The World's Greatest Underachiever and the Crunchy Pickle Disaster Page 3

  See what I mean? The two most beautiful girls in the fourth grade weren’t asking, “What’s up, Hank?”

  My father always says that Frankie Townsend is going to be the president of the United States one day. Of course, he also says that Emily is going to be a rocket scientist, as though that’s ever going to happen. I can see it now: Emily cruising around Mission Control with Katherine – flashing her sticky tongue out at all the astronauts – on her shoulder. Houston, we have a problem. We have an ugly iguana loose on the launchpad with its tongue stuck to the windscreen.

  I pulled out my sandwich. My mum had packed me another one of her science experiments. Inside the bag with my sandwich was a note from her.

  My mum runs a deli called The Crunchy Pickle, which my grandfather Papa Pete started. When she took over the deli, my mum said she wanted to bring lunch meats into the world of healthy eating. So she’s always inventing stuff like soy-salami-pimento loaf. I’m her number-one guinea pig.

  “That stuff looks nasty,” Frankie said, giving my sandwich the evil eye. “Here, mate. Have half of mine. Yours looks like it has a rash, with all those red spots.”

  The peanut-butter-and-jam sandwich tasted great. It was the first good thing that had happened to me that day.

  Ashley arrived with her tray. Her parents are both doctors. They don’t usually have time to make her lunch in the mornings.

  “Robert alert,” she said, shaking her chocolate milk. “Sorry, guys. I couldn’t ditch him. He’s on me like glue.”

  Robert Upchurch was following Ashley to our table. He lives in our building, and even though he’s only in the third grade, he thinks he’s best friends with us. We don’t have the heart to tell him he’s not. I mean, the kid wears a tie to school every day. He’s already got a hard enough life, right?

  Robert took a seat next to me.

  “Greetings,” he said, which is a typical Robert thing to say. He talks like he’s an alien in a movie. They’re always saying stuff like, “I bring you greetings from my people.”

  A horrible smell drifted up into my nose. It was coming from Robert’s tray. I couldn’t believe it. He’d actually got the halibut – school dinner fish, the lowest of the low.

  “Robert, I can’t believe you got the fish,” I said. “I’ve never seen anyone get the fish.”

  “Actually, fish is excellent for the brain,” Robert said. “It’s full of fatty oils that provide nutrients, which the brain needs to function. Maybe that’s why I’m so intelligent.”

  “Or maybe that’s why you smell so bad,” said Frankie, holding his nose.

  Robert laughed. You have to give him credit for that. You can say almost anything to him and he doesn’t take offence.

  “How was the spelling contest?” he asked, chomping down on a mouthful of fish.

  “Can we talk about something else?” I asked.

  “Sure,” said Robert. “Would you like to talk about penguins? I know a great deal about the king penguin. It weighs up to forty pounds and grows to be three feet tall.”

  Without taking a breath, Robert launched into the life cycle of the penguin. It was like having a National Geographic special right there at the lunch table.

  Suddenly, I smelled something really foul behind me. Immediately, I realized it was the unmistakable odour of a rhinoceros with tooth decay – Nick McKelty breath.

  “Nice work today on the spelling, dodo brain,” McKelty said, leaning over my shoulder to grab the last of my jam doughnut.

  “You didn’t exactly light up the room yourself, McKelty,” I said.

  “I just didn’t want to make you stupid ones feel bad,” McKelty said. “I knew every word.”

  “Right,” said Frankie. “And my name is Bernice.”

  From the next table, Katie and Kim cracked up. Everyone loves it when Frankie does his “Bernice” line. Everyone but McKelty, that is. Bullies don’t like to be laughed at. He pulled himself up to his full height and, I have to admit, he towered over Frankie.

  “Listen, Townsend, you say that one more time and I’m going have my father call your father,” he said. Nick’s father owns McKelty’s Roll ’N Bowl, the bowling alley where my grandpa plays.

  “And what’s he going to say?” I asked. “Lane number three is available?”

  Now Ryan Shimozato and his crew started to laugh. Luke Whitman cracked up too, but not too loudly.

  “Bowling shoes make your feet stink,” he said. That’s typical Luke Whitman. Luke is one of those kids who’ll say disgusting things like “booger slime” or “toe jam” or “diaper doo-doo” for no reason at all. I’ll bet there’s a kid like that in your class.

  McKelty was really mad now. He was searching for a comeback, but the big lug just couldn’t come up with anything.

  “Frankie,” said Ashley, “can you make Mr McKelty here disappear?”

  “No problemo,” said Frankie.

  He stood up and looked over at Kim and Katie. He flashed them The Big Dimple. Boy, were they going for it too. But this is what is so cool about Frankie Townsend. He could’ve done the magic all by himself and got all that attention from Katie and Kim for himself. But did he? No. Here’s what he did. He took me by the arm and pulled me to my feet.

  “I can’t do magic without my man here. Zip, give me some of your magical moves, mate.”

  Kim and Katie stared at me. In fact, everyone in the dining room stopped what they were doing and looked at me. Frankie gave me the nod and I started to wave my hands around like I was casting a spell. Frankie and I have watched Behind the Scenes: Secrets of Magic videos until the tapes were practically worn out, so I have the moves down pretty smoothly. I gave it the full show-business treatment. Frankie let me go on until he saw that Katie and Kim were impressed. Then he stood up and closed his eyes. When he spoke, it was almost a whisper.

  “Bones of halibut, magic thing,

  Sound the bell! Zengawii! Ring!”

  He opened his eyes, and the very second he did, the bell rang. I’m not kidding. It was amazing.

  “Lunch is over; everyone back to class,” said Mrs Tomasini, the teacher on lunch duty. “Nick McKelty, that means you. Get going right now. Quickly.”

  Nick picked up his rucksack and hurried out of the dining room.

  “Wow,” Katie said to Frankie. “You did make him disappear.”

  “You guys are great!” said Kim, smiling at me. “Can I walk back to class with you?”

  “Why not,” I answered, giving her my big smile. I may be dumb in spelling, but hey, I’m no dummy.

  I spent most of the afternoon smiling at Kim Paulson. She sits in front of me, so I was actually smiling at the back of her head. But, trust me, the back of her head is very nice. I couldn’t believe how a day that had started so terribly had turned out so good.

  I was in such a fine mood that it didn’t even bother me that much when Ms Adolf said she was handing out our school reports. It was just before the end of school that day. As we packed up our books, Ms Adolf went to her desk and unlocked the top drawer with a silver key that she wears round her neck. She took out her register, which was stuffed full of envelopes. Then she walked up and down the aisles, handing out the report cards individually. She gave each person a small, white envelope that was addressed to their parents.

  When Ms Adolf arrived at my desk, I put my hand out to receive my white school-report envelope. But instead of handing me one of the small envelopes that everyone else had got, Ms Adolf pulled out a large, brown manila envelope.

  “Your report is inside, Henry, along with a letter to your parents. Please see that they call me immediately.”

  Everyone sitting around me went quiet. I looked around the class. No one else had got a big brown envelope. I didn’t know what it meant, but I knew way down in my stomach that it wasn’t good. It took exactly one second for Nick McKelty to open his big mouth.

  “Dear Mr and Mrs Zipzer,” he said, making his voice sound like Ms Adolf’s. “This is to inform you that
your son is a stupid retardo.”

  A few kids laughed. I was so embarrassed that I could feel the tips of my ears turning red. I grabbed my rucksack. I had to get out of there. Fortunately, the bell rang.

  “I have to go to the toilet,” I said to Frankie. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  I ran to the bathroom, ducked into one of the cubicles and locked the door. I think my hands were shaking as I ripped open the brown envelope. I pulled out my report and looked at it.

  I’d got a D in spelling. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

  I’d also got a D in reading.

  I’d also got a D in maths.

  There was a note to my parents from Ms Adolf. It was written in cursive. I couldn’t make out all the words, but I got a few of them. Doesn’t follow directions … Poor study habits … Sloppy work … Fails to pay attention … Below-average performance.

  It wasn’t all bad news, though. I did get a B-plus in PE. And let’s not forget music. I got a B-plus in music too.

  I leaned my head against the door of the cubicle. I felt like I wanted to throw up.

  Look on the bright side, Hank. Make yourself smile. So you’ll never learn to read or write or do maths. But you’re a whizz at dodgeball and you can carry a tune. Good. When you grow up, you can be a singing dodgeball player.

  I tried to laugh at my own joke, but you know what? I cried instead.

  I couldn’t stay in the toilet cubicle for ever. I wanted to, but I knew at some point I would have to leave. As I walked downstairs to meet my friends, I made a list in my head.

  THE TOP TEN THINGS THAT WILL HAPPEN BECAUSE OF MY SCHOOL REPORT

  (EXCEPT THERE’S ONLY SEVEN BECAUSE THAT’S ALL I COULD COME UP WITH)

  BY HANK ZIPZER

  1. My parents won’t be able to think of a punishment big enough for me. They’ll have to hire an evil punishment expert, like Darth Vader, to think of one.

  2. My sister and her iguana will laugh at me for months. And I won’t be able to stop them.

  3. I will have to repeat the fourth grade for ever. Ms Adolf and I will grow old together, and I’ll turn all grey and rinkled like her.

  4. My middle name will be changed from Daniel to “Detention King”.

  6. Kim Paulson will never let me walk to class with her again. I don’t even want to walk with me – so why would she?

  7. Here’s the worst: Nick McKelty will tease me about being stupid, and he’ll be right.

  8.

  Did you notice that I skipped number five on the list?

  And that I left off the W in “wrinkled”?

  It’s just more proof that I deserve those lousy marks I got.

  Frankie and Ashley were waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. They looked worried.

  “Zip, are you OK?” Frankie asked. “You’re not looking too good, mate.”

  “I’m not feeling too good, either,” I said.

  “Maybe you have a temperature,” Ashley said, putting her hand on my forehead, the way my mum does when she thinks I have a fever.

  “Don’t touch me in public, Ash,” I said. “I’m not that kind of sick, anyway. I got bad marks on my report.”

  “Like Cs?” Ashley asked.

  “Ashweena, a C isn’t a bad mark,” Frankie said. “At least, I don’t think it is. Otis got one once in the fourth grade.”

  Otis is Frankie’s older brother. He’s in the eighth grade and is clever like Frankie.

  “Did he get in trouble?” Ashley asked.

  “Not really,” Frankie said. “My dad told him a C was a warning sign that he had to work harder. ‘Give it some more gas,’ he said.”

  At our school, PS 87, we don’t get letter marks until the fourth grade. Up until then, your teachers only write comments on your report, and they’re usually pretty nice. In first grade, my teacher, Ms Yukelson, wrote, “Hank has excellent scissors skills and has made many valuable contributions to our unit on the harbour.” My parents took me out to dinner to celebrate that report. In third grade, my teacher, Mr Chan, wrote, “Hank is a natural leader and is well liked by his peers. He needs additional practice of his reading and maths skills.” We didn’t go out and celebrate for that one, but it wasn’t terrible, either.

  “Not to worry, Zip,” Frankie said, throwing his arm round my shoulder. “So what if you got a C or two on your school report? You’ve just got to give it a little more gas, right?”

  “Pedal to the metal,” said Ashley.

  I had to tell them the truth. They were my best friends.

  “Listen up, guys. I didn’t get a C,” I said. “I got three Ds. In spelling, in maths and in reading. And a really bad letter to my parents.”

  For a minute, Frankie and Ashley didn’t say anything. Then Ashley gave me a hug and said I would do better on the next report. Frankie offered to tutor me in maths. I tell you, I have world-class friends.

  Robert came to meet us for the walk home. While he was taking off his clip-on tie, which he does every day at exactly ten minutes past three, I told him the news about my report. There’s no point trying to keep anything from Robert. He finds everything out sooner or later. He’s like an information magnet.

  “I imagine three Ds is well below the national average for fourth-graders,” Robert said.

  “Not now, Robert,” Ashley said firmly.

  He looked at me like my favourite pet goldfish had just died. Then he did a really weird thing. He asked if he could have my Rollerblades.

  “Your parents are going to ground you for so long,” he said, “that by the time you get ungrounded, the Rollerblades won’t even fit you any more.”

  “Not now, Robert,” Frankie said, in the same tone Ashley had used.

  I think, in his own way, Robert was trying to joke around to make me feel better. But all his joke did was bring our attention to that word: parents.

  My parents weren’t going to be happy. It’s not that they’re mega-strict or anything. It’s just that they have expectations. And their main expectation is that my sister and I do well at school. Emily more than meets their expectations – no problem. It’s me who’s the dud.

  I decided that the best thing to do was talk to Papa Pete, who picks us up from school three days a week. Of everyone I know, he’d be the best person to help me figure out a way to break the bad news to my parents.

  Papa Pete always seems to understand me when other people don’t. I told him that once, when we were sitting on my balcony and sharing a pickle, which is our favourite thing to do. He put his big, hairy arm round me and said, “Hank, my boy. That’s what grandpas are for.”

  He is a great grandpa; there’s no doubt about it. But I think it’s more than that, too. Papa Pete says that everyone has a special gift in life. I think I know what his is. He’s one of those people who can make you feel good no matter what. For example, once, when I was little, I stepped on a bee at the beach. It hurt so much that even after the bee sting healed, I limped around for the rest of our holiday. Everyone else in my family teased me about limping so much, but not Papa Pete. He said to me, “Hank, my boy. If I had stepped on that bee, I’d be dragging my whole leg around like a sack of potatoes.” Papa Pete never makes you feel bad for what you’re feeling, even if what you’re feeling is silly.

  We walked outside and sat on the steps, waiting for Papa Pete to show up. He was a little late, which wasn’t like him. I didn’t mind waiting, though. The cold air felt good.

  I looked down Amsterdam Avenue. People were crowding along the street, carrying their groceries home, buying a takeaway pizza, pushing buggies, walking their kids home from school. They all seemed so happy. I wondered if any of them had ever got three Ds. That truly can suck the happiness right out of you.

  “Hey, look,” said Frankie. “It’s Silent Stan, the crossword-puzzle man.”

  I looked across the street, and sure enough, my father was coming towards us.

  Uh-oh, I thought, which is not what you want to be thinking when you see your
father. Maybe he has already heard about my school report.

  “Hi, Dad,” I said when he reached us. “I thought Papa Pete was coming.”

  “He’s busy,” my dad answered. “He called me at home and asked me to get you kids. He’s going to meet us at the deli.”

  He probably has a hot bowling game he can’t leave, I thought. Papa Pete spends a lot of time at McKelty’s Roll ’N Bowl, where he’s the best senior bowler in the league. His team is called The Chopped Livers.

  “Hi, kids,” my father said, nodding to Frankie and Ashley. “Always good to see you, Robert.”

  My father really likes Robert, because Robert helps him out with his crossword puzzles. The day before, when my dad couldn’t think of a three-letter word for “infection result”, Robert came up with “pus”. Those moments have given them a special connection.

  I should explain that my dad doesn’t just lie around the house all day doing crossword puzzles and waiting for calls from Papa Pete. He works at home, doing something with computers. He’s tried to describe to me exactly what he does, but when he talks about computer programming, it sounds to me like he’s saying, “blah, blah, blahdity, blahdity, blah, blah.” I’m not exaggerating, either. My mind just doesn’t follow what he’s saying.

  We started down Amsterdam Avenue, walking fast to keep up with all the people on the street. You have to do that in New York. They don’t like slowcoaches here.

  “So, Mr Z.,” Frankie said. “Is Papa Pete OK?”

  “He’s fine,” said my dad. “He had a garlic emergency.”

  We stopped at the corner of 78th Street and waited for the lights to change. My father went on talking, which was strange, because he doesn’t usually say much. We leaned in closer so we could hear him over the honking. Two taxis were having a horn-blowing war.

  “Vince Gristediano, who owns the biggest supermarket chain in the city, called your mother today,” my dad said. “He has heard about her vegetarian lunch meats and he may want to carry her whole line of soy salami in his stores. He asked her to make samples so he can try them out on his store managers tomorrow.”