Publisher Description

How do you shut up when your nose is doing all the talking?Alan is not big or strong. He hates playing soccer and can barely keep up in math class. Moreover he's fodder for every bully for miles around. But all that changes the day Norbert, an alien from Jupiter, comes to earth on an exploration mission and moves into - Alan's nose. Soon Alan isn't acting like himself, but is Norbert really to blame? Loud, pushy and hilarious, Norbert teaches Alan to stand up for himself, even when the odds are stacked against him.

Author Biography

A columnist and novelist, Richard Scrimger grew up in Toronto, always writing but never really considering it a career, until after the birth of his first two children, twins, when he discovered the only time he could seriously write was during their naps. His style clearly demonstrates the influence of his experiences as a waiter in Toronto's upscale restaurants, and as a stay-at-home father to his four children.Genuinely witty, his work can be described as multi-dimensional - comic elements ride upon the surface, supported by varying levels of seriousness underneath.Columns detailing Richard's adventures in parenthood have been published in The Globe and Mail, Chatelaine, and Today's Parent, and were compiled in a collection titled Still Life with Children. His first adult novel, Crosstown, was a finalist for the City of Toronto Book Award. His first children's novel, The Nose from Jupiter, won the 10th annual Mr. Christie Book Award, was selected as an A.B.A. Kid's Pick of the List title, and was a finalist for the Ontario Library Association's 1999 Silver Birch Award.Richard Scrimger is also the author of The Way to Schenectady about the adventures of the Peeler family on the road; Mystical Rose, an adult novel; and a sequel to The Nose from Jupiter entitled A Nose for Adventure. In 2001 Scrimger published Bun Bun's Birthday a picture book illustrated by Gillian Johnson, and a Peeler Christmas story called Of Mice and Nutcrackers. He and his family live in Cobourg, Ontario.

Promotional

How do you shut up when your nose is doing all the talking?

Prizes

Short-listed for Young Reader's Choice Award (Grades 4-8) 2001

Promotional "Headline"

How do you shut up when your nose is doing all the talking?

Excerpt from Book

Chapter 1: How''d I Get Here? Don't you hate it when everyone in the room is wearing clothes and you're not? The doctor's wearing a dress with a white coat on top, and the nurse has on one of those green uniforms. Mom's wearing her new tweed suit a bit wrinkled after a day at work and half the night sitting beside my bed but still, a suit. And me? I have underpants. Period. I had a hospital gown that didn't do up the right way, but they made me take it off. So now I'm wearing dark green Y-fronts and a smile, and that's about it. No, I forgot. I have a bandage on. It isn't doing me much good, modesty-wise, because it's on my head. The doctor introduces herself. She's new. I forget her name immediately. I've seen the nurse before; her name is Angela. She's okay. The doctor smiles down at me, pokes and prods for a bit, and lets me put on my gown again. That's a little better. "So you're the boy who talks to himself," she says, taking the laser out of her pocket. All right, it's not really a laser but it looks like one, and it feels like one. The other doctors all had them too. "Angela here has been telling me about you." I don't say anything. She tilts my head and shines the light in my eye. Ouch. Like a laser. "What's your name?" she asks. Doctors have to go to school for a long time. Everyone knows how smart they are. They sure know it. But they must think the rest of the world is as thick as a brick because they ask really obvious questions. I've seen lots of doctors since I woke up, and every one of them has asked my name. Some of them asked more than once. And it's not like it's a tough name to remember. "Alan," I say. "Alan Dingwall." Don't say it. It's my name; I've had to live with it all my life. "I'm still thirteen," I say. "Still?" "Everybody keeps asking how old I am. I'm the same age I was a couple of hours ago. I'm still in Grade Seven. I still live in Cobourg. My birthday is still October 16th." The doctor chuckles. "And my head still hurts." "Oh, you poor thing." I can't see her, but that's my mom. Who was the English queen with Calais written on her heart? My mom has Oh, you poor thing on hers. "We want to know how much you remember, Alan," says the doctor. "That's why we ask the same questions over and over again. You were unconscious for almost five hours. That's a long time. We've done lots of tests, but some of them were . . . inconclusive." "You think I have trouble remembering my own name? Or where I live?" The doctor tilts my head, stares up my nose. The last doctor did this too. What do they think is up there? Then she goes back to my eyes. "How much do you remember, Alan? Do you remember the accident?" "I've tried," I say. "I remember the rain and the mud. And the creek running high. Norbert was running too I had a cold." I try to take a breath. "I'm still really stuffy. Even stuffier than I was." "Norbert is a friend of yours?" "Uh kind of," I say. "And then?" "I don't know." "What about your other friend?" the doctor asks. "The little dark-haired girl?" "Miranda? What about her?" "She's in the report from the Cobourg Hospital. She pulled you out of the river and called the ambulance. Don't you remember?" I shake my head. Ouch. Funny that I don't remember about Miranda. Not funny ha-ha, funny weird. She doesn't usually walk home from school with me. She takes a bus. Normally I'd remember being with her. And this afternoon she couldn't have been with me. I know that, though I don't remember why. Drat. It's like there's a hole in my memory, and everything about the accident has fallen in Miranda, the river, the collie dog, everything. I hope I can find them all again. Wait a minute. Miranda has brown hair, doesn't she? "I wish I could remember more," I say. "That's okay. You're lucky to live in Cobourg, Alan. I've been there once or twice. It's such a pretty place, right by the lake. Look to the left. And to the right. Don't move your head. Just your eyes." I'm happy to keep my head still. It hurts when I move it. "I wonder if I'll ever remember what happened," I say. "Probably. Don't worry about it. You always wear green shorts?" the doctor asks suddenly. "Huh?" I say. "Your underpants. You like green ones?" "I... not really," I say. "Good. I don't either. And by the way, just for the record, are those green underpants clean, or did you wear them yesterday too?" "Hey!" "Just trying to think of fresh questions. I don't like boring my patients." Now she's shining the light in my other eye. I can't tell if she's smiling but she sounds like it. "I'm not bored," I say. "Good. Don't look at the light. Look left again. Now how about this what's the cube root of four hundred and eighty-nine?" I blink. "I don't know." The doctor turns off the light. I can see she is smiling. "Good," she says. "I don't know either. I'd worry if you did know." At that point the door opens and my dad comes in. "Is this the right room?" he asks. He's moving fast, looking worried and important, until he sees me. Then he stops as if he's been punched hard in the stomach. He takes a slow, careful step toward my bed. And another one. "You're awake!" he says. I smile feebly. "I thought you were unconscious," he says. "Sorry I took so long to get here. My flight didn't get in to Toronto until midnight, and the cab broke down on the way to the hospital." He notices my mom. "You said he was in a coma," he says. My mom is beside the window, looking out. I don't know what she expects to see at this time of night. My dad is standing in the doorway. Whenever they're together, which isn't very often, my parents seem to drift to opposite sides of the room. You'd think they were two like poles of a magnet. Like poles repel, don't they? After the divorce my dad's company moved him away from Cobourg first to Chicago, and then Minneapolis. Now he lives in Vancouver. Drifted right across the continent. Give him another couple of years and I'll have to fly to Thailand every summer to see him. The doctor goes over and introduces herself to my dad. I miss her name again. "Congratulations, Mr. Dingwall," she says. "Your son is going to be okay. He was in what we call a light coma, but he came out of it earlier this evening." "Great," says my dad. Angela the nurse is holding my hand. Like I said, she's nice. "Can I go to sleep yet?" I ask. I've been trying to get to sleep since I woke up that doesn't sound right, does it, but I woke up a little after dinnertime and I've been yawning and yawning ever since. And they haven't let me go to sleep for more than an hour at a time. "Do you want something to drink first?" asks the nurse. "Some ginger ale or juice?" "Oh yes," I say. "Please." I'm thirsty. And sleepy. And I have a headache. Better than being in a coma. My dad insists on staying with me. I wonder if he really wants to, or if he's just trying to get my mom upset. She wants to stay with me too. "You look awful, Helen," my dad tells her. "Why don't you go home and get some rest? I'll sit up with Alan." And the nurse and doctor smile, like we're a TV family where everyone cares. What we need is a dog, or maybe a pesky little sister. And a crazy neighbor who drops in during every episode. "You look pretty lousy too," she says. "Not as lousy as you. Your hair's a mess." "So is yours. And you spilled something gross on your shirt. Gravy, or something." "Yeah, well, I was in a hurry." "And you still turned up too late." "Too late for what? To see my son in a coma? And anyway, I can't change the airline schedule. I came as fast as I could." A family fight; not the first one I've ever heard. Looks like we'll have to cancel "The Dingwalls" in mid-season. Parents who needs them? The doctor and nurse are edging toward the door. I wish I could go too. "Look, I've traveled three thousand miles to see my son; I'd like to spend some time with him. Is

Details