Morgan's Birthday

  Morgan’s Birthday

  Ted Staunton

  Illustrations by Bill Slavin

  Formac Publishing Company Limited

  1

  It’s My Party

  “WANTA COME TO MY BIRTHDAY?” I shout to Ian. It’s indoor recess. Ian is busy blowing a gum bubble into Madeline’s hair. It pops. Ian picks some bubble out of his nose.

  “Sure, Morgan,” he says. “Cool.”

  “Great,” I say. “Hey Madeline, wanta come to my birthday? We’re going bowling and mini-golf and the zoo and a movie and go-cart racing and a waterslide.”

  I don’t know if we’re doing all of those things, but I want to.

  “Thanks,” says Madeline.

  Guess what? My birthday’s on Sunday and my party is Saturday. I’m kind of excited, which is why I’m bouncing up and down. Usually I only bounce if there’s pizza, or chips or cake and ice cream. Hey, wait a sec, there will be. I bounce some more.

  So far I’ve invited Charlie, Mark, Kaely, Lisa, Luke and Aretha, and now Ian and Madeline. Oh, and Zack, Rachel, Trevor and Robin. And Ben, Bobby, Will, Melissa and Heather. And — hey, soon I’ll have invited my whole class. That’s OK. There are only twenty-seven of them.

  I bounce backwards from Madeline and thump, I bump into somebody.

  “HEY,” I yell, “WANTA COME TO MY BIRTHDAY?”

  Then I turn around. Oh no. I’m looking at Aldeen Hummel, the Killer Godzilla of Grade Three, in her old purple sweatsuit. Her fist is up and her eyes are squinched behind her glasses, glaring. At me.

  Did I say I’d invite my whole class? I was wrong. I wasn’t going to invite Aldeen.

  Except I think I just did. Aldeen blinks. She lowers her fist. I hear a strange little clicking noise.

  “Oh,” she says. Then, “Yeah, I guess,” as if she’s doing me a favour.

  I hear the clicking again. Aldeen turns. Ben is bending over her desk.

  “Hands off!” she yells, and blammo, she nails him with an atomic wedgie, the worst I’ve ever seen. His pants are almost up to his ears.

  Ben shouts. Our teacher comes scooting in from the hall. Aldeen looks at me.

  “Do I gotta bring a present?” she says.

  What have I done?

  2

  A Poached Egg

  Inviting Aldeen takes away some of my bounce. Until, at supper, Mom and Dad say I can’t have twenty-seven kids at my party.

  “Awww,” I say. Secretly I think, ‘Good. Now Aldeen can’t come. Bounce, bounce.’

  “Twelve, tops,” says Dad.

  “I’m moving to Florida,” says Mom.

  She gives in when Dad says he’ll run the games and do clean-up.

  “No sweat,” I tell him, “There’s no clean-up at bowling, mini-golf and go-carting.”

  “Morgan,” Dad says, “I can’t take twelve kids to all that. We’ll have a party at the house. I’ll take you and Charlie to one of those things on Friday night.”

  “Awwwwwwww.” Really, I figure, Friday sounds good, and twelve is still lots of kids — and presents. It’s just better not to say so.

  “OK,” Mom says, “But…” I hate buts. “I want you to invite Aldeen. She likes you, and I bet she doesn’t get to go to many parties.”

  “AWWWWWWWWWWWWW!” This time I mean it.

  After supper, Charlie and I play Frisbee. Charlie’s good at it, but I’m not. So the way we play is Charlie throws, the Frisbee hits me; I throw, Charlie chases the Frisbee.

  It doesn’t matter. Mostly we talk about the party and Friday and how cool it will all be. I start feeling pretty bouncy again. I really whale the Frisbee. It whooshes down the street, the best throw of my life, except I was aiming the other way.

  The Frisbee sails toward a kid on a bike. A kid in a purple sweatsuit. It’s Aldeen.

  “Look out!” I yell.

  The Frisbee hits her. Aldeen hits her brakes. She looks at us, then scoops up the Frisbee and throws it into a tree. Then she rides over, her witchy hair bobbing. I remember Ben’s wedgie. I feel like a poached egg disguised as me.

  “Watch it, doofus,” she growls at me. I hear the clicking noise. “I was coming to show you something, but forget it now.” She wheels away. The noise goes too.

  We start up the tree. Above me Charlie says, “Good thing she’s not coming to your party.”

  “Oh yeah?” I puff. I look down and pretend my foot is stuck. I’m still feeling a little poached-eggy.

  “Yeah, I remember her at Rachel’s birthday in kinder-garten. She bit their cat.”

  I keep on pretending my foot is stuck. Really it feels as if all of me is stuck — in a birthday cake with Aldeen Hummel sitting on the top.

  3

  Aldeen’s Beans

  My invitations say, “IT’S A MONSTER OF A PARTY!” There’s a picture of monsters eating a cake. The purple one reminds me of Aldeen in a party dress. This is not good. When I hand them out at school, I’ll save Aldeen’s for last. I’m hoping maybe she’s forgotten. Then I could skip inviting her and tell Mom that Aldeen said she couldn’t come.

  But no way. Next morning, Aldeen rockets over, trampling Kaely and Bobby on the way.

  “Where’s mine?” she says. Her hand is out. She’s clicking again.

  “Your what?” I say. I try to look mixed up. It’s easy; I feel like I’m about to be put in a blender.

  “My invitation. You said I was invited.” Her eyes begin to squinch. It’s a bad sign.

  “Oh. Yeah. I forgot.” I hand it over. It’s a little bent from my pocket.

  Aldeen looks at it for a long time. Then she says, “See what I got?”

  She holds up a tiny box. Inside are four sandy-coloured lumps. Two of them are rocking back and forth, clicking against the plastic. Then a third clicks, and the fourth. They’re moving all by themselves. For a second I forget about birthdays.

  “Neeeat,” I say, and they are. “What are they?”

  “Mexican jumping beans,” Aldeen says. “And know what? There’s butterflies inside. If I keep them warm they’re going to hatch and then I’ll have pets.”

  “Wow,” I say. We watch the beans going around. It’s amazing.

  “Where’d you get them?” I ask. “I want to get some.”

  Aldeen says, “You can’t get them here. My dad sent them.”

  “Is he in Mexico?”

  Aldeen says, “I don’t know.”

  Aldeen puts the beans in her pocket to keep them warm.

  I remember my birthday again. I say, “Hey, Aldeen? Don’t tell anybody you got invited to the party, OK? Because I couldn’t ask everyone.”

  She stands her invitation right in the middle of her desk.

  4

  All Bummed Out

  I’m eating my lunch — my favourite thing at school — when Luke asks, “Is Aldeen really coming to your party?”

  “I dunno,” I say. “My mom made me invite her. Maybe she won’t come.”

  Mark scowls. “Last time I was at a birthday party with her, she tried to stick a hot dog up my nose.”

  “And remember at Janie’s?” Zack shakes his head. “She made Ian eat all those chips and he barfed on the presents.”

  I didn’t go to any of those parties; I didn’t live here then. I think I’m glad.

  “Well, if she does come,” Melissa says, “I can’t. My parents said.”

  “Same with mine,” Luke adds.

  “Me too.”

  “Me three.”

  “But…” I say, “But, but
— it’s my birthday.”

  “Sorry, Morgan.” Everybody shrugs and shakes their heads and eats their lunches. All at once, I’m not hungry anymore.

  By supper time, it looks like not even I’ll be going to my party — because there mightn’t be one. Mom hangs up the phone after another call.

  “That was Robin’s mom,” she says, “He can’t come. Apparently Aldeen tried to flush his pet rat down the toilet at his party two years ago.”

  “Lauren isn’t coming either,” says Dad, walking in. “Aldeen punched Lauren’s uncle when he tried to keep her from stealing the goody bags.”

  Oh man, I think, nobody’s coming. On my birthday. No friends, no presents, no food, no fun: just me and Hummel the Bummel. How can she do this to me? Well, I know what to do to her.

  “She can’t come,” I say.

  “Of course she can,” Mom says. “And she will. And so will your real friends, and we’ll have a great time.”

  Yeah, right.

  5

  Mystery Girl

  It’s Friday afternoon. I’m a little bouncy and a little worried, like a ball without enough air. Tonight Dad is taking Charlie and me bowling and to a movie. That’s the bouncy part. Tomorrow, Charlie, Trevor, Heather and Lisa are coming to my party. And Aldeen. That’s the worried part.

  Kids have found out about her beans and they start chanting at recess, like they used to.

  Al-deen

  Al-deen,

  The great big purple

  jumping bean.

  Aldeen has a great big hairy fit and throws Melissa’s shoes on the roof.

  When she gets back from being sent to the office, I’m so worried about my party that I forget to be afraid.

  “Aldeen,” I whisper, “If you wreck my party tomorrow, I’ll...”

  “You’ll what?” She pushes her glasses up with a grubby finger and stares at me.

  I become the Incredible Shrinking Morgan.

  “Never mind.”

  That night, Charlie and I have tons of fun. Saturday morning I’m up way early. It’s like Christmas. It’s my party. I help put up streamers and balloons. I’m bouncier than they are. I help stuff goody bags. I wonder where the cake is.

  Charlie, Heather, Trevor and Lisa show up at eleven, the way they’re supposed to. “Happy Birthday,” they say, the way you’re supposed to. They have boxes and bags for me, the way they’re supposed to. Some of them are big. I can hardly wait.

  But I have to, because there’s no Aldeen. She’s late, late, late, the way you’re not supposed to be. We hit balloons at each other and jump on the couch.

  “Maybe she’s not coming,” Heather says.

  “Wouldn’t it be nice,” says Trevor.

  There’s a knock on the door. I open it and there’s this girl. She’s all dressed up in a sweater and a plaid kilt and knee socks and black shoes, as if she’s going to church or something. Her hair is brushed and clipped back. She looks in and sees everyone and all the presents. She puts her hands behind her back.

  “I’m here,” she says.

  Back in the living room, someone snickers. The girl glares. It’s Aldeen, all right.

  6

  Picture This

  Mom brings Aldeen in. We all stare. Nobody’s ever seen her like this before. I notice for the first time that she has freckles. Aldeen stares back. She sits as if she’s scared the chair will break.

  Dad says it’s time for presents. Everybody gathers round. I get a video game from Trevor, stomp rockets from Lisa, a space-station kit from Charlie and a bazooka water gun from Heather.

  “Big deal,” Aldeen mutters, and fidgets with her socks.

  Then she says, “My present was too big to carry. It’s going to be delivered tomorrow.”

  Even Charlie rolls his eyes. “Yeah, right,” Lisa whispers. Aldeen starts to get her monster face.

  Dad says, “Time for games. Let’s go outside.”

  “She didn’t even bring a present,” I complain to Mom. “And she almost had a hairy fit. If she wrecks everything…”

  I mean, this is my birthday. All Mom does is look at me as if I’m a TV commercial.

  “Morgan,” she says, “You’ll live. Go out with your guests. I’m making lunch.”

  Outside, Dad has paper tacked to my play fort and squirt guns with water paint so we can paint pictures. He makes us put these big old shirts on to stay clean. Really that means we can squirt each other, so we do — except for Aldeen, who yells, “You better not!”

  We were scared to anyway. But Dad says, “It’s okay, Aldeen,” and zap, he squirts her paint shirt with blue. Her mouth pops open, then, zip, she squirts green back. Pretty soon we’re all painted, especially Aldeen. Everyone gets her. Maybe we get her too much, because finally she takes the green paint and dumps it on Charlie’s head.

  Then we play musical chairs. Aldeen wins, even though we all gang up on her, because she gives murder noogies. When she wins, she sits in the chair with this grin on her painty face as if she’s queen. Queen of Mean, maybe.

  Then we get out my new water gun and the stomp rockets and try them. Then we climb up and down the play fort and run around and yell and play tag. Then Aldeen gets mad because everybody keeps tagging her, so she tries to hang Trevor off the play fort by his ankles.

  Mom calls, “Lunch!”

  7

  Gross, Gross, Gross

  We all go in to the table. The balloons and streamers are hanging down. There are funny napkins and party hats and paper plates. And food.

  Except for presents, food is my favourite thing at birthday parties. There are hot dogs with ketchup, potato chips, pickles, pop, celery and carrots. Nobody touches the celery and carrots except Trevor. He sticks them up his nose and makes faces at Heather. Lisa doesn’t eat chips so she throws a couple at Charlie. He hates pickles so he tosses pickle bits back at her.

  I couldn’t care less; I like everything. I want to chow down and get to the cake.

  “C’mon, you guys,” I say between bites.

  “Yeahmf,” says Aldeen. A little spray of hot dog bun comes out too. Her mouth is full. Aldeen hoovers food even faster than I do. How can she be so skinny and eat like that? I’ve never seen this before either. At lunch we always try to stay as far away from her as we can.

  Now she’s reaching for my chips.

  “Owy!” I’m trying to say “Hey!” but my mouth is full. I’d swat at her but I have a pickle in one hand and a hot dog in the other. She grabs a handful and tries to pour herself more pop at the same time. It spills. Aldeen shoves the chips in her mouth, then starts sucking up the pop on the table with her straw. How gross can you get, I think. I put more ketchup on my pickles.

  Trevor starts coughing. Aldeen looks up long enough to pound him on the back. The carrot and celery shoot out his nose. “Eeeeewwwwww!” everybody says. Aldeen and I reach for the last hot dog at the same time.

  “Hey! I got it first.”

  “Says you, fat boy!”

  “Yeah, well it’s my birth...”

  Dad interrupts.

  “Morgan, you’ve had more than enough. Come on, help clear the table.”

  I say, “I don’t have to today. It’s my birthday.”

  “I will,” says Aldeen. She crams the hot dog in her mouth, jumps up and starts grabbing things.

  “HEY!” Now the others are saying it.

  “Shut up,” Aldeen says, spitting the hot dog onto her plate. “You took too long. It’s time for cake.” Out she goes.

  Well, I think, you can’t argue with that. There’s a crash in the kitchen. You can’t argue with that either.

  8

  Taking the Cake

  When we hear the crash, everybody looks up.

  “Guess who?” Trevor snickers. He h
as the carrot back in his nose.

  “She is soooo icky.” Lisa settles her party hat. Pickle bits fall out of her hair.

  “We should have painted her more,” Heather says, “Like Morgan’s dad did.”

  I’m starting to say, “I don’t think that’s why...” when, out in the kitchen, Mom starts. “Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm.”

  It’s the first note for “Happy Birthday.”

  And suddenly I don’t care. This is it, the best part: cake time. Singing, candles, wishing, blowing, a corner piece of cake with extra icing, chocolate-chip peppermint-honey-crunch bubble-gum ice cream. Firsts. Seconds. Thirds, if no one’s looking. I’m feeling so good that right now it doesn’t even bug me that Aldeen is here. I’m bouncing in my chair. We’ve made it to cake. She can’t wreck anything now.

  Everyone is singing:

  “Happy Birthday to you,

  Happy Birthday to you...”

  And in comes Aldeen carrying my cake. It looks like a triple-decker with chocolate-fudge frosting. There are white swirly bits in the corners. Oh yessssss. The candles are glowing. The light from them shines in Aldeen’s glasses, which are tipping sideways off her nose. Mom is right behind, helping her along and carrying the ice cream.

  “Happy Birthday dear Mor-gan,” they sing, and Aldeen leans in. That’s when her glasses slip, she jerks and a candle touches a balloon. BANG! Everyone jumps, and so does my cake. It sails up in the air, flips and lands in the middle of the table with a big fat, WHUMP.

  9

  Through at Two

  There is one second of total silence.

  Then I yell, “AL-DEEEN!!”

  Aldeen screams and runs out of the room. Mom runs after her. Everyone seems to be shouting at once. Lisa is standing on her chair. Charlie is shaking his head. Heather is shaking a burnt candle. Trevor can’t stop pointing and saying, “HO-LEEEE!”