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  To all the teachers who understand the child who learns differently. To Stacey always—HW

  For Leo Pasquale Confalone, darling SCBWI poster boy!—LO

  For my beautiful boys, Texas & Tennessee—SG

  GROSSET & DUNLAP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Text copyright © 2014 by Henry Winkler and Lin Oliver Productions, Inc. Illustrations copyright © 2014 by Scott Garrett. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York, 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC. Printed in the USA.

  Typeset in Dyslexie Font B.V. Dyslexie Font B.V. was designed by Christian Boer.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  ISBN 978-0-698-16758-2

  Version_1

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  “Hank Zipzer! Please stop talking!” Ms. Flowers said to me. “Good citizens don’t talk when the teacher is talking.”

  “But I didn’t say anything, Ms. Flowers.”

  “Hank, I saw your lips moving with my own two eyes.”

  “But no sound came out, Ms. Flowers. So, technically, I wasn’t talking.”

  “Then what exactly were you doing?”

  “I was sending a signal.”

  The other kids in the class laughed, which made me feel great. I wasn’t trying to be funny. But it’s always nice to get a laugh.

  My grandfather Papa Pete always says laughter is good, but not as good as a pickle. We’re both big pickle fans.

  “And to whom was this so-called signal being sent?” Ms. Flowers asked.

  “To me!” Frankie Townsend called out.

  Frankie and I have been best friends since we were babies. We have a whole system of signals.

  “We can talk without saying a word,” I told Ms. Flowers.

  “Oh, really?” she said. “That’s very unusual.”

  “There was this one time in the Museum of Natural History,” Frankie went on. “It was amazing. Hank and I both decided to roar right in the T. rex’s face—at the very same moment.”

  “It was awesome,” I added. “Until the guard told us there was no roaring allowed in the museum.”

  I laughed, and everyone joined in. Ms. Flowers chuckled, too. She’s really nice about laughing. Everyone at PS 87 wants her for second grade because she’s in a good mood almost all the time. She even gave me a NICE TRY when I only got two out of ten right on my spelling test last week.

  “Well, Hank, since you’re so expert at roaring and signaling,” she said to me, “you’re going to love our next class project.”

  “I can hardly wait to hear what it is. I’m sitting on the edge of my seat.”

  “I can hardly wait for you to fall off!” Nick McKelty shouted from the desk behind me.

  Nick McKelty, better known as Nick the Tick, never has a nice word to say about anyone. But he gets away with it because he’s about twelve feet tall—in every direction.

  “That’s enough, Nick,” Ms. Flowers snapped, putting her hands on her hips. But McKelty didn’t seem to care that she was angry. He just went back to what he always does—rolling spitballs to launch at the little kids during recess.

  “Next week is Children’s Reading Week,” Ms. Flowers went on. “We will be celebrating by putting on a play. I wrote it myself. It’s called A Night at the Library.”

  Katie Sperling put up her hand and waved it around.

  “Can I be the star?” she asked. “My daddy always tells me I am one, anyway.”

  “Everyone will have a part,” Ms. Flowers said.

  “Even me?” Luke Whitman asked, with his finger up his nose.

  “Yes, even you, Luke.”

  I wondered if there was a part in the play for a champion nose-picker. Luke Whitman would get that for sure!

  “I think we all know who’s going to be the star!” McKelty shouted out. “The one with the most talent. And that would be me.”

  Then, for no reason at all, he stood up and bowed, and let out one of his snorty laughs. No one else joined in.

  “I’m now going to pass out the script,” Ms. Flowers said, motioning for McKelty to sit down. “Read the play over the weekend and decide on which part you’d like.”

  I felt worried. Really worried. Regular second-grade reading is hard for me. Reading a whole script would be nearly impossible.

  Frankie saw my face and sent me our “don’t worry” signal. I relaxed right away, because I knew he would help me. Frankie is an excellent reader. Over winter break, he read a two-hundred-page book that didn’t even have pictures.

  “We will hold auditions on Monday,” Ms. Flowers told us. “That’s when you can each try out for the part you want.”

  Even though I knew Frankie would help me, I was starting to get very nervous.

  “You’ll have to study your lines and be very prepared,” Ms. Flowers continued. “Does anyone have any questions?”

  As usual, I had many questions. Also as usual, I was too embarrassed to ask them. So I did what I usually did—I made a list in my head.

  After school that day, Papa Pete picked up Frankie and me. Frankie’s mom is a yoga instructor, and she teaches every Friday afternoon. She is so good at yoga that she can lift her foot off the floor and squeeze her nose with her toes like they’re a swimmer’s clip.

  While Frankie’s mom’s teaching, Papa Pete takes Frankie and me to the Crunchy Pickle. That’s the deli on 77th Street and Broadway that Papa Pete used to own. Now my mom is taking it over and trying to turn it into a healthy sandwich shop.

  That is very bad news for salami.

  As we walked toward the Crunchy Pickle, Frankie and I couldn’t stop talking about the play. Actually, I did all the talking, and Frankie did all the listening.

  “I was in a play once when I was your age,” Papa Pete said when I finally took a breath.

  “Were you the star?” I asked him.

  “Not exactly. I played a tube of toothpaste, but it was a very important tube. Harold Dunski was the star. He was lucky enough to get the part of Mr. Toothbrush.”

  “What’s so lucky about that?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding, Hankie?” Papa Pete said. “Harold got to sing the big opening number. It was called ‘Don’t Forget to Flush and Brush.’ The girls went crazy. In fact, years later he married the girl
who played the sink.”

  “No offense, Papa Pete,” Frankie said, “but this is kind of a disgusting story.”

  “Well, I’m just pointing out that being in a play is a lot of fun, but it’s also a lot of work. You have rehearsals to go to, lines to memorize . . . ”

  “That’s the part that scares me the most,” I said. “I’m pretty bad at memorizing. I can’t even remember how to spell neighbor.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Hankie,” Papa Pete said. “You’re clever. You’ll figure it out.”

  I wasn’t so sure he was right about that.

  We had reached the entrance to the Crunchy Pickle. Papa Pete pulled open the glass door. Frankie and I dashed to the counter that held the black-and-white cookies. They’ve been our favorite ever since I can remember. Just before we grabbed two, my mom came out from the back room.

  “Whoa there, mister,” she said. “No cookies until you’ve had a healthy snack. I have some fresh soylami right here.”

  My mom is trying to bring luncheon meats into the twenty-first century. She makes everything out of soy. Soylami, which tastes nothing like salami. Soystrami, which makes your tongue want to go home without eating. And the worst is soyloney, which doesn’t even look like baloney. In fact, it’s yellow.

  “Mom!” I protested. “Frankie and I have a lot of work to do, and we need real brain food.”

  “Look at your sister,” she answered. “See how nicely she’s sitting in that front booth enjoying her soy-meat platter?”

  My sister, Emily, who is in the first grade, does everything perfectly. It’s just like her to enjoy fake meat. She also likes doing her homework, reading about lizards, clipping her toenails, and getting all As. She is so annoying.

  “Why don’t you boys find a seat,” Papa Pete said. “I’ll make you a real sandwich, with some pickles on the side.”

  Papa Pete is just the best. He saves the day, every day.

  Frankie and I slid into a booth far away from Emily. We reached into our backpacks and each pulled out a copy of the play. As soon as I turned to the first page, my brain froze like a Popsicle.

  “I can’t read this,” I said to Frankie. “It’s too many words.”

  “Yes you can, Hank. Let’s go very slowly.”

  Frankie read the summary of the story.

  “It’s about a boy named Barry who falls asleep in the library,” he explained. “While he’s asleep, the books come alive and jump off the shelves.”

  “Wow, that sounds great. Does it say what kinds of books?”

  Frankie nodded. “The books are all the characters the class is going to play. Look, there’s a book on volcanoes.”

  “That’d be great for Luke Whitman,” I said. “His nose is always full of lava.” We cracked up, and Frankie went on.

  “Let’s see. There’s a biography of Martin Luther King Jr. And a mystery story called The Secret of Big Bear Lake. Here’s a scary one called My Babysitter Is a Zombie. And look at this weird one—The History of Shoes Up to the Flip-Flop. You interested in that part?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t stand anything between my toes.”

  “Oh, this book is cool,” Frankie said, pointing to some words on the page. “It’s a superhero comic book called Aqua Fly. It’s about a fly that lives in an underwater cave.”

  “That’s perfect for me!” I said. “I’m going for that part. What about you, Frankie?”

  “I think I’d be good at playing Barry. I like to read in the library. And I’m really good at falling asleep.”

  “Great, then we both know what we want,” I said. “Let’s get to work.”

  I flipped through my script. All the words started to swim on the pages. I was hoping that Aqua Fly didn’t have too many words to say. Maybe he would just fly and buzz. I could buzz for thirty-seven minutes straight if I had to.

  Unfortunately, Aqua Fly was pretty talkative. As I tried to read all his lines, I could feel my brain start to swirl. After a few more pages, it felt like all I had in my head was soggy oatmeal.

  “Here are your sandwiches, boys,” Papa Pete said, sliding our plates onto the table next to the scripts.

  Boy, oh, boy. I was never so glad to see a turkey sandwich and a pickle. They didn’t have to read me, and I didn’t have to read them. All I had to do was eat. And I am a champion eater.

  Frankie and I stayed at the Crunchy Pickle for over an hour, eating our sandwiches and working on our lines.

  As more customers came in, my mom said she needed the booth. So I kissed her good-bye, and Papa Pete took Frankie and me and, I’m sorry to say, Emily back to our apartment building.

  Frankie lives on the fourth floor, and my family lives on the tenth. He and I have a special clubhouse in the basement, right next to the laundry room. It’s actually a storage room that we made into our clubhouse. We hang out there because it’s really fun. Also, the air smells like soap suds, which is very refreshing for my nose.

  When we got home, we tried to continue our work on my dining-room table. My dad even moved his computer down to one end to make room for us. Also he put on shoes so we didn’t have to look at his toenails.

  As Frankie and I started going over the lines, my dad looked up from his computer screen.

  “That doesn’t sound like schoolwork to me,” he said.

  “We’re getting ready to audition for our class play,” Frankie explained.

  “Hank, you should be working on your writing and arithmetic skills,” my dad said. “No one ever did well on a test by being in a play.”

  “This play is going to be really fun, Dad,” I said. “And very educational, too.”

  “Oh, really?” my dad snapped. “Well then, how much is forty minus eighteen?”

  I looked in every corner of my mind for the answer. It was nowhere to be found. My brain can hear numbers, but it has no idea what to do with them. I mean, addition is hard. But subtraction is out of the question.

  “I’ll get back to you with the answer, Dad,” I said. “In about five years.”

  “Trust me, Hank, it won’t be that long,” he said. “After dinner, I’m getting out the flash cards. It’s going to be an all-subtraction evening.”

  What a horrible thought. Then, even more horribly, Emily decided to take her baby pet iguana, Katherine, on a walk around the apartment. Every time they passed, Katherine shot her tongue out and tried to touch my knuckles. One time she actually did. And let me tell you, iguana tongue is very sticky and rough.

  “Okay,” I announced. “That does it for me. It’s clubhouse time.”

  “You don’t have to leave,” Emily said. “Katherine enjoys the company.”

  “Oh, really? Then why is she hissing at us like a fire-breathing dragon?” Frankie asked.

  “That’s her way of saying give me a hug.”

  “Well, tell her my body is a hug-free zone,” I answered. “Especially when it comes to lizards.”

  “She’s an iguana, Hank.”

  “Whatever she is, she’s ugly.”

  With that, a superloud hiss flew out of Katherine’s throat.

  Frankie and I dashed out of the apartment and into the elevator. Forty-two seconds later, we were in our clubhouse in the basement.

  But there was already someone there!

  As we rushed in, we saw a woman in a flowered dress standing on a ladder. Holding the ladder steady was a girl about our age. A girl in our clubhouse? No, that’s not in the rulebook.

  “Hi,” the girl said, turning to us. “I’m Ashley Wong. I just moved into the building, and I’m starting second grade tomorrow at PS Eighty-Seven.”

  “We’re second-graders, too,” Frankie said.

  “Look at that! We’ve almost got a whole class in here,” I added.

  Ashley cracked up at that. “You’re funny,” she
said.

  “Hank’s a riot,” Frankie said. “He keeps everyone laughing. We call it the Zipzer attitude.”

  “Are you looking for something, Mrs. Wong?” I asked the woman in the flowered dress who I guessed was Ashley’s mother. “Frankie and I know everything in here.”

  “Mrs. Park keeps her dog’s raincoats in the box in the corner,” Frankie said.

  “And Mrs. Fink keeps her gently used bathrobes in that big plastic container,” I added. “Watch out if you go in there, though. You don’t want to be digging around and suddenly find a set of her false teeth.”

  Ashley covered her mouth to hold in a laugh.

  “We were putting away some boxes,” Mrs. Wong said, climbing down from the ladder. “Our family just moved into an apartment on the seventh floor and there isn’t much closet space. We’re finished now.”

  “Mom, can I stay down here with these guys?” Ashley asked.

  “Of course, honey, if it’s all right with them. Just be back by dinnertime. Your grandmother is making wonton soup.”

  “So, what do you want to do?” Ashley asked us.

  Frankie and I just stood there with our mouths hanging open. This was our clubhouse. No girls allowed.

  “Uh, actually, we have a lot of work to do down here,” I said, trying to be polite. “We have to memorize lines for Ms. Flowers’s class play. Auditions are on Monday.”

  “Ms. Flowers!” Ashley exclaimed. “She’s going to be my teacher, too. If I learn the play now, think what a great head start I’ll have. This is just so perfect!”

  Without waiting to be asked, she flopped down on the old flowered couch. The one that Frankie and I always sit on.

  “You guys have the play?” she asked as her mom left. Then she noticed it lying on one of the cardboard boxes. She picked it up and starting flipping through the pages.

  “Which part do you want, Hank?”