borrow?”

  “Um … are there any extras you don’t need?” I asked.

  “You mean that the kids could keep?”

  I nodded my head hopefully.

  “That is ridiculous,” Matt said.

  “Can I have a calculator, too?” the Squid asked.

  “You know I can’t do that, Charlie,” Dad said.

  “Oh,” I said. “Okay.”

  “Let’s have dessert,” Mom said.

  After dinner, up in my room, I started thinking about this time when I was about five years old. My mom told me that I couldn’t have ice cream unless I ate my green beans, so I told her that I would never speak to her again. Which, of course, was impossible. You can’t stay mad at your mom forever. For one thing, you could starve to death.

  I still remember what my Grandpa Al said to me that day: Charlie, always think before you open your mouth. If you don’t, you might put your foot in it, and once your foot’s in there, it’s hard to get it out.

  I didn’t understand what he meant. But I do now. You have to be careful about what you say, because later you might just wish you hadn’t said it.

  Like all those things I’d said at school about my dad and his job.

  I looked at my foot and wondered if I could really put it in my mouth.

  I tried. I could only get my toes in.

  I needed to talk to Dad again about bringing something to class, but not until Matt and the Squid weren’t around.

  When I heard them go to their rooms, I sneaked down the stairs so they wouldn’t hear me. I even remembered to step over the fourth stair from the bottom, the one that squeaks really loud. Mom and Dad were in the kitchen, so I made a detour through the living room.

  Standing outside the door to the kitchen, I could hear t
hem talking. They weren’t quite whispering, but they were keeping their voices low, the way they did when they didn’t want us to hear them.

  “What did Grimaldi say?” Mom asked.

  “He said I should have done it his way. He knew I was right, so he couldn’t argue with me. But he really didn’t like it.”

  Then it was quiet.

  I stood really still.

  What were they talking about? It had to be something about Dad’s work. Mr. Grimaldi was Dad’s new boss. I knew he and my dad didn’t get along. But whatever it was, it sounded like Dad had done the right thing.

  “So,” Mom said, “do you want to guess what’s going to happen?”

  “I’ve got an appointment to talk with Jameson,” Dad said.

  Jameson! Mr. Jameson’s the president of the company!

  “Really?” Mom asked.

  “Yeah. I don’t think things will stay the same. The whole company is going through some changes. Either I get a promotion, or, well, you know …”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Mom paused for a second, then said, “Either way will be fine, Jim.”

  I heard a chair scrape back from the table, so I tiptoed away from the kitchen door as fast as I could and scooted back up the stairs. I lay down on my bed and tried to make sense of what I had overheard.

  A promotion means you move higher up in the company and get paid more money.

  I thought about that for a minute.

  Dad must have solved a really hard problem that his boss couldn’t solve. Maybe Mr. Jameson is going to retire and ask him to be president! Dad’s really smart. And he’s really good at numbers. He would make a great president! Or at least vice president.

  Vice president would be enough, I decided. Vice presidents would have a lot of calculators. That would make sense—the higher up you got, the more calculators you needed.

  Maybe even enough for my whole class.

  8

  Rockets on My Feet

  Mrs. Burke called me up to her desk on Tuesday morning. “Charlie, I haven’t heard from your father. I need to get that sheet from him.”

  Uh-oh. The sheet she gave me. Where was it? I’d moved it around the house so much trying to get my dad to see it, I’d lost track of it.

  “Um … I think I might need another one.”

  Mrs. Burke shook her head, then opened a drawer and pulled out a folder. “Don’t lose this one,” she said, handing me a new copy. “My e-mail address is there, and so is my phone number. Please ask your father to get in touch with me.”

  “I think he might be getting a promotion,” I blurted out.

  Mrs. Burke’s face broke into a big smile. “Well, that’s wonderful to hear. You must be very proud of him.”

  I nodded. “He’s really smart. He can do a lot of fun things with numbers.”

  “I’m sure he can. And I’m eager to have him come in and share.”

  I started back to my seat.

  “Wait, Charlie,” Mrs. Burke said, holding up a manila folder with a big rubber band around it. “Would my messenger please take this to Mrs. Finch in the office?”

  Stupific! Another errand! “Sure!” I said.

  “Deliver it and then come right back,” she said.

  I took the folder and headed out the door. I walked to the near end of the fourth- and fifth-grade wing, then turned at the corner to go by the first- and second-grade classes.

  The hallway was quiet—everyone was in class except me.

  When I got to the first-grade classes, I saw that Mrs. Diaz’s door was open. I slowed down to look for the Squid.

  She saw me first. “Hi, Charlie!” she shouted. “Hey, everybody, there’s my brother!”

  “Mabel!” I heard Mrs. Diaz say.

  I waved to the Squid but kept going. Disrupting a class is a bad idea, since sometimes teachers talk to each other. I didn’t want Mrs. Burke to find out that her Master Messenger had wandered off course. When I got to the office I held out the folder to Mrs. Finch, the secretary.

  “This is from Mrs. Burke,” I said.

  “Thanks, Charlie,” she said.

  Our principal, Mrs. Rotelli, stuck her head out of the office. “Hello, Charlie,” she said. “Are you the new messenger for Mrs. Burke’s Empire?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Wait just a minute,” she said. “I have another delivery for you.” She went back in her office and came out with a big brown envelope. “Please give this to her.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Thanks, Charlie!” she called as I headed back toward my classroom.

  I got to the first-grade classes. The hallway was long and quiet. No one was in sight. The doors were all closed—I guess Mrs. Diaz had shut hers when the Squid called to me. I imagined what it would be like to have rockets on my feet. I could almost hear them revving up, getting ready to take off.

  Vrummm-vrummmmm.

  At first I only jogged a little. Would Buck Meson be late with the delivery?

  I DON’T THINK SO!

  I sped up. WHOOOOSH!

  I zoomed by the second-grade classes.

  I was almost to the end of the hallway when the adult bathroom door opened up in front of me.

  Mr. Turchin, the custodian, came out wheeling a big cart with a garbage can and a mop bucket on it.

  I screeched to a halt, almost running into him.

  “Whoa!” he said. “Where’s the fire?”

  “I’m Mrs. Burke’s Master Messenger,” I said.

  “Well, Mr. Messenger, do you want to take these down to Mr. Araujo’s class?” he asked, holding out a big stack of paper towels. “He said he needs them pronto.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I know where it is. It’s just a little past my classroom.” Mr. Araujo was a fifth-grade teacher on the other side of the hall from ours.

  “Thanks, Charlie,” he said. “I can always count on you.”

  I took the paper towels and turned the corner, accelerating to the end of the hallway.

  I had a job to do. I accelerated a little more.

  Buck Meson engaged the afterburners.

  HWWWEEEEEEEE! The jet engines were roaring. Classrooms flew by.

  Mrs. Burke stepped out of our classroom door.

  EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY!

  ABORT MISSION! ABORT MISSION!

  I slammed on the reverse rockets. Too late.

  Mrs. Burke folded her arms and screwed up her mouth. “Where have you been?”

  “The office,” I said, which was true. I was breathing hard from running, but trying not to show it.

  “What are those?” she asked, nodding at the towels.

  “Paper towels. Mr. Turchin asked me to take them to Mr. Araujo’s class,” I gasped. “He needs them pronto. And this envelope is for you … from Mrs. Rotelli.” I handed it to her.

  “Charlie, what were you doing just then?” she asked.

  “What?” I sputtered.

  “Were you running or walking?”

  Trick question! No good answer!

  “Um … trying to get back to class in a hurry?”

  “Were those rockets I heard?”

  “Um, maybe.”

  Mrs. Burke pointed down the hallway with her long, firecracker-snapping finger. “Take the towels to Mr. Araujo’s class and come straight back. Don’t dawdle.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “But walk.”

  The ruler of Mrs. Burke’s Empire was not happy. The Master Messenger was going to have to be more careful if he didn’t want to lose his job.

  9

  There Are Dinosaurs in My Pot

  Right after lunch on Wednesday we had art with Ms. Bromley. I like art because you can talk while you’re working on something without worrying about Mrs. Burke’s exploding fingers.

  You never know what Ms. Bromley is going to wear. There are always weird buttons and pins hanging off her shirts or sweaters, and sometimes she wears striped leggings and extra bands in her hair. Ms. Bromley is a walking art exhibit all
by herself.

  I was sitting at a table with Hector, Joey, Alex, and Ellen. We were making collages from different pieces of colored tissue paper. Ellen’s was a vase of flowers. Hector’s was a seaside landscape.

  Mine was supposed to be Buck Meson’s spaceship, but something had gone terribly wrong. It looked more like the losing car at a demolition derby. I grabbed another sheet of tissue paper and tore it into strips.

  “Hey, Charlie. What day is your dad coming in?” Alex asked.

  “Next Friday,” I said.

  “My mom’s coming in on Wednesday,” Ellen said. “She works at home and designs web pages, and she’s going to help us work on one for our class.”

  “Mrs. Burke will love that,” Joey said. “The Empire will have its own official web page.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That would be great.”

  “Do you know what kind of calculators your dad is bringing in?” Joey asked.

  “Um, no.”

  Robby Rosen came over from another table. “What are you guys talking about?” he asked.

  “We’re talking about Charlie’s dad bringing in calculators for our whole class,” Alex said.

  “No way,” said Robby.

  “Yes way,” Alex interrupted.

  “You’re crazy,” Robby said. “That would cost a lot of money. Is your dad a millionaire, Charlie?”

  Everyone looked at me.

  “No,” I said.

  “Well, what is he?”

  “He’s not a millionaire. But I think he might be getting a promotion.”

  “Like president of his company?” Ellen asked.

  Before I could answer, Sam came over. “What’s going on?”

  “Charlie’s dad’s bringing calculators for our class, maybe even for the whole fourth grade!” Joey crowed.

  “Awesome!” Sam said.

  “You’re all full of baloney,” Robby said.

  “Charlie’s dad is going to be president,” Alex explained. “So he can get as many calculators as he wants. Right, Charlie?”

  “Wait, you guys,” I said, shaking my head. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Well, I sure hope he does,” Alex said. Now there were six kids all talking about my dad.

  That’s when I remembered playing Telephone in Mrs. Crandall’s second-grade class. Mrs. Crandall loved quiet, so it was her favorite game. First she’d have us all sit quietly in a circle. She’d whisper a sentence into the first kid’s ear, and then one person after another would whisper the sentence they’d heard to their neighbor. At the end, the first person would say the original words aloud, and the last person would call out the sentence he had just heard. They were never the same. You could start out with a sentence like “My dog’s name is Spot” and the last kid might say, “There are dinosaurs in my pot,” and everyone would laugh.