A Brand-New Me! Read online

  I held the cookies over my bellybutton and tugged on my earlobe.

  “This is the on switch that starts the process,” I said. Then I made a noise like a vacuum cleaner and spun around three times, stuffing the cookies in my jeans pocket as I was spinning. When I came to a stop, I said, “Those discs with chocolate specs were delicious. We have nothing like that on Zork. They would be excellent with a glass of milkum.”

  I could hardly finish the sentence because Frankie and Ashley and I were all laughing so hard. Before I knew it, I felt Mr. Rock’s hand on my shoulder.

  “We have to talk about this, Hank,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Rock,” I said, trying to get control of myself. “I guess I got too carried away.”

  “He does that a lot,” Frankie said. “Once his imagination gets going, it takes off like a rocket.”

  “Yeah,” Ashley agreed. “Hank is the king of getting carried away. Don’t get mad at him. He can’t help it.”

  “I’m not angry at all,” Mr. Rock said. “What I am is amazed. I’ve always known you are clever and verbal and funny, Hank. But what I’ve watched you do over the last two days shows me that you have a unique gift. Your ability to create characters and voices and to improvise . . . it’s quite extraordinary.”

  “Something tells me I’d appreciate what you’re saying a whole lot more, Mr. Rock, if I knew what improvise meant.”

  “When you improvise, it means you make something up on the spot. You reach inside yourself and pull out a performance without a script or written music. It’s what the great jazz musicians do.”

  “Like my dad’s favorite trumpet player, Miles Davis,” Frankie chimed in.

  “Your dad has good taste,” Mr. Rock said.

  “I don’t think I could be a trumpet player,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m supposed to get braces next year, and it would really hurt my lips to press the trumpet up against my braces, metal to metal.”

  “Hank, I want you to come with me right away,” Mr. Rock said. “Frankie and Ashley, will you excuse us, please? Hank and I have something very important to do.”

  Mr. Rock was almost out the door before he had finished the sentence. I grabbed my backpack, shrugged my shoulders and followed him. He was in a big hurry to take me someplace.

  I wished I knew where.

  CHAPTER 13

  Mr. Rock was practically running down the hall, and I had to really hustle to keep up.

  “Slow down, Mr. Rock. There’s no running in the hall.”

  “If we were ever going to break the rules, Hank, this is the perfect occasion,” he yelled over his shoulder. “We’re on a mission—Project Hank. We’re about to launch you into your future.”

  “I wish I had worn my space helmet.”

  Mr. Rock was in such a hurry, he didn’t even stop to laugh. We raced down the stairs and across the hall to the counselor’s office where I meet with Dr. Lynn Berger once a week. On the glass window in the door there was a sign that said, “If it’s urgent, you can find me in the gym.”

  Without even stopping to catch his breath, Mr. Rock was off again, climbing up the stairwell to the gym, taking two steps at a time. Another rule broken. Wow, it’s a good thing I was with a teacher, because if it had been during school and one of the hall monitors caught me running like that, I’d be in detention for nine months.

  As we approached the gym, I could hear music blaring through the double doors. It was a rock-and-roll song I’d never heard before, but it sounded like the weird disco stuff my parents dance to every year on their anniversary. Boy, you haven’t lived until you’ve seen Stanley Zipzer doing his special step. It looks like he’s actually mashing potatoes with his feet. And funnily enough, the step is called the Mashed Potato. I tell you, adults are weird.

  Mr. Rock opened the gym door, and what I saw made my eyes spin backward in my head. There they all were in front of me—Mrs. Crock, Dr. Berger, Principal Love, Mr. Sicilian, and Ms. Adolf, wearing different exercise outfits and dancing, if you want to call it that, to the music. They were all hooting and hollering and waving their arms up in the air.

  “Mr. Rock, what exactly are they doing?” I asked. “Are they rehearsing for a play, because if they are, they should stop selling tickets right away.”

  “It’s the faculty and staff exercise class,” Mr. Rock whispered back to me. “They work out three times a week after school.”

  “Oh,” I nodded. “They’re working out. Is that what you call it?”

  “Wait here. I’m going in to get Dr. Berger.”

  As I stood there at the door watching the workout session, I noticed that poor Principal Love was trying his hardest to keep up with everybody else. His mind said yes, but his legs said no. Even the Statue of Liberty mole on his cheek was moving a lot smoother than he was. He was wearing his gee, the outfit which he uses to teach Tae Kwon Do after school. The only problem was that the legs and arms were too short for him, so he looked like a turtle wearing a marshmallow. Trust me, it wasn’t pretty.

  And speaking of not pretty, you should have seen Ms. Adolf. She was wearing a gray leotard and gray tennis shoes and whooping like a crane. I don’t mean a baby crane. She was whooping like it was the last whoop left in the universe. She must have had too much candy before they started, because she looked like she was on what my mom calls a sugar high. I tried to hide behind the door, but her eyes caught me before I was out of sight.

  “Come exercise, Henry,” she called. “It stimulates your nerve endings which in turn might improve your spelling.”

  I slid down the door onto the floor. Can you imagine me, dancercising with Ms. Adolf, having to duck most of the time to avoid being splashed by her gray sweat? I’m sorry I said that. I now have to find some soap and wash that thought out of my brain.

  Thank goodness for Mr. Rock. He came out into the hall with Dr. Berger following right behind him. She was out of breath, and dabbing her forehead with her dancercise towel.

  “Yes, gentlemen,” she panted. “What is so important that it can’t wait until I’m finished?”

  “Hank’s future, that’s what,” Mr. Rock said.

  Dr. Berger raised her eyebrows. “That got my attention,” she said.

  “For the last several days,” Mr. Rock began, “I’ve had the opportunity to witness firsthand Hank’s extraordinary talent at portraying characters and creating situations that he makes up on the spot and performs flawlessly.”

  “Really? You did?” I asked. “Is that what I was doing?”

  “This young man has real talent and I don’t think sending him to a school without a theater arts program would benefit him. There’s got to be another alternative.”

  “Well, there is the Professional Performing Arts School,” Dr. Berger answered.

  I’d heard of that school before. My cousin Amanda went there, but she was a really talented ballet dancer. I think my mom said she’s with the big deal ballet company of Paris. Or maybe Shanghai. Or maybe Denver. It’s one of those, I can’t remember.

  “Wow. That school’s for super-talented kids. Would they take me?”

  “You’d have to audition, Hank,” Dr. Berger explained. “So they can see your talent.”

  My heart started to beat fast. The possibility of going to that school was really exciting. I mean, wow.

  “Great,” Mr. Rock said. “Let’s try to set up the audition.”

  “Unfortunately, the audition process ended several months ago,” Dr. Berger said. “I believe it’s much too late.”

  I knew it was too good to be true.

  “However,” Dr. Berger said, putting her hand on my shoulder. “I’m very willing to make a phone call to find out if they make exceptions.”

  “Great,” I said. “You don’t happen to have your cell phone on you, do you?”

  “I don’t usually exercise with it,” she answered. “I’ll make the call tomorrow, Hank.”

  I didn’t say a word, just kept staring at her. Then Dr. Berge
r looked through the open door to the gym and saw that Ms. Adolf was leading the class in an enthusiastic version of a disco favorite. She smiled at me.

  “The class is in good hands,” she said. “Let’s go to my office and use the phone there.”

  As we walked down the stairs to Dr. Berger’s office, my mind was swimming with thoughts. Ten of them, to be exact.

  CHAPTER 14

  TEN THOUGHTS THAT WERE SCREAMING IN MY MIND ON THE WAY TO DR. BERGER’S OFFICE

  1. Let them say yes.

  2. Let them say yes.

  3. Let them say yes.

  4. Let them say yes.

  5. Let them say yes.

  6. Let them say yes.

  7. Let them say yes.

  8. Let them say yes.

  9. Let them say yes.

  10. Let them say yes.

  CHAPTER 15

  They did say yes.

  As it turned out, the regular auditions were over, but there was a makeup day, and it was scheduled for the next Saturday. At first they said I couldn’t audition because it was too late, but Dr. Berger told them that they really should meet me, which made me feel great. But then they said that the other reason I couldn’t audition was that I hadn’t filled out the application for the school. But when Dr. Berger assured them that I would do the application that night and have my parents drop it by in the morning, they said yes.

  Wow, they said yes!

  CHAPTER 16

  Mr. Rock walked me home so that he could explain the situation to my parents, and help me fill out the application. I carried the manila folder with the application that the school had faxed to Dr. Berger’s office. Knowing how things seem to disappear in my backpack and never return, I was afraid to put it in there. I didn’t want to take any chances that it would wind up covered in sticky gum wads like my community service notice.

  “How do you think your parents are going to feel about you applying to the Professional Performing Arts School?” Mr. Rock asked as we crossed Amsterdam Avenue.

  “Well, my mom is pretty strong in the supportive department. My dad, on the other hand, will probably stare at me for forty-five seconds and then give me one of his crossword puzzle answers . . . two letters across, two letters down, both of them N and O.”

  “Hey, Hank, you have to think positively. Why would you think your dad would immediately say no?”

  We were walking past Mr. Kim’s grocery store now, and I waved to him as he was organizing the orange display.

  “Because it’s his favorite word in the English language. Remember when you came to our house to tell my parents you thought I had a learning challenge? What was the first thing my dad said to you? Let me refresh your memory,” I went on, before Mr. Rock could even respond. “He said, ‘NO, he doesn’t.’”

  “You have a point there,” Mr. Rock agreed. “But maybe this time it will be different.”

  By then, we had reached the front door to my apartment building. I used my key to get into the lobby, and then pushed the button for the elevator. While we were waiting for it to come, I noticed that my foot seemed to be tapping like it had a mind of its own. I tried to make it stop by stepping on it with my other foot, but all that did was make me say, “Ouch.” I think my foot was telling me that I was nervous.

  It was not the only part of my body talking to me. By the time we got into the elevator, my stomach had joined in, flipping around like an acrobat in the circus. I really wanted this audition to happen, but it wasn’t up to me. My foot and my stomach were shouting to Stanley Zipzer, “Let the kid give it a try. Maybe he’ll get into this school.” But I knew from experience that Stanley Zipzer was a tough nut to crack.

  Mr. Rock wasn’t prepared for what he saw when I opened the door to our apartment. Katherine, who is usually the laziest iguana in captivity, was running down the linoleum hallway at a speed I had no idea was in her. On her tail, and I mean actually on her tail, was our dachshund, Cheerio, chasing her like she was his favorite biscuit with legs. Usually, Cheerio gives Katherine a lot of space and pretty much ignores her. But she must have thrown one hissy fit in his direction too many, and the poor guy finally cracked. He was barking and growling and yipping all at the same time.

  Right behind Cheerio was Emily, shrieking at the top of her lungs.

  “Bad dog, Cheerio!” she hollered. “Katherine didn’t mean to hiss at you. She was just trying to tell you that you were invading her personal space.”

  But Katherine and Cheerio kept running. You could tell even if you weren’t looking at her, because you could hear her iguana nails and his wiener doggy nails clicking along the linoleum.

  “Here, Cheerio,” my mom called out, coming into the hall from the kitchen. “Leave Katherine alone and come get a treat Mommy baked for you. It’s a yummy wheatgrass and Brazil nut doggy biscuit.”

  Cheerio stopped in his tracks and gave my mom’s biscuit a sniff. Instead of taking a bite, he started to sneeze. And not just one sneeze, but a whole slew of them.

  “Bless you, honey,” my mom said. “Now take a bite.”

  Cheerio looked at my mom’s face as if to say, “Wheatgrass and Brazil nuts . . . are you kidding?”

  Then he turned on his short but swift back two legs and took off after Katherine, who by this time, had bolted into the living room and was trying to dig a hole through the rug.

  “I’ve found the net,” my dad hollered, running out of his bedroom waving an old trout fishing net that he kept by his desk and used for nerf basketball practice.

  “No, Dad!” Emily screamed. “You can’t trap Katherine in that net. It’s disgusting. It smells like old fish.”

  But there was no talking to my dad, who was already crawling around the living room on his knees, trying to swoop Katherine up in the net.

  “Welcome to the Zipzer looney farm,” I whispered to Mr. Rock.

  “Seems like a regular family to me,” he said with a smile.

  Thank goodness Papa Pete was there or my family would still be running around the apartment like they were caught in a never-ending fire drill.

  “Here, Cheerio,” he said, coming out of the kitchen, and holding a real world treat in his hand. “I got a nice slice of corned beef for you.”

  Cheerio didn’t even stop. He just spun in a circle and made a beeline for Papa Pete. Well, actually not for Papa Pete, but for his corned beef. He gobbled that meat down without even taking the time to chew, and his tail started to wag so fast, I could feel the wind against my cheek. Cheerio’s corned beef break gave Katherine the opportunity to jump into Emily’s arms and bury her head in her armpit. I’m surprised that stupid reptile didn’t pass out from the fumes.

  Emily immediately ran into her room, and put Katherine back into her glass tank.

  “I’m going to play Kathy some classical music,” she said, “to soothe her nerves. Tell me, Kathy. Do you want Beethoven or Mozart?”

  “Like that lower life form knows the difference,” I yelled at her.

  Emily slammed the door shut with her foot, which is her favorite comeback to one of my jokes.

  It was at that moment that all the adults in the room finally looked up and noticed that Mr. Rock was in the apartment. My mom turned beet red, like one of her vegetable concoctions, and started to stammer.

  “Oh my. This is so embarrassing. I didn’t notice you were here. You must think we’re . . . oh my. Well, hello. Hi. I mean hi there. I mean hi there, Mr. Rock.”

  “Mom, you just said hello eight times,” I pointed out.

  “Won’t you come in?” she said to Mr. Rock. “Come into the living room and have a seat.”

  My mom gestured to the couch, and Mr. Rock took a seat. But no sooner had his butt hit the cushion, than he was standing up again. He reached down and picked up a green plastic rattle shaped like a dragon that belonged to my baby brother, Harry.

  “I think this belongs to the youngest Zipzer,” Mr. Rock said, handing my mom the rattle.

  “I’ve been looking for
that,” my mom said, turning beet red for the second time.

  All the grown-ups sat down and there was a moment of tense silence. I could tell my dad was preparing himself for bad news. I mean, when a teacher shows up at your house, it usually is a total disaster.

  “Hank,” Mr. Rock said, finally. “Why don’t you show your parents what you have in the manila folder that you’re holding?”

  “Let me just prepare myself,” my dad said. “Is this another notification of failure?”

  “Stanley,” my mom said, a little embarrassed at my dad’s gruff tone. “Let Hank explain what he’s got before we jump to conclusions.”

  I looked down at the application and took a deep breath. As I passed the folder to my dad, I noticed that my hands were trembling. Then I snuck a glance at my dad’s face as he opened the folder and looked at the first page. His face instantly transformed into the face I saw when I was four and broke all the lead points on his new set of mechanical pencils.

  Let me just say, this was not a happy man.

  CHAPTER 17

  My dad looked over the papers in the manila folder for forty-five seconds, sat back, moved his glasses from his nose to up on top of his forehead, and said his most favorite word in the English language.

  You guessed it. NO.

  “No what?” I said. “I didn’t even ask anything.”

  “No on everything,” my dad said. “All of it.”

  “Just like that? Without an example? My teacher always says you have to give examples to support your arguments.”

  “All righty, then,” my dad said. “No, because this Performing Arts whatever it is, is not a normal school with a normal education that you can use for the rest of your life. And no because performing is too hard, nobody makes a living at it. And no, because it’s not what we Zipzers do. We don’t perform like circus cats. We work for a living . . . a concept you will become well acquainted with as you get older.”

  My dad sat back in his chair, satisfied with his explanation.

  “But, Dad,” I said, “that’s only three measly examples.”