mudroom and stoodunder the hook with his ugly coat hanging on it. His tail wagged like a metronome set on high.
“Sorry, pal,” I said. “Not today. I’ve got school. Plus, this is one mountain we’re supposed to stay away from. Principal’s orders.”
I turned back to the picture.
The caption said:
A mountain has arisen overnight in Rambletown. It’s so big, it makes Alaska look small. Not to mention warm. Scientists are puzzled as to how the likenesses of four American presidents came to appear on the steep flank of our town’s newest landmark.
“Mom,” I said, slipping a piece of toast to Mr. Bones under the table. “Remind me again which presidents are carved into Mount Rushmore?”
“Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Lincoln.” Mom ticked off the names. “TeddyRoosevelt, that is. Not Franklin. Social studies assignment, Banjie?”
“Do these guys look like them?” I asked as Mr. Bones licked my hand.
“Which guys?” Setting her coffee mug on the table, Mom leaned over my shoulder and peered at the paper.
“Oh…my…goodness,” she exclaimed. “What is that?”
“We call it Mount Rambletown. Principal Gorton says everybody has to stay off it.”
“I should think so,” Mom said. She leaned closer. “These are different presidents. It looks like John Adams, Franklin Roosevelt, John F. Kennedy, and…Who is that last one?”
My dad breezed into the kitchen, knotting his tie.
“What’s so interesting?”
He leaned over Mom, who was still leaning over me. I felt like the front end of a collapsing Slinky.
“Ah,” he said. “Mount Rushmore.”
“Look closer,” said my mom.
Dad bent closer, setting off a chain reaction. Another inch and I’d be snorting Pirate Crunch through my nose.
“How about some breathing room?” I hissed, bracing my hands against the edge of the wooden table. I felt like a glass of orange juice. Freshly squeezed.
Dad backed off a little.
“Wait a minute!” he exclaimed. “Is that Millard Fillmore, our thirteenth president? What’s he doing up there? Where’s George Washington?”
“It’s not Mount Rushmore,” I said to set my dad straight. “It’s the snow heap at school. Read the caption.”
Dad read.
“Jumping Jehoshaphat!” he blurted. “Right here in Rambletown? This thing could be huge.”
“It is huge,” I assured him. “It takes uphalf the parking lot. The peak is shrouded in clouds.”
“I mean, it’s big news. When word gets out, people are going to want to see this thing. Tourists will come from all over.”
“You’re kind of crowding us, honey,” Mom said. She slipped from between us like a tomato escaping from a sandwich. “I think that one on the end is Calvin Coolidge,” she added. “Not Millard Fillmore.”
“Really?” asked Dad. “I don’t know. Franklin Pierce, perhaps? One of those obscure middle guys.”
“Taft,” I suggested.
Dad stepped over to the counter and popped some bread into the toaster. I took advantage of the elbow room to eat some cereal. With my mouth.
“William Howard Taft was gigantic,” he said, shaking his head. “He was so fat, he once got stuck in his bathtub. Yep. Wedged himself in there like a cork. He was so big, he’d needhis own mountain.”
I tried to imagine someone getting wedged in a bathtub. Not a pretty picture. Even worse was what it would be like to haul the person out. One thing I knew for sure: I wouldn’t want to be the one doing the pulling.
I turned to the sports section and found another article by Gabby. This one was about how the Rounders had opened spring training in a blizzard. Above the story was a picture. It showed Orlando barreling into the wall.
The caption said:
New Rambletown Rounders center fielder Orlando Ramirez really uses his head in the field. Mostly, he uses it to ram the outfield wall. It’s a strange habit, but then there’s nothing normal about playing baseball in the snow. Orlando just arrived in Rambletown from Florida.
“Sorry, pal,” I said. “Not today. I’ve got school. Plus, this is one mountain we’re supposed to stay away from. Principal’s orders.”
I turned back to the picture.
The caption said:
A mountain has arisen overnight in Rambletown. It’s so big, it makes Alaska look small. Not to mention warm. Scientists are puzzled as to how the likenesses of four American presidents came to appear on the steep flank of our town’s newest landmark.
“Mom,” I said, slipping a piece of toast to Mr. Bones under the table. “Remind me again which presidents are carved into Mount Rushmore?”
“Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Lincoln.” Mom ticked off the names. “TeddyRoosevelt, that is. Not Franklin. Social studies assignment, Banjie?”
“Do these guys look like them?” I asked as Mr. Bones licked my hand.
“Which guys?” Setting her coffee mug on the table, Mom leaned over my shoulder and peered at the paper.
“Oh…my…goodness,” she exclaimed. “What is that?”
“We call it Mount Rambletown. Principal Gorton says everybody has to stay off it.”
“I should think so,” Mom said. She leaned closer. “These are different presidents. It looks like John Adams, Franklin Roosevelt, John F. Kennedy, and…Who is that last one?”
My dad breezed into the kitchen, knotting his tie.
“What’s so interesting?”
He leaned over Mom, who was still leaning over me. I felt like the front end of a collapsing Slinky.
“Ah,” he said. “Mount Rushmore.”
“Look closer,” said my mom.
Dad bent closer, setting off a chain reaction. Another inch and I’d be snorting Pirate Crunch through my nose.
“How about some breathing room?” I hissed, bracing my hands against the edge of the wooden table. I felt like a glass of orange juice. Freshly squeezed.
Dad backed off a little.
“Wait a minute!” he exclaimed. “Is that Millard Fillmore, our thirteenth president? What’s he doing up there? Where’s George Washington?”
“It’s not Mount Rushmore,” I said to set my dad straight. “It’s the snow heap at school. Read the caption.”
Dad read.
“Jumping Jehoshaphat!” he blurted. “Right here in Rambletown? This thing could be huge.”
“It is huge,” I assured him. “It takes uphalf the parking lot. The peak is shrouded in clouds.”
“I mean, it’s big news. When word gets out, people are going to want to see this thing. Tourists will come from all over.”
“You’re kind of crowding us, honey,” Mom said. She slipped from between us like a tomato escaping from a sandwich. “I think that one on the end is Calvin Coolidge,” she added. “Not Millard Fillmore.”
“Really?” asked Dad. “I don’t know. Franklin Pierce, perhaps? One of those obscure middle guys.”
“Taft,” I suggested.
Dad stepped over to the counter and popped some bread into the toaster. I took advantage of the elbow room to eat some cereal. With my mouth.
“William Howard Taft was gigantic,” he said, shaking his head. “He was so fat, he once got stuck in his bathtub. Yep. Wedged himself in there like a cork. He was so big, he’d needhis own mountain.”
I tried to imagine someone getting wedged in a bathtub. Not a pretty picture. Even worse was what it would be like to haul the person out. One thing I knew for sure: I wouldn’t want to be the one doing the pulling.
I turned to the sports section and found another article by Gabby. This one was about how the Rounders had opened spring training in a blizzard. Above the story was a picture. It showed Orlando barreling into the wall.
The caption said:
New Rambletown Rounders center fielder Orlando Ramirez really uses his head in the field. Mostly, he uses it to ram the outfield wall. It’s a strange habit, but then there’s nothing normal about playing baseball in the snow. Orlando just arrived in Rambletown from Florida.
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