Hank Zipzer 10

by Henry Winkler

  “So join me now,” he went on, “as I lead you into the world of celebratory spirits and marauding goblins. Yes, a parade is an occasion for parading.”

  Bingo! There it was.

  He waved his banner, which was black with orange pumpkins on it. Then he leaned into the microphone and let out what he thought was a scary laugh. It turns out it was actually very scary, because it caused so much screeching feedback over the loudspeaker that a bunch of the kindergartners started to cry.

  Mr Love wasn’t even aware that he had frightened the little kids half to death. He just set off marching around the playground, waving the banner. A lot of kids lined up to follow him. Pretty soon, we were all marching in a circle, with the teachers and the parents of the little kids surrounding us and applauding as we marched.

  I had to pull myself together and try to march with confidence. True, I had got off to a bad start. The garlic-scented olive oil had spilled, the breadsticks had turned to dust, the candlestick was crunched and my tabletop was definitely drooping. But I reminded myself that I was the only Italian table in the parade. So I put my shoulders back, held my chin up and took off with confidence … until …

  … I marched past the kindergarten teachers, Mr Zilke and Ms Warner.

  “I wonder who’s eating garlic bread?” Mr Zilke said.

  “Boy, that’s a strong smell,” Ms Warner agreed. “Smells like someone took a bath in garlic cloves.”

  As I walked by, I saw them both hold their noses. That didn’t help my confidence at all. Call me crazy, but I don’t like to think I smell so bad that people have to hold their noses around me.

  I noticed that many of the locals who were looking through the chain-link fence were pointing at me and laughing. And not necessarily in a good way.

  Why hadn’t I listened to Frankie and Ashley? They had tried to warn me that this wouldn’t work out. Sometimes I really hate my brain for not being able to listen when smart people are giving me good advice.

  Here’s a tip for you to remember next time you’re in a parade: you shouldn’t be thinking about other things while you’re marching, especially when you’re wearing a large, almost square tabletop.

  Boom!

  I hadn’t noticed that the line had stopped while I kept marching. The boom I’m referring to was me crashing into Head Teacher Love’s balding head.

  “Oww!” he screamed as he dropped the school banner and fell face-first into the punch bowl that was waiting for everybody at the end of the parade. Without going into detail, let me just say that when he came up for air, he was shouting my name.

  “Mr Zipzer!” he gargled. “Your costume is a menace!”

  “It’s stupid, too!” McKelty yelled.

  “And smelly,” Joelle added.

  “But it was a great idea,” I said.

  “Do us all a favour, Zipzer,” McKelty said. “Next time you get a bright idea, just remember, it’s probably really stupid like everything else you do.”

  For once, I had to admit that maybe McKelty was right.

  Halloween was all about gushing blood and gory guts.

  And me? Well, I was all about stinky olive oil and broken breadsticks.

  I looked over at McKelty, who was still laughing at me. And all I wanted to do was disappear.

  NINE HALLOWEEN THINGS

  I SHOULD HAVE GONE AS

  1. A nine-foot-tall emperor penguin that looks friendly but when it wraps its wings round McKelty it would squeeze him like the slimy fish that he is.

  2. The ghoul from Zeon whose claws shoot out slime that would harden round McKelty and glue him to the playground, where the kindergartners would use him as a climbing frame.

  3. A giant eyeball that squirts out eyeball gel, and when it lands on McKelty removes every hair from his head. Everyone would call him Eyeball Head for the rest of his life. (Come to think of it, that name is too nice for him.)

  4. A walking hand that is trained to pinch McKelty in the butt twenty-four/seven.

  5. A crazed bowling ball that would follow McKelty around and knock him over every three and a half minutes. It would give new meaning to the word “strike”.

  6. A zombie that lives in McKelty’s wardrobe and howls every time he opens it. Wait a minute. The smell of McKelty’s gym socks would drive that zombie out of there and back to Zombieland for ever.

  7. Ms Adolf in her all-grey outfit, who constantly gives McKelty a spelling test of really long words he’s never heard of before, like cornucopia or epiphany.

  8. I could keep going for ever, but then I’d never get to tell you what happened next, so I’ll stop now. OK, maybe just one more, because these feel so good I don’t really want to stop.

  9. A human vacuum cleaner that would suck McKelty up and put him in a bag full of carpet dust and iguana droppings. (Oh, Hank Zipzer, you are on fire! It’s moments like these when I really love my brain.)

  In case you couldn’t tell from that list, I was boiling mad at Nick McKelty. He had no right to make fun of my costume. He had no right to make fun of my sister. He had no right to make fun of me. And most of all, he had no right to call me stupid in front of the whole school and neighbourhood.

  And I told all that to my grandpa, Papa Pete, as he walked me home from school that day. I’m really lucky to have a grandpa who understands when I’m mad and lets me spew it all out and doesn’t tell me to watch my language and not use angry words.

  “Who is he to make me feel like a jerk in front of everyone in the whole school?” I said to Papa Pete as we headed to Harvey’s, our favourite pizza restaurant on the corner of Broadway and 78th. “He’s just a big bully who thinks it’s cool to make fun of everyone else.”

  “That’s what bullies do,” Papa Pete said. “They attack first. And think later.”

  “Not in McKelty’s case,” I said. “He never thinks at all.”

  We crossed the road and walked by the West Side Bagel Shop and Wonder Nails Salon, which meant that we were only a couple of doors away from Harvey’s. I could feel my nose being attacked by the delicious smell of pizza, my favourite smell in the whole wide world.

  “Papa Pete, I would never think of making someone else feel so bad all the time.”

  “That’s because you have a good heart,” Papa Pete said. “And you care about other people’s feelings. Maybe your learning difficulties have helped with that.”

  I stopped dead in my tracks, right in front of the glass door to Harvey’s. No one, and I mean no one, had ever even hinted that my learning difficulties could be good for anything except frustrating me.

  “How would my learning difficulties help me with anything?”

  “Well, Hankie,” Papa Pete said, smiling at me from below his furry moustache, “you are very aware of how difficult things can be, and because you know that about yourself, it makes you sensitive to how other people are feeling. That’s a lesson you can’t learn in a book.”

  Papa Pete gave my shoulder a big squeeze with one hand, then opened the door to Harvey’s with the other one.

  I thought about what he’d said as I slid on to a stool and breathed in the wonderful smell of Parmesan, tomato and pepperoni all sizzling in the oven. Papa Pete did have a point. Not to brag, but a lot of people tell me I’m a pretty nice guy. Frankie and Ashley always say that I’m a good friend. And my mum says that I have a kind streak as wide as the whole Atlantic Ocean.

  Wow. Maybe if I had been born with a perfect brain, I’d be cranky like Ms Adolf. Or mean like Nick McKelty.

  I made a mental note to think about that more another time when my stomach wasn’t screaming out for pizza.

  I did a three hundred and sixty degree spin on the shiny silver stool – it’s part of my Harvey’s tradition – before ordering my usual: a slice of pizza with mushrooms and extra cheese. But before I could even order, Harvey came up and brought me a really gooey slice loaded with mushrooms and extra cheese. The great thing about having a local pizza place is that they know what you want before yo
u even say it.

  “Thanks, Harvey,” I said.

  “I’ll be right back with your Sprite,” he said to me. “And your coffee,” he said to Papa Pete, who had already helped himself to one of the doughnuts they keep on a cake stand on the counter.

  I took a bite of my pizza, but before I could even swallow it, I had an idea that was so powerful I had to blurt it out loud with my mouth full, even though this is not allowed in the Zipzer family.

  “I really want to scare Nick McKelty out of his socks,” I said, spitting a few crumbs out into the air in front of me.

  “Getting even, are you?” Papa Pete said.

  “I just want to prove to that guy that I’m not the wimp he thinks I am.”

  “Don’t you know that on your own?”

  “The only thing I know is that the guy made fun of me, and of Emily too. And the other kids laughed, so they must’ve agreed with him.”

  “Not necessarily. Maybe they just thought he was funny.”

  “Listen, Papa Pete,” I said, pulling a long string of cheese off my lower lip and popping it into my mouth. “McKelty thinks I’m a wimp, and I think I acted like one. That makes me feel bad.”

  Papa Pete took a sip of his coffee. He looked at me and nodded. Then he put his hand on my head and tousled my hair like he used to do when I was little. He doesn’t do it that much now I put gel in my hair.

  “Feeling bad is not good,” he said. “Feeling good is good. Eating pizza is good. Bowling three strikes in a row is good. Having a fun Halloween is good.”

  “So far, this Halloween hasn’t been much fun,” I told him.

  Papa Pete took a big bite of his doughnut. He can polish off a doughnut in two bites. He chewed for a moment, took another sip of coffee to wash it down and then turned to me.

  “Why don’t you make a haunted house?” he suggested. “The best Halloween I can remember was when your mother and her sister, your Aunt Maxine, created a haunted house in the garage. The local kids came from all around to see it.”

  Papa Pete described how they put wet grapes in a bowl and told the kids they were eyeballs. I thought to myself, Hank, you could do that.

  He told me how they boiled spaghetti until it was mush, and told the kids it was ghoul brains. I thought to myself, Hank, you could do that.

  When he described how they had got their dog, Annie, to howl into a tape recorder until she sounded like a ghost living in the subway tunnels of New York, I thought to myself, Hank, Cheerio could do that.

  My mind raced as my mouth chewed.

  Sure, we didn’t have a garage to use for a haunted house. But we had a living room and sheets we could use to make walls. And I could turn out all the living-room lights to make it dark and creepy. Wait! My parents even had that black light they had used for a sixties party once that makes everything white glow in the dark.

  This was it! This was how I could turn the most awful Halloween ever into the most amazing Halloween of my life.

  All I had to do was put together the scariest, creepiest haunted house ever. Sure, it would be fun to invite a bunch of kids from my class. But I have to confess, I was thinking of fun second. I was thinking of revenge first!

  Wouldn’t it be great to invite one very special guest and scare him out of his mind?

  You’ve guessed it.

  Nick “The Tick” McKelty.

  Hey, Nick. BOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  I made Papa Pete run all the way home from Harvey’s with me, which is fine with him because he’s in great shape for a guy who’s sixty-nine years old. He is a champion Ping-Pong player, not to mention the best bowler on The Chopped Livers, his league team at McKelty’s Roll ’N Bowl. He even holds the all-time strike record for one night when he bowled four strikes in a row.

  “I’m going to need help building the haunted house,” I told Papa Pete as we pushed open the door to my flat.

  “You don’t have much time,” Papa Pete said, checking his watch. “It’s almost four o’clock.”

  “I’ll put a sign on the front door, saying that the haunted house opens at seven o’clock. That gives us four hours to put it together.”

  “Hankie, slow down for a minute and concentrate,” Papa Pete said. He held out his arm, pushed up the sleeve of his red running jacket and pointed to his wristwatch.

  “Look at my watch. Here’s the four, and there’s the seven,” he said, pointing to the numbers. “Now tell me again. How many hours do you have to finish the haunted house?”

  I had to concentrate on slowing my brain down to look at the numbers on his watch. Seven take away four is…

  “Three,” I answered. “Right. We have three hours to finish. Thanks, Papa Pete. You know me and numbers. We’re not exactly best friends.”

  Papa Pete just smiled. He never makes me feel bad when I get things wrong. That’s one thing I love about him.

  Cheerio came running out of the bedroom to say hello to us. I could tell he had been asleep because he was still yawning as he trotted out.

  “Great news, boy,” I said, scratching him behind the ears. “We’re going to build a haunted house.”

  He flopped down in front of me and rolled over on to his back to get his tummy scratched. He felt all warm, like he always does when he’s been asleep.

  “That may not be such great news for Cheerio,” Papa Pete said. “Dogs don’t really understand Halloween. The haunted house could scare him.”

  “Not my Cheerio,” I said, giving him the special Double-Trouble-Tummy-Ear Scratch I had invented just for him. “He’s no scaredy-cat. Are you, boy?”

  Cheerio wagged his tail and seemed really happy. I was sorry that I had to cut our scratchfest short, but time was ticking by and I had a lot to do.

  “So three hours,” I said, jumping to my feet and pulling off my coat. “That’s enough time, isn’t it, Papa Pete? It’s got to be. That’s all I’ve got.”

  “Maybe you could use a little help from your friends,” Papa Pete said. He sat down at the green desk in the living room and looked for some paper in the drawer.

  “Once again, great idea, Papa Pete,” I said. “I’ll call Ashley and Frankie immediately. Well, not exactly immediately, because I have another call to make immediately.”

  I ran to the phone in the kitchen and pulled out the phone list from school, which my mum leaves on the yellow-tiled counter under the telephone. I looked up Nick McKelty’s name under the Ns. It wasn’t there.

  Why wouldn’t it be there? I was pretty sure I was spelling his name right. N-I-C-K.

  I tried N-O-C-K and then N-E-C-K, but I still couldn’t find a listing. I was just starting to get really frustrated when I had a brainwave.

  I bet it’s listed under his last name.

  It’s just like grown-ups to do a crazy thing like that! I flipped through the pages of the list really fast until I got to the Ms. I looked down the list until I came to it. There it was. MCKELTY, NICK.

  Way to go, Hankster. You’ve got to think like a grown-up. Put yourself in their place. Put last names first and first names last.

  I could hardly wait to dial that number. I purposely tried to slow my brain down as I read the number. Lots of times, I swap numbers around when I read them. It’s like I don’t see them in the right order.

  Concentrate on the numbers, Hank. Get them right. You don’t want to end up calling the Central Park Zoo.

  Actually, I could probably reach McKelty there too. In the ape cage.

  I dialled carefully, and while the phone was ringing, I grabbed a dishcloth and put it over the receiver. I saw this trick in an old movie once that I had watched with my dad when I was off school with a sore throat. A detective in a weird plaid hat was calling his cousin, who was planning to rob a bank. The detective didn’t want his voice to be recognized, so he put a cloth over the receiver. His own cousin never even knew it was him. I didn’t know if the dishcloth would work, but I figured if it worked for the guy in the weird plaid hat, then it was worth a shot.

/>   “Hello,” said Nick the Tick on the other end of the phone.

  You dialled it right, Hank. Now go for it. Lay it on.

  I lowered my voice as low as it would go.

  “Nick McKelty,” I growled into the dishcloth, “are you man enough to risk being scared all the way to Pluto and beyond?”

  Wow, where did that sentence come from? It was great!

  “Who is this?” McKelty said.

  “No questions,” I growled into the phone. “Just listen. Tonight at seven thirty sharp, and I mean like a razor, you are to come and meet the ghoul of all ghouls, the terror of all terrors, the zomb of all zombies…”

  “Hey, who is this?” I couldn’t tell if McKelty sounded annoyed or scared.

  “Are you a scaredy-cat?” I went on, having fun with my own voice. “Is your blood running cold? Are your nervous zones sweating yet? Or will you show up?”

  “Show up where?” McKelty asked. I had him! He was buying it!

  “210 West 78th Street,” I said. “Flat 10A. The home of your deepest fears.”

  “Hey, I know that address. Is that you, Zipperbutt?”

  “I live in Hank Zipzer’s house,” I growled. “But I am not him. I am the ghost of Halloween past, the restless spirit, come to haunt the living and terrify the weak.”

  “You don’t scare me,” McKelty said, even though his voice sounded somewhat higher than usual.

  “Then come and test your nerves,” I said. “We’ll find out if you are the man you say you are.”

  “I’ll be there,” McKelty said. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  I hung up.

  “Yes,” I said, pumping my fists in the air.

  I can honestly say that was the best phone call I have ever made. Even better than when I called my sister and told her I was an iguana psychiatrist and that her pet iguana, Katherine, was having a nervous breakdown and needed to be institutionalized. She let out a scream so loud, I almost went deaf. Man, that was fun.

  Back to the plan, Hank. Don’t let your mind wander.

  I picked up the phone and called Frankie.