Beverly Quarter Chapter 11
On Tuesdays, I’m using this newsletter to publish a book called Beverly Quarter: Invisible Frenemy. It’s got nothing to do with the rest of the content of this newsletter. I mean, for real: It doesn’t even contain the word burpee. But I think you’ll like it.
I wrote it to make my kids laugh, their friends laugh, and their parents laugh. I’m guessing most of you have kids, or know kids, or were kids, so you’re my target audience. I explain the book’s backstory here.
Give this chapter a read. If you like it, read it to your kids, their friends, their friends’ parents, random strangers on the street, etc.
I’ll keep publishing the newsletter as usual on Thursdays. This will just be bonus content.
CHAPTER 11
“Will you text Beverly Quarter’s dad?” Sally called from upstairs.
Her dad looked at her mom with a familiar expression that said, “what do I do now?”
Her mom looked at her dad with an equally familiar expression that said, “how am I supposed to know?”
Her dad stalled. “You want me to text your friend Beverly Quarter’s dad?”
“Yes.”
“Your friend Beverly Quarter who is invisible?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“So he can come to the park, too.”
Her dad found a way out of this conundrum. “I don’t have his number.”
“Hey, Beverly Quarter,” Sally said—she always called her Beverly Quarter, never just Beverly, “what’s your dad’s number?”
She waited a second.
“Dad, she says it’s 1234567.”
Her mom laughed out loud.
“Sure, I’ll text him,” her dad said, intending to do no such thing.
“Can I read it as you type it in?” Sally asked.
Her dad sighed. He did that a lot. “Sure,” he said.
He asked her, “what’s his first name?”
Then she said, “Quarter.”
“His name is Quarter Quarter? Really?”
Sally yelled that back up to Beverly Quarter and said, “yeah, why?”
“Ask her to spell it.”
Sally said, “C-o-r-d-e-r new word Q-u-a-r-t-e-r.”
“Oh, CORDER Quarter. That makes a lot more sense.” Deep in the recesses of her dad’s mind, alarm bells sounded. They told him that name was familiar. He could not figure out why, so he ignored them.
He started to dictate as he pecked at his phone: “A note to my Dearest Mister Corder Quarter—that’s Capital C-small o-r-d-e-r new word Capital Q-small u-a-r-t-e-r,” he said.
“DAD!”
Now he started talking in an accent that he thought sounded British but really sounded Australian. “It is with great enthusiasm that I entreat you to join myself and our fair daughters at the nearest park for an afternoon of deep and insightful conversation …”
“DAD!”
“…all the whilst our daughters run around said park like crazy persons. I will provide victuals for Beverly Quarter. It’s no trouble at all as she never eats much, seeing as how she’s invisible and all. LOL. …”
“DAD!”
Sally’s dad kept going as if Sally had said nothing. “Do invisible people laugh out loud, my good man? Never mind. Bring your own lunch if you are hungry. Respond to this invite if you wish, or just present yourself in the flesh (or lack thereof, as the case may be seeing as how you’re invisible, again allow me to insert LOL at this juncture) at the park at 1 p.m. on this day. Sincerely yours, Sally’s dad.”
He had a strange desire to sign the message as “Halfsie,” but he didn’t do so. Nor did he say anything about it.
“Tell me if he texts you back,” she said and ran back upstairs.
“OK,” her dad said.
“My dad texted your dad,” she said when she got back to her room. “I hope he can come.”
Sally had barely gotten those words out of her mouth when she heard her dad’s phone make a loud noise.
“Was that a text?”
“Yes.”
“Was it from Beverly Quarter’s dad?”
She could not see her dad look at her mom. She could not see her dad stifle a laugh.
“Yes!” he shouted. This answer was in the netherworld between teasing and lying. The text was from the phone company saying his bill was ready to pay. But the timing worked out to say it was from Beverly Quarter’s dad. This way, Sally would not ask 10,000 million-billion-zillion more times if Corder Quarter had texted back yet, which she would surely do otherwise.
“What does it say?”
“Sally, I can’t read you every text I get.”
“Dad! Just tell me what it says! Beverly Quarter wants to know if her dad is going to be there.”
“OK,” he said. He paused.
He hoped if he waited long enough, she would get distracted by whatever she was playing and forget. She never forgot.
“DAD!”
“OK, OK! Hold on. OK, here’s what it says. Dearest Sally’s father,” he began, and he tried to sound British again. He was unsuccessful, again. “It is with great reluctance that I write to you of my inability to accept your invitation. Though I very much would like to join you in mirth-making as our daughters frolic, alas, I cannot. It seems I have chosen today, of all days, to shave my buffalo, and I am at this very moment ensconced in that task. I expect vacuuming to be a nightmare and what is it you visible people say? Oh, yes, LOL. Please do invite me again. Perhaps next time I will not be so encumbered. I hope to see you soon … and be seen by you, though that’ll NEVER happen, seeing as how I’m invisible, and here I again use your delightful phrase of LOL.”
“Are you serious?” Sally screamed from upstairs.
“Of course I’m serious. Would I make up a text?”
“Do you guys have a buffalo?” she asked Beverly Quarter.
“Beverly Quarter says they don’t have a buffalo. I want to see the text!”
“Sally, I can’t show you every text I get.”
A few minutes later, Sally came downstairs. “What park are we going to?”
Her dad said, “I was just looking that up. There’s something called the Monstrously Humungous Ginormous Park.”
“DAD! What’s it really called?”
“Look,” he said, and spun his computer around.
Sally peered at the screen. For once, he was being serious.
“Is it close?”
“Close enough. Want to go?”
“YES! What does it say about the park?”
“The biggest park you’ve ever seen,” he said, using a voice that he thought sounded like a crazy commercial but was really just annoying. “29 slides, 86 swings, 47 picnic tables and more more more.”
He kept reading. “Oh wow, look at this,” he said. “It has a hiking trail. It’s longer than The Hike Of Ridiculous Length About Which Nobody Who Went On It Speaks.”
That was a reference to a camping trip from the summer before. Sally shuddered at the memory. She involuntarily rubbed her knee and changed the subject.
“Can we get fast food on the way?”
“No.”
“Soda?”
“No.”
“Candy?”
“No.”
“Popcorn?”
“No.”
“Snickers, M and M’s, Reeses Pieces, Almond Joy, Milky Way?”
“What was that last one?”
“Milky Way?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so.”
Those were Sally’s least favorite words.