Hello, My Name Is Scrambled Eggs Read online

  HELLO,

  MY NAME IS

  SCRAMBLED

  EGGS

  Jamie Gilson

  Dedication

  TO SHARON STEINHOFF,

  MY UNSCRAMBLER

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1 The Whole Third Floor

  2 See That Kid?

  3 The Steps Move

  4 What Means?

  5 OK? OK.

  6 Follow the Directions

  7 T.G.I.F.

  8 And That, You Guys, Is the News

  9 Boo!

  10 The Snow Dragon

  11 Pho Tai and Pumpkin Pie

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Also by Jamie Gilson

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  The Whole Third Floor

  STEAM CURLED UP from the brown-sugar mountains. I stirred my oatmeal, cut a slushy valley through the middle, and then whipped it around again fast. The whirlpool sucked at the galactic prisoners clinging to my spoon. They waved their tiny neon arms as they sank.

  “Harvey,” Mom said, sliding a Twinkie into my lunch bag, “you don’t have to kill the cereal. I boiled it till it stopped screaming. Just eat it.”

  The wall phone rang and I grabbed it. “Harvey Trumble!”

  Dad picked up the one in the bedroom. “Trumbles’! May I help you?” he asked, the way he does at the drugstore.

  The voice on the other end was soft as cotton balls. “A good morning to you, Clifton. And Harvey. A very good morning to you both. This is Jeff.”

  “Morning,” my father growled. He is not a very good-morning person.

  “I’m calling to ask a favor,” the voice went on. It was Jeff Zito, the minister of our church. I like listening to him. He plays his voice like an oboe—louds, softs, rests, and all.

  My dad sighed. He doesn’t much like Jeff Zito, who calls everybody, even the old people, by their first names, and asks everybody, even the kids, to call him Jeff.

  “I’ll do what I can,” Dad said cautiously.

  “Is it Pete, calling from California at this hour?” Mom asked. My brother, Pete, had been at college way over a month. He didn’t call home much. I shook my head. She rinsed the oatmeal pan as she watched me listen. “Is it for you?”

  I shrugged and hung up as Jeff began what he said was going to be a long story. Flooding my battle-strewn oatmeal with a wash of warm milk, I mooshed it around again and stopped thinking about Dad and the favor. That’s nothing to me, I thought. What’s to me is having a science quiz and a major math test, both on the same day. I wasn’t ready for either. I’d spent the night before in the basement, zapping the sneaky Zagnabs Pete had programmed for our computer, Felix. I’d really leveled them, and Felix had said I was perfect. Felix is good company. We understand each other.

  Six weeks into school, and it wasn’t exactly a bag of gummy bears. Seventh grade was harder than sixth. For one thing, in every class you had a different teacher to get used to. Mr. Tandy, the guy who taught math, bugged me. He looked mostly up at the ceiling squares and thought everybody should understand what he was talking about the first time he said it. It might have been a Laff Riot if Eric Wagner had been there to laugh with me. Eric had been my best friend since I was two, but he’d moved to Pennsylvania over the summer, as far away from the middle of Illinois as Mars. Bummer.

  “Hi, Harvey!” My sister, Julia, skipped into the room, wide awake and beaming. She is a good-morning person. She was dragging her stuffed owl, Zachary, behind her. Julia slept, thumb in mouth, with his wing clutched in her fist.

  “You taking Zach to school today?” I asked. “He looks like your basic first grader.”

  “Maybe.” She tossed her head. But she always left Zach at home on the boot box in the front hall. Zach was disgusting, more disgusting than a first grader even. He had fresh egg yolk on his belly from yesterday’s breakfast. And that was on top of broccoli, brownie crumbs, and mottled junk from three years of sandbox cities and finger paint. Plunking him onto a chair at the other end of our long kitchen table, she climbed up on him like he was a booster seat.

  “Phoebe,” Dad called from upstairs, “would you pick up the phone?”

  “I don’t want oatmeal,” Julia said. “I want Froot Loops. So does Zachary.”

  Mom picked up the phone, but she didn’t talk, except to say, “Hello.”

  “Today,” Julia told me, “our class is going on a field trip.” She climbed off Zachary and got the Froot Loops out of the cabinet. Then she took out five whole Loops and one broken one, carefully placing them on the oatmeal. “That’s how old I am,” she told Zachary, “almost six.”

  “Oh, how dreadful!” Mom said—to the phone, not to Julia. Actually, Julia’s birthday is on Halloween, which is pretty dreadful. Not as bad as having one on Christmas, but, still, nobody wants to spoil a good Halloween appetite with birthday cake.

  Julia poured just enough milk into the bowl to float her five-and-a-chunk circles.

  “Where you guys going on your field trip?” I asked her. Not all that many places to go when you live in pint-sized Pittsfield, Illinois, known to its friends as “Pork Capital of the World.” “You going to a pig farm and squeeze mud through your toes?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “Better. We’re going to our teacher’s house. I always thought she slept on the rug at school. She could. It’s got two big pillows near the bookcase.” Julia scooped the little O’s out, one by one, and chewed them slowly. “Mrs. Broderick likes Big Bird. You think she’ll have a Big Bird bedspread like mine?”

  What a weird field trip, I thought. Going to see somebody’s bedspread.

  Mom was smiling at the phone, nodding her head as if we had Phone-a-Vision. I could imagine Jeff smiling back at his end, only he’d have had the receiver crooked in his neck so he could wave his arms. He’s good at talking people into doing what he wants. Very good.

  “Why, of course we will, Jeff,” Mom said. “That way we’ll get to know the folks well. Besides, it’ll be an educational experience for Julia and Harvey.”

  Educational experience. That always means dull. And it usually means work. I just happen to know.

  “Saturday’s only two days away,” she went on, “and it’s short notice, of course, but that can’t be helped. Harvey will be happy to …”

  Julia began to eat fistfuls of cereal straight from the box, and the crunch was drowning out what Mom was saying I would be so happy to do. I clamped my hand over Julia’s mouth and lifted the cereal box over her head. But, even covered, Julia’s yells are louder than her crunches.

  Mom frowned at us and walked the phone into the dining room, trailing its long cord behind her. I gave the box back to Julia and dug into my oatmeal. But it was cold, and there’s nothing more yucky than cold oatmeal. If there had been galactic prisoners in it, they’d have been begging me for down coats and moon boots.

  Julia was still crunching away, hugging the box to her chest, when Mom turned the corner. Hanging up, she crossed her arms and smiled. “Well, here’s a surprise for you.”

  And that’s when she told us about the Nguyen family. I mean, we knew about them already, of course. That wasn’t a surprise. Our church was sponsoring them. I hadn’t paid that much attention, but I knew the family had escaped from Vietnam in a fishing boat. I knew they’d been living in a crowded camp in Malaysia, and that the church was bringing them to Pittsfield to start a new life. For weeks we’d been collecting clothes and furniture and stuff, and some men were putting a new furnace into a little house about half a mile from ours. They were our project.

 
; “Butler and Freda Taylor were going to keep the Nguyens for the first two weeks,” Mom told us, “to show them how to buy groceries and use the stove and such, but …”

  Dad hurried in, tucking his shirt into his pants. “Phoebe, for crying out loud, you’ve got to learn how to say no.”

  “You could have said no,” she told him.

  “Can I say it?” I asked.

  “No, no, no,” Julia sang to the tune of “Three Blind Mice.” She slipped off Zachary and grabbed his wing.

  “Butler Taylor came down with chicken pox last night,” Mom explained to Julia and me. “Imagine, a big bald man covered with all those spots. So, of course, the Taylors can’t take the Nguyens. Their plane arrives in Chicago the day after tomorrow.” She picked up a loose pink Froot Loop from the floor. “After all, we do have the whole third floor empty now, Cliff. It’s all right. Pete’s room is empty too. And we’ll clean out the spare room. What shall we do with your beer can collection, Harvey?”

  I’ve got this huge, mammoth beer can collection. My dad doesn’t much like it, though, so it’s been moved around a lot. Except for one really extremely valuable can, they were all packed in big black plastic trash bags that sat like blobs in the spare room.

  “No, no, no,” Julia chanted as she ran. “Harvey,” she yelled from the front hall, “hurry up!”

  “There’s supposed to be a baby, and a boy about your age,” Mom called to me as I ran. “Won’t that be fun?”

  Outside, Julia was puffing clouds of hazy breath, so I knew it was early fall cold. Grabbing my jacket, I dashed out to where she was running in place, waiting for me to walk her to school.

  “What’ll they be like?” Julia asked as we cruised. “The baby will cry all the time.”

  “Right,” I said, “and wet. Babies do that.” I tried to remember the things Jeff had told us about the Nguyens. He hadn’t said what they’d look like. “Probably the kid my age will wear an embroidered green silk kimono and carry a sword in a black belt around his waist. And he’ll yell, ‘Aieeeeeeeee,’ and crack concrete blocks with the side of his hand and have a fat black pigtail down his back.” I grabbed one of her short brown ones and gave it a tug.

  She flipped her head away. “Somebody in my Sunday school class brought jeans for the kid.”

  I shrugged. “He’ll wear them under his kimono. He’ll eat raw fish and rice and drink tea from a little cup.”

  “I don’t like fish.”

  “Yes, you do. You eat tuna salad sandwiches all the time.”

  “That’s not fish. It doesn’t have eyes. I won’t like the new kid—or the baby.”

  “I will. We’ll be their heroes because we saved their lives.”

  “Hi, Zilch,” a voice said close to my ear. It was Quint Calkins, sneaking up like a black cat at night. He spends a lot of his time being a pain, especially to me. Quint matched Julia’s short first-grade steps. Then he reached over and pretended to take a quarter from behind her ear. Very big on magic, Quint is. He whipped off his baseball cap and bowed. “If you washed back there, small child, you’d make a fortune.”

  Before Julia thought of demanding her ear money, four of her friends appeared from a side street, and they all ran off together, giggling like crazy about going to see Mrs. Broderick’s bathroom.

  “One of my two brand-new tricks,” he said. “Worked pretty good, don’t you think?”

  I knew Quint was going to say something about math. On the first test of the year I’d gotten every problem wrong. A big fat zero, without even a smiley face in the middle of it. I just didn’t understand the stuff. No kidding. Quint had gotten every problem right. Flashing silver stars. That’s when he’d started calling me Zilch. I decided to bring it up myself so he couldn’t.

  “You study for the math test today?” I asked, laughing, ha-ha.

  He didn’t answer, just curled his lip in what was supposed to be a nasty grin. It was pretty good, actually. “So, I hear you’re gonna have some company.”

  “Who said?”

  “Jeff Zito said. He called my mom first because we’ve got that empty apartment over the garage, and my uncle being in that war in Vietnam and all. She told him thanks, but no thanks. Then she called back later to find out who’d said yes.” Quint laughed like he knew something I didn’t. But then, that’s the way he always laughs. “Those guys moving in with you think funny, you know. That’s what my uncle says.”

  We passed Julia’s grade school and headed toward the junior high, three blocks on. No way I could shake him.

  “Doesn’t matter how funny you think they think,” I told him. “The new kid is going to be staying at my house, and if you don’t like him, you can just stay away. Anyway, before you know it, he’ll be thinking just like me.”

  “And that’s not funny?” He laughed like it was. “By the way, Zilch, the day won’t come when I have to study for a math test. Mr. Tandy says I’m gifted. He told my mom that at Open House. Gifted. How’s that sound? Gift-ed.”

  It sounded, actually, like he was saying it in calligraphy, every letter curly. I yawned. Big.

  With his grubby paw, Quint reached into my mouth. I wish I’d crunched his fingers like bread sticks, but if I had, I’d have probably choked on Abraham Lincoln. Quint pulled a penny out from between my teeth, held it up, and bowed like I was a standing-room-only audience. Then he flicked it high toward the tree branches.

  “Call it!”

  “Heads,” I said, automatically.

  Just before it could reach the sidewalk, Quint scooped the coin up in his baseball cap, which he slapped tight over his black hair. I couldn’t see which side landed up.

  “Heads it is.” He tapped the top of his cap and grinned. “My head. Can’t say about the penny. Maybe, though, you’ve hit a winning streak, Zilch. Shall we take a look?” He glanced around to see if anybody was watching. A couple of kids had come up, and he motioned them closer.

  As he whipped the cap off, a long green spring-snake flew out and zapped me, splat, in the nose.

  “Tails!” he called. “Pity. You know, Zilch, you’re gonna need some luck. You and your little clone, too.”

  2

  See That Kid?

  CAROLINE QUACKENBUSH stopped me in the hall after school. “Harvey, are you going to T.G.I.F. tomorrow night, or not? I’m bringing double-fudge banana brownies.” She and Suzanna Brooks were tacking up this poster they’d painted in ultra-violent pink and purple, T.G.I.F. PARTY! it yelled. 7 PM! DANCING! OPEN GYM! BASKETBALL! VOLLEYBALL! FLOOR HOCKEY! BELLY LAUGHS! Something for practically everybody. The school has a T.G.I.F. every Friday night. I’d never gone.

  “Not!” I had to shout. The hall lockers around us were clanging shut like tinny prison doors. “I’ve got stuff to do.” I smiled Quint’s I’ve-got-a-secret smile. “Maybe you didn’t know. That Vietnamese family’s staying at our house.”

  “You’re kidding!” Caroline poked in the last thumbtack and twirled a loose strand of blondish hair around her finger.

  “It’s a long story. About … chicken pox.” I changed my smile from secret to black-plague mystery.

  “Really?” Suzanna moved in, aiming her fingertips at me. They were dotted chicken-pox pink with poster paint. She couldn’t have twirled her hair if she’d wanted to. It’s a tight Afro. “I expect you’re scared. I know I would be.”

  “Oh, the Vietnamese guys aren’t the ones who have chicken pox,” I told her. “Jeff was afraid they’d catch it from Mr. Taylor, who’s like one big red itchy spot.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” She turned the water fountain on her hands, and the paint ran in little pink rivers down the drain. “I mean all the stuff Jeff told us in the meeting. I mean the things he said we had to remember. I’d be scared I’d forget.”

  Actually, I’d been trying to think what he’d said about the Vietnamese, but the meeting had been a couple of weeks before, and as he’d talked there’d been these two squirrels racing back and forth across the telephone wire outsi
de the window and I’d thought for sure one of them was going to drop, splat, on the parking lot, but it didn’t—so I wasn’t listening too close.

  “Oh, that stuff.” Besides the squirrel tightrope runners, I came up with “He said they’re leaving a land of water buffaloes for a land of snowmobiles and it won’t be easy.”

  She nodded, waiting. Then I remembered more, which just goes to prove you don’t really have to listen. “Well, of course, they don’t shake hands,” I said, as if that was the first of a long list of one through a hundred and one that I could’ve told her if I’d felt like it. “But I don’t go around grabbing people’s hands. Besides, what’s the big deal if I forget?”

  “You don’t want to get off on the wrong foot. You don’t want them to think right away that you’re bizarre.” Suzanna flicked her fingers, splattering pinkish water at me and my books.

  “And, you know …” Caroline grabbed me by the shoulders and stared into my eyes like they were tunnels. She had to stare down because I’m about three inches shorter than she is. “They also think you’re strange if you point at them.” She let go of one shoulder and touched the tip of my nose with her finger.

  “They do?” I struggled. With my hands full of books, it was hard to pull free. Sort of.

  “Blue,” she said, holding tighter. “I thought for sure they were green. Do you wear contacts?”

  I broke loose. “Cut it out!” Caroline’s eyes are brown with little specks of yellow. I just happened to notice.

  “Watch your step, Zilch,” Quint called as he passed by with a gang of kids. “That’s deep water.” A couple of them whistled.

  “Caroline!” Suzanna was annoyed. “Neither of you listened to Jeff. I was taking notes. She put her hands on her hips. “So, here’s what you’re supposed to do. Hel-lo, my-name-is-Su-zan-na-Brooks.” She said it like a record playing at half-speed. “Welcome-to-Pitts-field. I-know-you-will-learn-to-feel-at-home.” She was smiling like I was a TV camera. “See, you talk slowly so they’ll understand. OK, now, you try it. I’ll be the refugee person.”