Melonhead and the Later Gator Plan

1
WOW
I sat on my mom’s suitcase so she could yank the zipper closed.
“It’s five-thirty in the morning,” I said. “It’s almost time for WOW.”
She looked at me.
“WOW stands for Week of Wonders,” I said.
“But I won’t be here,” she said.
“That’s why it’s a WOW,” I said. “It’s the first time in history that I’ll be living without a lady around. And by lady, I mean you, Mom.”
“Thank you,” she said. “But I’m wondering what the Wonders are. And why you can’t have them when I’m home.”
“I can’t reveal the WOW list,” I said. “Sam and I are in a pact. You can’t break a pact with your top friend.”
“Now I’m worried,” my mom said.
“You should be thrilled,” I told her. “Believe me. I know what I’m talking about.”
That’s because I’m the one who came up with the WOW List of Manly Things for Sam and Me to Do with Dad While Mom’s in Vermont with Her Sister and Lady Cousins. Sam decided the list should count down from Important to Extremely Important to Most Important Thing in the World.
5. Burping contest.
4. Cook chili with Tabasco, cayenne, and jalapenos. Eat it.
3. Ride to both ends of every subway line in Washington, D.C.
2. Drill holes in wood.
1. Adopt a dog.
Whenever I ask my mom if I can get a dog, she says, “You’re not old enough.”
And I always say, “If I were old enough, I’d pick a huge, furry dog that has a load of energy and likes to roll in mud.” Then she makes a sound like she’s shivering.
Last week, I had a double Brainflash of Brilliance.
1. I realized who is old enough: my mom.
2. My kind of dog is not my mom’s kind of dog. Her kind is a mini dog that wears ear bows and doesn’t cause allergies.
That’s fine with me. My motto is Every Dog Is a Great Dog. As long as there’s a dog living in my house, I’m happy.
I was going hyper from wanting to tell my mom the exciting news that she was getting a pet. I made myself wait until my dad got home so he wouldn’t be the last one to know.
He walked in carrying a box from Baking Divas.
“Surprise!” he said. “I brought Plum Perfect Pudding.”
My mom hugged his neck. “The best presents are the ones I wouldn’t buy for myself,” she said. “My favorite surprises are the ones the whole family can enjoy.”
A dog is exactly that kind of surprise, I thought. Wait until she comes home from her trip and finds out we got her a dog she never expected.
So even though I could hardly stand it, I kept the secret. Except I told Sam, of course.
“I’ll carry your suitcase downstairs, Mom,” I said.
“It’s too heavy for you,” she said.
“No, it’s not,” I said. “It’s light.”
My mom gave me the look that means Don’t argue.
“It rolls,” I said. “I’ll push it like a lawn mower.”
That was a great idea, except Sam rang the doorbell when I was halfway down the steps. I tried to get in front of the suitcase. That didn’t work as well as you’d think.
My dad opened the door while I picked up myself and the suitcase.
“Hey, Mrs. Melon,” Sam yelled. “Your taxi’s here!”
“I’ll get the rest of your stuff, Betty,” my dad yelled up the stairs.
“The second your mom leaves, we have to go to the pound,” Sam told me.
“Before they’re out of dogs,” I said.
“If you and your dad don’t pick the same dog, I’ll be on your side,” Sam said. “I’m great at convincing.”
True. Sam convinced his mom to let him spend Fall Break with my Dad and me here in Washington, D.C., instead of with his toddler cousins in Philadelphia. Mrs. Alswang has to go because her niece, Sophia, had an unexpected baby. Well, she did expect it, but she thought it would get here in November instead of yesterday afternoon. Sophia’s husband is in Peru with Sam’s dad, taking pictures for National Geographic. Somebody has to help with all those children, so Mrs. Alswang and Sam’s sister, Julia, are going to Philadelphia this morning, right after rush hour. I doubt Julia will be much help. One-year-olds usually aren’t.
The taxi driver honked.
Sam and I dragged the suitcase down to the sidewalk. My dad rushed down the steps carrying more bags. The driver was shoving my mom’s rolling suitcase into the trunk when my mother came out, walking an inch a minute so the plastic cake carrier in her arms wouldn’t tip.
“Ready, Betty?” my dad asked.
“Hop into the cab, Mom,” I said.
My mother did not hop. She stood like her feet were cemented to the sidewalk.
“I’ve come to my senses,” she said.
My dad pushed a plaid tote bag across the taxi’s backseat.
“What did you say, Betty?”
“I’m not going,” she said.
“You have to go,” Sam said. “You have a ticket.”
“You’ll have fun,” my dad said.
“Vermont’s too far away,” she said.
“You can call us,” my dad said.
“From the train,” she said. “But there’s no phone reception at the cabin. What if DB needs me?”
DB is my compromise name. It’s short for Darling Boy, which is what my mom called me until this year, when I turned ten. Her second choice is Adam. My only choice is Melonhead.
My mom blames my friend Lucy Rose Reilly for inventing that nickname. I still thank her. Lucy Rose. Not my mom. Well, sometimes I thank my mom, but not for thinking Darling Boy is a good nickname.
“You can email us, honey,” my dad said.
“My sister will understand,” she said.
“No, she won’t,” I said. “Aunt Traci says the trip’s the only reason she agreed to turn forty.”
Supersonic brain-to-brain message to Sam: Keep loading.
“Here comes party food,” I yelled. “Catch!”
Sam did. But a couple things jumped out midair. The French bread landed in a puddle near the curb.
“Don’t worry, Mom!” I yelled. “Only one end is damp. The rest is mostly dry.”
“I caught the olive jar right before it hit the street,” Sam said.
“Unload the cab,” my mom ordered. “I’m staying.”
“Honey, you’ve been planning this trip since your sister’s last birthday,” my dad said.
“I can’t leave for four days,” she said. “The boys could get into a situation.”
“They get in situations when you’re here,” my dad said.
“That’s true,” I said.
“Lots of them,” Sam added.
“The meter’s running, lady,” the driver yelled out the window. “Are you coming?”
“What if the boys climb on the roof again?” my mom said.
“We’re over that,” I told her.
“Sometimes I’m tempted,” Sam said.
“Sam,” my dad said, “can we discuss your temptation after Mrs. Melon is on her way?”
“Sure,” Sam said. “If you want to.”
My dad kissed my mom’s forehead and said, “We’ll be fine, Betty. Go. Have a great time.”
She got in the taxi, but she didn’t shut the door.
“Go to bed on time,” my mom said in her boss voice. “Remember the Polite People Program.”
My mother invented 3P after she saw me licking my knife at Joshua Stern’s bar mitzvah lunch. I only did it because a clump of mayonnaise was on it.
“We love you,” my dad said. “Don’t we, Sport?”
“Yep,” I said.
He closed the car door. My mom kissed me through the open window.
She was nervous. I could tell from her breathing.
“What will you do if you need me, DB?”
I know how to relax her mind.
“I don’t need you at all,” I said.
For no reason, my dad gave me an XLG. The Xtreme Laser Glare—the worst of the glares.

2
The Sixteen-Step Secret
“Men,” my dad said. “It’s eight a.m. The train has left the station. WOW has officially begun.”
“Get the car keys, Dad!” I shouted. “And get ready for WOW number one!”
“Hold on, Sport,” he said. “The Official WOW Opening Activity is the Bachelors’ Breakfast. Tell me about WOW One while we’re cooking. OK?”
“To the kitchen!” Sam shouted.
“Don’t kick the swinging door,” my dad said.
“I’ll remember next time,” I promised.
My dad let us sit on the counter. That’s called a rare privilege. My mom thinks counter-sitting germs up the food.
“Is the Official Breakfast eggs?” Sam asked.
“Eggs are for the faint-hearted,” my dad said.
“Toast?” I guessed.
He snorted. “Toast is for the timid,” he said.
“Bacon?” I asked.
“Bacon is a preferred bachelor food,” my father said.
He opened the fridge and pulled out a white shopping bag.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “Since the beginning of time, the Sixteen Secret Steps of the Bachelor’s Breakfast have been passed from father to son. Or, in Sam’s case, from best friend’s father to best friend.”
“We enjoy Secret Steps,” I said.
“Every man assembles his own Bachelor Breakfast,” he said. “But I’ll cook the main ingredient.”
“Hot diggity dog,” I said.
“You are correct,” my dad said. “These will be the hot-diggity-est dogs ever created.”
“Hot dogs?” Sam said. “For breakfast? For real?”
My dad reached into the bag.
“Step one: dogs on the griddle,” he said.
“What’s step two?” Sam asked.
“Steps two and three: open rolls, apply butter,” my dad said. “Step four: put rolls facedown on the griddle.”
According to my mom, Sam and I aren’t allowed to griddle.
“When the rolls are golden, fill them with shredded cheese,” my father said. “That’s step five.”
“It’s getting better,” Sam said.
“Step six: put a dog in the roll,” he said.
“It’s melting the cheese,” I said.
My dad got a bowl. “Steps seven, eight, nine, ten, and eleven: mix ketchup, mustard, mayo, relish, and Tabasco to make Bachelor Sauce,” he said.
“What’s step twelve?” I asked.
“Pickles on the right bun. Step thirteen: banana peppers, on the left.”
“I thought thirteen would be sauerkraut,” Sam said.
“Sauerkraut is step fifteen,” my dad said. “Step fourteen is smother with chili.”
“What’s sixteen?” I asked.
“Bacon,” my dad said. “Of course.”
“This is the best thing I ever ate,” I said.
“I know,” my dad said.
For entertainment, I said it again in burpspeak.
Burpspeaking is one of my top skills. It’s E-Z. Just catch the burp on the way up your throat and say a word at the same time the burp’s coming out of your mouth. Some words burp better than others.
“Let’s keep that remarkable talent between us men,” my dad said.
“Is it time to hear my plan, Dad?”
“Ready and listening,” he said.
“You know how Mom goes ape over surprises?” I said.
“I do know,” my dad said.
His phone started playing “Yankee Doodle.”
“Don’t answer!” I shouted.
“It’s a phone, not a disaster,” Sam said.
“You’re wrong,” I said. “When the phone plays ‘Yankee Doodle,’ it means my dad’s boss is calling.”
“Hello, Congressman,” my dad said.
Then he asked, “How many points?”
Sam gave me a thumbs-up. “Points are good.”
“In politics, points go up and down,” I said. “Congressman Buddy Boyd doesn’t call when they’re up.”
“So Buddy Boyd’s behind?” Sam asked.
That made me hoot.
When Sam realized what he said, he fell apart laughing.
My dad gave us an XLG with daggers on top.
“Sir,” he said, “if you want to win this election, you’ve got to get on the next plane to Tallahassee. Defend yourself. . . .
“I can’t go to Florida right now, sir. Betty’s out of town. I’m taking care of our son and his best friend.”
I don’t know what Congressman Buddy Boyd said, but my dad answered, “I can’t do that, sir. They’re only ten.”
Then came the worst words.
“You fly down now, Congressman,” my dad said. “I’ll follow as soon as I can rearrange things.”
My cheeks turned red hot.
“WOW is canceled, isn’t it?” I said.
“I’m sorry, Sport,” my dad said. “I wanted to spend Fall Break with you boys.”
“That’s OK,” Sam said.
“No it’s not,” I said.
“Tell me about your surprise for Mom,” he said.
“The Congressman ruined it,” I said.
“Can we postpone it?” my dad asked.
“It has to happen while Mom’s away,” I said.
“Starting now,” Sam said. “It takes days to get a dog. They have to inspect your family.”
My dad laughed so hard his eyes crunched shut. “Mom feels you’re not old enough to have a puppy,” he reminded me.
“It’s not for me,” I said. “It’s for Mom.”
“Mrs. Melon’s old enough to get five dogs,” Sam said.
“Sport, you know Mom’s reasons for not wanting a dog.”
“They bring dirt in the house, slobber on people, chew furniture, get fleas, and jump on people,” I said. “And what if it bites me and I get a scar?”
“You like scars,” Sam said.
“Everybody does except my mom,” I said.
“What made you think Mom would like a dog?” my dad asked.
“The Melon Family Guideline for Life,” I explained. “The one that says Think of Others. I thought of Mom. I figured out that when she says no dog, she means she doesn’t want a boy dog.”
“A male dog?” my dad asked.
“A dog that likes to do what boys like to do,” Sam said. “Run free and dig holes. Mrs. Melon would love a mom dog.”
“A mom dog?” my dad asked.
“The ultra-small, calm kind of dog that gets haircuts and rides around in a dog purse,” I said. “And I’m OK with that. I’ll feed it and walk it for Mom. But I’m taking the ear bows off before I take him outside.”
“When Melonhead wants to hang around with a boy’s dog, he can visit my dog,” Sam said. “When I get it.”
“You’re getting a dog?” my dad asked Sam.
“After I show responsibility and commitment,” Sam said.
“Commitment means earning fifty dollars to help pay for it,” I said.
“Aren’t pound puppies free?” my dad asked.
“Sure, but you have to pay for dog health,” Sam said.
“You have fifty dollars, Dad,” I said. “And Mom has responsibility.”
My dad hugged me.
“I’m sorry, Sport. We cannot spring a dog on your mom. It’s not fair to her or the dog.”
“This is officially the worst Fall Break in the history of life,” I said.

3
I Might As Well Be at School
Sam ate my leftover Bachelor Breakfast.
“I’m too mad to eat,” I told my dad.
“I understand,” he said.
“How could you?” I asked. “Did your father ever cancel WOW weekend?”
It was a trick question. WOW weekend didn’t exist back then, because I hadn’t been born to invent it.
“I’m sorry, Sport,” he said.
Then he asked Sam, “When’s your dad getting home?”
“Not until he and Oliver find a yellow-tailed woolly monkey,” Sam said. “That could be weeks, because they’re endangered.”