Double Fudge by Judy Blume

Author:Judy Blume
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Publisher: Penguin Group, USA
Published: 2011-08-17T16:00:00+00:00

Baby Feet (Again)

Jimmy reminded me about the opening of his father’s one-man show. Last summer Tootsie walked barefoot across one of Frank Fargo’s wet canvases, leaving a path of little footprints in the blue paint. We thought Mr. Fargo would go crazy when he saw what happened. Instead, he got an idea. He had Tootsie walk barefoot over two dozen wet canvases. And now those paintings were going to be on display in an art gallery in SoHo.

“I like shows,” Fudge said, as we were getting ready to go downtown.

“I know,” Dad said, zipping Fudge’s jacket.

“Will they have singing or puppets?”

“No,” Dad said. “Just paintings.”

“A show with just paintings?” Fudge was surprised. “Did you hear that, Pete? A show with just paintings!”

“Yeah, I heard.”

Mom came into the living room then, carrying Tootsie, who was dressed in some black velvet outfit that made her look like a baby movie star.

“Where’s the baby-sitter?” Fudge asked.

“We don’t need a baby-sitter tonight,” Mom told him, setting Tootsie down on the sofa.

“You’re leaving Tootsie home by herself?” Fudge was even more surprised.

Mom laughed. “No, we’re taking Tootsie to the show.” She was trying to get fancy shoes on Tootsie’s feet but Tootsie squirmed and kicked, making it impossible. Mom finally gave up and stuffed the shoes into the diaper bag.

“You’re taking Tootsie?” Fudge couldn’t believe it.

“Of course we’re taking Tootsie,” Dad said. “And just look at our girl. She’s mighty pretty tonight, isn’t she?”

“She’s too young for a show,” Fudge argued. “She won’t understand it.”

“Without Tootsie there wouldn’t be a show,” Dad reminded him.

Tootsie held her arms out to me. “Uppy, Pee . . .” She waited for me to pick her up. When I did, she pulled my hair.

“Hey . . .” I said, which only made her laugh and pull harder.

Fudge hung on to me, tugging at my jacket. “I don’t want Tootsie to come with us. I want it to be just you and me, Pete.”

“I know how you feel,” I told Fudge, remembering all those times I didn’t want him to come along. “But you’ll get over it.”

* * *

A banner announcing Frank Fargo’s show hung outside the art gallery in SoHo. It said BABY FEET in big, bold letters, and under that, FRANK FARGO. Inside, huge colorful paintings hung on the walls. When the canvases were spread out on the ground last summer, I didn’t realize how big they would look hanging on a wall. You had to study them carefully to see the background of baby feet, but they were there, in every painting. The paintings had names like Baby Feet Blueberry and Baby Feet Strawberry. There was one called Baby Feet Storm and another called Baby Feet Earth.

Fudge looked around. “Where’s the stage?” he asked. “Where’re the seats?”

Dad explained. “It’s not that kind of show. It’s more like going to an art museum for a special event.”

“Where’s the event?” Fudge asked.

“This is the event,” Dad told him.

“No fair!” Fudge cried.

“Uh . . . Dad,” I said, hoping to escape before things took a turn for the worse, “I’m going to find Jimmy Fargo.

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