Blue Ribbon Blues: A Tooter Tale Read online

  “What’s the goat’s name?”

  Aunt Sally scratched her ear. “Guess it don’t rightly have a name. I usually just call it ‘hey you.’ ”

  Tooter stepped back to look the goat over. It was the color of dirty white socks before they went into the washer. She was thinking of naming it “Socks” when suddenly she burped. And the burp tasted like last night’s pizza.

  “I got it!” she cried. She leaned in nose to nose with the goat. “Pepperoni!”

  Books by Jerry Spinelli

  Chapter books

  Tooter Pepperday

  Blue Ribbon Blues

  Books for older readers

  Crash

  Milkweed

  Stargirl

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 1998 by Jerry Spinelli

  Illustrations copyright © 1998 by Donna Nelson

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  RANDOM HOUSE and colophon are registered trademarks and A STEPPING STONE BOOK and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  www.steppingstonesbooks.com

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Spinelli, Jerry.

  Blue ribbon blues / by Jerry Spinelli; illustrated by Donna Nelson.

  p. cm. — “A Stepping Stone book.”

  SUMMARY: When Tooter Pepperday and her family move to her aunt’s farm, she decides to show everyone and win a blue ribbon at the county fair.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-83023-4

  [1. Farm life—Fiction. 2. Fairs—Fiction. 3. Family life—Fiction. 4. Aunts—Fiction.]

  I. Nelson, Donna Kae, ill. II. Title.

  PZ7.S75663B1 1998 [Fic]—dc21 97–5659

  v3.1

  To the grandkids, every one of you

  Kathy Morgan—and her beloved goats—were a

  big help in writing this story. —J.S.

  Contents

  Cover

  “What’s the goat’s name?”

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1. 911

  2. Mama Tooter

  3. Part One

  4. No Sprout

  5. A Very Fine Goat

  6. Learning to Walk

  7. Pepperoni Parts

  8. Haircut

  9. No!

  10. The Winner Is …

  About the Author

  1

  911

  The policeman got into his car and drove off. Mrs. Pepperday waved from the porch. “Thank you, Officer! Have a nice day.”

  When the police car was out of sight, Mrs. Pepperday stopped smiling. She went into the house and stood at the foot of the stairway. “Tooter!” she called. She waited a moment. In her hand was a paintbrush, tipped with blue paint. She waved the brush in the air. “Tooter!” she shouted again, louder this time.

  Chuckie came running. “Is Tooter in trouble again, Mom?”

  “One guess,” said Mrs. Pepperday.

  Mrs. Pepperday stormed up the stairs. Chuckie followed close behind. They found Mr. Pepperday in his office. He was sitting at his computer, writing.

  “Have you seen Tooter?” asked Mrs. Pepperday.

  Mr. Pepperday turned around. “No. What’s she done now?”

  “She called 911, that’s what. A policeman was here.”

  Just then a voice came from above. “You dumb chicken!”

  “She’s in the attic!” Chuckie cried.

  Mrs. Pepperday and Chuckie climbed the stairs to the attic. They were joined by Harvey, their rusty, shaggy dog.

  In the attic they found Tooter and Eggbert. Eggbert was two months old. Eggbert had been hatched from an egg. Eggbert was a chicken.

  Tooter made a stern face. She pointed at Eggbert and said, “Sit!”

  Eggbert ran off to the corner. Harvey sat.

  Tooter growled at Harvey. “Not you, dog.” She threw up her hands. “See, Mom? This dumb chicken won’t do anything I say.”

  Mrs. Pepperday made a stern face of her own. “Is that why you called 911?”

  “Of course,” said Tooter, surprised that her mother would ask.

  “911 is for emergencies.”

  Tooter sighed. “Mom, you think I don’t know that? Look—” She pointed to Eggbert, who was toddling across the bare wood floor. “That chicken is two months old and still won’t obey its mother. He hid under the old bed and wouldn’t come out. If that’s not an emergency, what is?”

  Mrs. Pepperday held up a finger. “One, you are not that chicken’s mother. You were simply there when it was hatched.” She held up another finger. “Two, a chicken is not a dog. You can’t teach it tricks. And three, hiding under a bed is not a police emergency.”

  She poked a finger in Tooter’s face. “Don’t do it again.”

  Chuckie pointed and grinned. “Yeah, don’t do it again.”

  Tooter grabbed Chuckie’s finger. She put it in her mouth. Mrs. Pepperday warned, “Tooter, don’t you dare bite.”

  Tooter rolled her eyes.

  Harvey arfed.

  At last Tooter released the finger. “I wasn’t going to bite it anyway,” she said. Chuckie and Harvey ran down the stairs.

  Mrs. Pepperday went down a step, then turned back to Tooter. “Would you like some advice from your mother?”

  Tooter nodded.

  “Don’t holler at Eggbert. And especially don’t call him names. Mothers don’t do things like that.”

  “But you said I’m not his mother.”

  Mrs. Pepperday smiled. “I didn’t say you couldn’t pretend.”

  2

  Mama Tooter

  Tooter sat down on her father’s desk.

  “What are you writing today, Dad?” she asked.

  Mr. Pepperday wrote books for children.

  “A new story,” he said. He rested his fingers on the keyboard. “Just started it.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Oh,” he said, “it’s about a girl.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Haven’t decided yet.”

  “What’s the story about?”

  Mr. Pepperday folded his hands over his stomach. “Well, I haven’t figured it all out yet. I think I’ll start with the girl moving from her home in the suburbs to a farm in the country.”

  Tooter’s eyes opened wide. “Dad, that’s me!”

  Mr. Pepperday laughed. “Not really. Remember, it’s just a story. It’s made up. It’s not real life.”

  Tooter’s smile drooped. “I wish you could make up my real life for me.”

  Mr. Pepperday squeezed her knee. “What’s the matter, Toot?”

  Tooter slumped. “Eggbert doesn’t like me.”

  “How do you know what Eggbert is feeling?”

  “I can tell,” said Tooter. “If he liked me, he would listen to me.”

  “Doesn’t listen, huh?”

  “Nope. No matter what I tell him to do, he doesn’t do it. He never obeys me.” She threw up her arms. “His own mother!”

  Mr. Pepperday took Tooter’s hands in his. He patted them. “Tooter, I’m afraid I have some shocking news for you. Eggbert is a chicken. He is not your son. You are not his mother.”

  “Dad, I know that!” Tooter scolded him. “Bu
t Mom said I can pretend.”

  “Oh, well, then,” said Mr. Pepperday. “By all means, pretend away.”

  “Can you help me, Dad?” Tooter asked.

  Mr. Pepperday folded his arms, bowed his head, and closed his eyes.

  “Dad,” said Tooter. “You can’t go to sleep now!”

  “I’m not,” said Mr. Pepperday. “I’m thinking. Shhh.”

  Tooter remained silent while her father thought. At last he opened his eyes. “Your mother used to sing to you.”

  Tooter brightened. “A lullaby?”

  “No. Not a lullaby. But it’s a song everybody knows.”

  “What?” said Tooter.

  “ ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’ ”

  Tooter laughed. “You’re kidding.” She looked at her father’s face. “Right?”

  Mr. Pepperday shook his head. “Nope. Not kidding. You hated lullabies. ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ was the only song that put you to sleep. When you started to talk, you called it ‘The Tar-Bangled Banner.’ ”

  Tooter shrugged. “Okay, I guess it’s worth a try.” She went back up the stairs.

  Mr. Pepperday heard Tooter singing in the attic.

  “Oh! say, can you see …”

  Mr. Pepperday smiled at the sound of his daughter’s voice singing the national anthem.

  “… and the home of the brave?”

  What followed was definitely not singing.

  “Sleep, chicken!”

  Then came footsteps stomping down the stairs and into his office.

  “Dad—”

  Mr. Pepperday cut her off. “Okay,” he said, “how about this? Eggbert is a chicken, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So maybe Eggbert will only listen to another chicken.”

  “Great thinking, Dad,” said Tooter. “Except for one little thing. I’m not a chicken.”

  Mr. Pepperday nodded. “Not a real chicken. But remember, you’re not a real mother, either. Just a pretend mother. So maybe what we need here is …” He paused.

  “A pretend chicken!” Tooter chimed in.

  Mr. Pepperday had a sly grin on his face. “And isn’t there an old feather pillow some-place in the attic?”

  Tooter’s eyes widened. She shot up the stairs.

  Later that afternoon Mr. Pepperday rounded up the family. He fetched Aunt Sally from the honey house. He called in Chuckie and Harvey from the barnyard. He made Mrs. Pepperday stop painting the porch.

  He told them all to be very quiet. He led them up the stairs to the attic. Slowly he opened the door.

  “Ba-bawlk! Ba-bawlk!”

  It was Tooter. Squawking like a chicken. Flapping like a chicken. Looking like a chicken in the pillow feathers she had glued to a pillowcase sack dress. While Tooter trotted in circles, Eggbert pecked at the floor.

  Mr. Pepperday closed the door. Everyone held in their laughter until they were downstairs.

  When Aunt Sally finished laughing, she said, “I think I know what that girl needs. And it’s not a chicken.”

  3

  Part One

  Tooter climbed into Aunt Sally’s pickup. “Where are we going?” she said.

  Aunt Sally started the engine. The pickup rolled forward. “To find you a friend.” She turned onto Frog Hollow Road.

  “You think that’s what I need?”

  “I do.”

  “I’ll tell you what I need,” said Tooter. “I need a pizza. I haven’t tasted pizza since we moved here. That’s two whole months!”

  Aunt Sally goggled at Tooter. “Horrors!” She waved at a passing pickup. “You know what you’ll really need if you’re going to live on my farm?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ll need to become a real farmer.”

  “I know. I want to,” said Tooter. “But not if it means wearing a hat like that.”

  Aunt Sally acted surprised. “You don’t like my hat?” She took off her straw hat and plunked it onto Tooter’s head.

  Tooter made a face. “Ugh!” She plunked the hat back onto her aunt’s head.

  “Okay,” said Aunt Sally. “No hat. But I do have a plan for making a farmer out of you. It has three parts.”

  “What are they?” said Tooter.

  “You’ll find out,” said Aunt Sally. She turned off the road into a dusty driveway. “Part one … coming up.”

  Aunt Sally parked the pickup in front of a large white house. They got out. Aunt Sally cupped her hands and called, “Helloooo there!”

  A lady leaned out of an upstairs window. “Hello, yourself. Is this Tooter?”

  “Fresh from the city.”

  “Hi, Tooter,” said the lady. She waved her arm. “Jack is out there somewhere. Probably with Cleo.”

  Aunt Sally waved and walked off. Tooter followed.

  “Who’s Jack?” said Tooter.

  “Your neighbor. Jack Hafer. He’s your age. He can be your friend. That’s part one—get you a friend. I called Mrs. Hafer and told her we were coming over.”

  “What if he doesn’t like me?”

  “He will. And he’ll be good for you. He’s lived on this farm all his life. He can teach you a lot.”

  As they walked around the barn, Aunt Sally said, “Well, chuck my chickens. Look at that.”

  Before them stood a boy and an animal. All they could see of the animal was its hind end.

  The boy looked up. “Miss Sally,” he called, “can you help me?”

  Aunt Sally and Tooter trotted over. Now the problem was clear. The animal was a goat, one of the few farm creatures that Tooter recognized. Its head was stuck between two rails of a wooden fence.

  “I can’t get it out,” said the boy.

  Tooter had an idea. “Pull the tail,” she said.

  The boy gave Tooter a dirty look.

  As the goat struggled, its front hooves knocked noisily against the fence.

  “You hold the neck still,” Aunt Sally told the boy. “I’ll work the head.”

  They twisted and tugged. The goat bawled and stomped. At last its head was free.

  The boy gave the goat a smack on the rump. “Bad, Cleo. She’s always doing that.”

  The goat walked off to graze.

  The boy turned to Tooter. “You don’t pull a goat’s tail,” he said sharply.

  “See?” Tooter said to Aunt Sally. “He doesn’t like me already. Part one is not going to work.” She walked off.

  Aunt Sally caught her by her back pocket. “Hold on there, missy.” She pulled Tooter back and turned her around. “You two haven’t even been introduced yet. Jack, this is Tooter. She’s your new neighbor.”

  “Tooter?” said Jack. “What kind of name is that?”

  “See?” said Tooter. She tried to walk off, but Aunt Sally still had her by the back pocket.

  “Tooter is a nickname,” Aunt Sally told Jack. “And a fine nickname it is. Tooter’s family lives with me now. They moved here from the city. Tooter wants to become a good farmer.” She tapped the bill of Jack’s cap. “And I figure you’re just the one to teach her.”

  Jack groaned. “Miss Sally, I already have lots of chores to do. Plus I have to get Cleo ready for the fair.”

  Tooter perked up. “What fair?”

  “The county fair,” said Jack. “I’m entering Cleo in the goat competition.” He lifted his chin. “I always win.”

  “Well,” said Tooter, “poo-poo-pee-doo for you.”

  Jack just stared at her.

  “Maybe I’ll enter too,” said Tooter, lifting her own chin. “Maybe my chicken will beat your goat.”

  “Hah!” said Jack. “Maybe not. Chickens and goats don’t compete together.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re lucky they don’t,” said Tooter. “Because if they did, my chicken would beat the pants off your goat.”

  “Yeah?” said Jack.

  “Yeah,” said Tooter.

  “What can your chicken do?”

  “Whatever I tell it,” said Tooter. “It sleeps. It sits.”


  Jack scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

  “And it sings ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’ ”

  Jack laughed. “And my goat sings ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game.’ ”

  “Yeah? Well, my chicken plays Ping-Pong with me.”

  “Yeah? Well, my goat plays Frisbee with me.”

  “My chicken tap-dances.”

  “My goat runs the vacuum cleaner.”

  “My … my …” Tooter couldn’t help herself. She burst out laughing.

  So did Jack.

  So did Aunt Sally. “Okay, you goofballs,” she said. “I guess you’re introduced. Say good-bye to each other.”

  “Good-bye, goat boy,” said Tooter.

  Jack grinned. “Good-bye, chicken girl!”

  4

  No Sprout

  “So, that was part one,” said Tooter. They were back out on Fox Hollow Road. “What’s part two?”

  “Alfalfa Sprouts,” said Aunt Sally.

  “Alfalfa Sprouts? What’s that?”

  “You’ll see tonight,” said Aunt Sally.

  They rode in silence for a minute. Then Tooter said, “Aunt Sally, do you think I could win a blue ribbon? Like Part One Jack?”

  Aunt Sally laughed. “Sure. If you work hard.”

  “But how could I ever win anything with Eggbert?”

  “Who says it has to be a chicken?” said Aunt Sally. “We have a perfectly fine goat in the pasture.”

  “But that’s what Part One Jack has,” said Tooter. “And he always wins. My goat could never beat his goat.”

  Aunt Sally took her eyes from the road long enough to stare at Tooter. “Well, bless my bunions. I never would have thunk it. I do believe young Miss Pepperday is afraid of losing.”

  Tooter looked out the window at the passing fields and silos. “Young Miss Pepperday isn’t afraid of anything,” she muttered.

  That evening after dinner Aunt Sally and Tooter were back in the pickup.

  “Okay,” said Tooter. “I’m tired of waiting. Now what are the Alfalfa Sprouts?”

  “The Alfalfa Sprouts are a group of farmers’ kids,” said Aunt Sally. “They’re all under twelve years old. They meet at the Grange. They raise their own animals and crops to show at the county fair.”