Superfudge by Judy Blume

Author:Judy Blume [Blume, Judy]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
ISBN: 9781101564097
Publisher: Puffin
Published: 1980-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

8

Naturally Fortified

“I want to be a ghost for Halloween,” Fudge said. “A scary, scary ghost!”

“I think we can arrange that,” Mom said. She was feeding Tootsie purple mush from a jar. Tootsie lets half of every spoonful ooze right back out of her mouth, so that Mom has to scrape it off her face and start all over again. It takes three tries to finish off one baby spoonful. Feeding Tootsie can be an all-day project.

“What about you, Peter?” Mom asked. “What do you want to be for Halloween?”

“Sixth graders don’t wear costumes,” I said.

“Really?” Mom said. “When I was in sixth grade . . .”

“That was a long time ago,” I said, interrupting her.

“A hundred years or more?” Fudge asked.

“Not quite,” Mom told him.

“What’s Tootsie going to be for Halloween?” Fudge asked.

“A baby,” I told him.

“Ha ha, Pee-tah,” Fudge said, laughing. “You’re funny!”

Every time Fudge laughs, Tootsie laughs, too. And when she laughs with her mouth full, she really makes a mess. So now she had plums all over her face, plums drooling down onto her bib, plums stuck in her hair and plums covering her rattle, which she banged on her tray as she laughed.

Turtle hangs around when Mom is feeding Tootsie. He’s developed a taste for baby food. Mom says it isn’t good for him. He needs to chew up hard food to exercise his teeth and jaws. And once a week I give him a special tablet to help his breath. Lately he has the worst dog breath! I’m glad Sheila Tubman isn’t around to tell me how bad my dog smells, because this time she’d be right.

Fudge says Turtle should rinse twice a day with Precious Breath, this new blue mouthwash that’s advertised on TV. Fudge is very big on commercials. He’s memorized all of them, and when we go to the supermarket he drives us up the wall, reciting his dumb jingles about why we should buy this product instead of that one.

My father spends his mornings at the university library and works at home in the afternoons. “How’s the book coming?” I asked him one day, when I got home from school.

“Slowly, Peter,” he said. “Very slowly. I’m still gathering information. I hope to finish my research by Christmas and start the actual writing after the holidays.”

Fudge stood in the doorway, nibbling a piece of cheese. “Dr. Seuss can write a book in an hour,” he said.

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“I don’t, but I’ll bet you he can,” Fudge said. “‘One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish. . . .’ ‘Do you like green eggs and ham? . . . I do! I like them, Sam-I-am!’”

“Okay, okay . . . that’s enough,” I said.

“Boys, I’m trying to work now,” Dad said. “Do you think you could move to another room?”

* * *

Later, we were watching the six o’clock news, when Fudge’s favorite commercial came on the air. “Oh, look,” he said, “it’s my dancing cats!” And he put down his Lego toys and watched.

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