“You take the first divisible digit in the dividend, divide it by the divisor and place the quotient up here,” she said.
Excuse me, Heather. Are you speaking Greek? Or is it Russian?
“Then you just multiply the quotient by the divisor. Subtract the product from the dividend, compare the difference to the divisor and bring down the next digit. Are you following?”
I started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Heather asked, looking more confused than angry.
“I don’t know why you’ve decided to teach me long division in Russian,” I said, “because that’s what those words sounded like to me.”
“They are common mathematical terms.”
“Maybe to you. But to me, they sound like Russian or Greek or Chinese or maybe one of those strange African languages, like Swahili, where they make those cool clicking sounds with their tongues. That I can do.” I made a couple of tongue clicks that definitely sounded authentic.
“Hank, please stop fooling around or we’re never going to get anywhere.”
“Heather, on my honour, I am not fooling around. I am trying to understand what you’re saying, but I can’t.”
“It’s not hard, Hank.”
“Heather, maybe not for you. It makes me crazy that it’s so easy for you and all it sounds like to me is gobbledygook. I feel so stupid. So totally, hopelessly stupid.”
Did I just say that to Heather Payne? I just admitted the thing that makes me feel the worst in the whole world to … this very tall, very perfect girl.
Heather went really quiet for a minute. I could tell she was thinking about what I’d said. I was thinking about it too and wondering why I had just spilled the beans about something so personal to someone I hardly knew. Then Heather said an amazing thing. An amazingly nice thing.
“You’re not stupid, Hank,” she said. “Maybe I’m the stupid one, if I can’t figure out a way to teach you this.”
We both just sat there in the library, listening to the big clock on the wall tick off the seconds. The only other sound was the librarian, Mrs Frishman, typing on her computer keyboard at the other end of the room.
“Let’s try it again, but without the fancy maths words,” Heather said at last.
She wrote the problem down again.
“Now, first step. How many times does five go into seven?”
“I have no idea.”
She got up and went to the bookshelf and brought back a stack of books. She laid out seven of them on the table, then she gave me five books.
“Now place each of these five books on top of each book on the table.”
I did that. Five books were covered, and two were left uncovered. I looked at the table for a while, and then it dawned on me! I could see the division right there in front of me. On the table!
“Five goes into seven once, with two books left over,” I said.
“Absolutely correct, Hank!” Heather shouted, jumping around like a baby monkey who has just been given a banana. A very tall baby monkey.
Mrs Frishman looked up and was about to tell us to settle down and use our library voices, but when she saw why Heather was so excited, she didn’t say anything. She’s really nice.
Seeing the answer to the maths problem right there in front of me was like a door opening and letting light into my big, dark brain. My head couldn’t visualize the numbers on the page. Or understand the fancy maths words. But it could see the books, count the books and figure out the answer that was right in front of my eyes!
Heather and I went on with the problem, making stacks of books and adding and subtracting new books. We worked through the problem all the way to the end – until I figured out that five goes into seventy-five fifteen times.
That’s right. I, Hank Zipzer, had solved a long-division problem. It had taken a ton of books – one whole library shelf was on the table – and fifteen minutes, but who cares? I not only got the right answer, but for the first time, I actually understood what division was all about.
When I was finished, I was so excited, I jumped up and down too, and nearly hugged Heather. But, and this is a big but, I caught myself just in time. If I thought admitting to her that I was stupid was bad, hugging her was totally off the chart and out of the question.
“That was so satisfying, Hank,” Heather said as we put the books back on the shelf. “I feel like I actually taught you this process, if you know what I mean.”
Yes, Heather Payne! I do know what you mean! I really do!
“Heather,” I said, flashing her my super-duper smile that shows my upper and lower teeth, “there might actually be a B-plus in my future.”
“What’s so important about getting a B-plus?”
“It’s the only way my dad is going to let me be in the school play. I’m going to audition for the king.”
“You’ll be great at that, Hank,” she said. “You’re so funny and you’re a natural leader. I’m going to try out for Anna, but I bet I won’t get the part. Probably all the other girls are going to try out too.”
“So what if they try out? You’re a natural teacher. You can get the part if you just stay calm and be natural.”
“I’m not good at being natural,” Heather said. “I get a little…”
“Stiff?”
“Yeah, how did you know?”
“I don’t know. I just guessed.” I just couldn’t bring myself to tell her that she’s so stiff she makes a flagpole seem wiggly. Frankie and Ashley and I have always thought that Heather Payne looks like she’s got her plaits pulled too tight.
“Maybe you could teach me to relax?” Heather said, almost in a whisper. I think she was blushing, somewhere between her eyebrows and her plaits. Asking for help didn’t come easily to her, I could tell.
How could I teach her to relax? Man, that was almost as hard as teaching me maths.
“My friend Frankie always tells me that oxygen is power,” I said to her.
“Oxygen is a molecule,” Heather said.
“Yeah, but his mum, who’s a yoga teacher, taught him to use those molecules to relax. It’s a deep-breathing technique. He taught me and I can teach you, if you like.”
Heather just nodded. This was getting weird. We were acting almost like … well … almost like friends.
“First you take a deep breath in,” I said, “and as you do, you say ‘I am’ in your mind.”
I took a deep breath in, to demonstrate. Heather did too.
“Then you let the breath out, and as you do, you say ‘relaxed’ in your mind while you push the air out. Try it.”
Heather blew out a big breath, and I could see her lips moving, saying the word “relaxed”.
“How’s it feel?” I asked her.
“I feel a little light-headed.”
“Cool,” I said. “That’s the first stop on the road to relaxation.”
The bell for school rang, and we had to hurry to put the rest of the books back on the shelf. As we were stacking them, I saw Heather practising her relaxation breathing. Suddenly, she looked over at me and smiled.
“You know what, Hank?” she said. “I have the feeling that my plaits are pulled too tight, if you know what I mean.”
Did I ever!
I couldn’t wait to tell Frankie. Apparently, that yoga breathing is some mighty powerful stuff.
I SPENT THE REST OF that day secretly warming up for the audition, getting into the character of the king. To other people, it might have just looked like I was acting weirdly. Like when Ms Adolf asked me to take the register to the office, I bowed and said, “Madame, the record of my subjects shall remain safe inside my kingly robes,” – which, by the way, was actually my grey hooded Mets sweatshirt. At lunch, when I picked up my macaroni cheese from the cafeteria, I asked Frankie to taste it first, to make sure no one was trying to poison the king. Wouldn’t you know, he kept tasting it and tasting it until he had eaten it all. I tell you, you could go hungry being king.
When the fi
nal bell of the day rang, I shot out of my seat and headed for the door. The auditions were in the school hall, and I wanted to be the first one to sign up for the part of the king.
“Your rucksack, Henry,” Ms Adolf said, tapping me on the shoulder. “I notice it’s not on your back, which is where a rucksack should reside.”
“I’ve got it, dude,” Frankie said, taking the rucksack from her as he swung down the aisle and headed for the door. “The king shouldn’t have to carry his own stuff.”
That Frankie. He is such a great friend. He’ll support me no matter what I want to do.
As we headed down the stairs to the hall, a bad smell came up behind us. It smelled like rotten lettuce mixed with soggy newspapers. And if you’re wondering how I could possibly know what that particular combination smells like, then you haven’t been around the bottom of Katherine’s cage the day before Emily cleans it. Katherine is my sister’s pet iguana, and aside from being one ugly creature, she is also one smelly creature. Other than Katherine, only one animal on the planet could possibly smell like that, and this one wore trainers the size of battleships and they were pounding behind me on the stairway.
“Shove over, Zipperbutt, and let the real king pass,” Nick McKelty said, blasting some of his iguana-cage breath my way.
“McKelty, the only kingdom you rule is Gross Land,” Ashley said. “Don’t you ever brush your teeth?”
“I have people who do that for me,” McKelty snarled. It seemed like he was rehearsing for the part of the king too.
“Well, dude, they must be on holiday,” Frankie said.
“As king, I have granted them a few days off,” McKelty said. Uh-oh, he seemed pretty into this king thing. I was going to have some competition.
“Give it up, McKelty,” Ashley said. “You won’t get the part. You wouldn’t know a king if you fell on one.”
“For your information, my great-great-grandfather on my mother’s side was the King of Albania,” McKelty lied, as usual. He had the McKelty Factor, which is truth times a hundred, working overtime.
“His reign only lasted six hours because he was bitten on his bottom by a black widow spider as he rode his horse to a duel,” McKelty went on. “But he’s a huge legend in Albania.”
“He’s a legend in your mind,” Ashley said.
“Which, by the way, dude, has nothing huge about it,” Frankie added.
We all cracked up.
“You’re laughing now, Zippertoes,” McKelty said, “but you won’t be laughing when I get the part of the king.”
He let out another blast of iguana-cage breath and blew past us. People clear the way when they smell him coming.
There was a long queue of kids waiting outside the hall. There were clipboards laid out on a table, with the name of each role written in thick black letters at the top. You were supposed to put your name down for the part you wanted to audition for. There was one clipboard that said Production Staff. Frankie and Ashley headed for that list. Ashley signed up to be the costume designer, and Frankie put his name down for stage manager.
I picked up the king clipboard, and of course, the first name on the list was “Nick McKelty”. I was surprised to see that a bunch of other guys had signed up to audition too, including Luke Whitman. If he were a king, I guess he’d have to command one of his unlucky subjects to pick his nose for him. What a job, to be the royal nose picker.
As I was signing my name, I glanced over at the clipboard that said “Anna” on top. Katie Sperling was the first one to sign up. Man, wouldn’t it be great if she got the part and I got to play the king? I mean, I’d get to dance with her, and here’s the best part – she couldn’t say no when I asked her.
Then I saw Heather standing at the back of the queue. She was just hanging out around the edge of the crowd of kids, not pushing her way to the table to get to the clipboards like the rest of us were.
“Come on, Heather,” I called out to her. “Put your name down.”
“I’ve changed my mind. I’m not sure I have the time.”
“What are you talking about? You want to play Anna.”
“But what happens if I don’t get the part?” she said, so softly I could barely hear her over the noise of all the kids shouting in the hall.
“You’ll never know unless you try,” I said, picking up the clipboard and shoving it her way.
She took it, but I didn’t see whether she signed up or not, because just then, the hall doors opened and Devore stepped out into the corridor.
“Good afternoon, fellow theatre lovers,” he said, flinging his cape around like Superman. “Allow me to invite you into the magical world of drama.”
He turned on his heel and floated into the hall. There was a stage set up at the far end, with chairs set up in a semicircle around it. Mrs Crock was sitting on the platform with a yellow pad and a marker pen. She looked really happy to be his assistant. We all took our seats in the chairs as Devore took his place on the stage.
“Let me remind you that you must be respectful while each of your friends is auditioning,” he said. “The creative spirit needs silence to flourish.”
Luke Whitman made a farting noise with his mouth. Devore stared at him.
“What part are you auditioning for, young man?”
“The king,” Luke answered.
“I do not recall the king communicating with the use of body sounds,” Devore said. “However, if that is your particular talent, perhaps you should try out for the role of elephant boy. Body sounds are definitely in character there.”
“I assure you, Luke has lots of body sounds, Mr Devore,” Mrs Crock said. “I mean, Simply Devore.”
Devore clapped his hands to get our attention.
“The first part we will be casting today is that of the king,” he said.
Great. I’m ready to audition. Bring it on, Devore.
“We have five young men who have signed up for the part. Ryan Shimozato. Hank Zipzer. Nick McKelty. Luke Whitman. And Salvatore Mendez.”
OK, that’s the competition, Hankster. It’s good to know the competition.
“For the purposes of the audition, Mrs Crock will play Anna.”
That’s good. Mrs Crock and I get along great. We’ve bonded over her lunch salad many times while I was waiting to see Mr Love.
“Now, who would like to read first?”
My hand shot up. Only then did my brain actually hear the words. When the word read reached my brain, my hand shot down.
“Did he say read?” I whispered to Frankie and Ashley.
“It’s an audition,” Ashley said. “You have to read the lines from the script.”
“But I thought I was just supposed to pretend to be the king,” I said. “I’ve been working on that since yesterday.”
“It’s a play, dude,” Frankie said. “There’s an actual script involved.”
I can’t read out loud without practising first. Hey, I can’t read quietly. Face it. Reading and I don’t get along.
It was the scene between the king and Anna, where Anna tries to teach the king to dance, but he doesn’t want to learn, because he’s the king and he thinks he knows everything. Salvatore Mendez went first. He’s from Puerto Rico, and when he read the lines, he did it with a little Spanish accent. He was good, and I could tell he really wanted the part, because at the end of the scene, he even kissed Mrs Crock’s hand. That’s wanting the part, all right.
Luke Whitman went next. He tried to kiss Mrs Crock’s hand too, but she wouldn’t let him. Everyone in the school knows that wherever Luke Whitman’s lips have been is somewhere you don’t want to be. Too bad he wasn’t trying out for King of Cootyland, which he’d be a natural for.
While Ryan Shimozato was auditioning, I tried to say the lines silently while he said them out loud. It was a lot to memorize, but that was my only hope.
If you have to read, Hankster, you’re a dead duck. Not in front of everyone. Not as slowly as you do. Not out loud.
Ryan Shimoza
to looked good as the king, but even I could tell he was no actor. He read the lines like he was reading his science textbook, which happens to be his best subject.
“We have two actors left,” Devore said. “Mr Nick McKelty and Mr Hank Zipzer. Mr Zipzer, are you ready to take the stage?”
No, I’m not! I haven’t memorized all the lines yet!
“Much as I’d like to go next, Simply Devore, and I do appreciate your calling on me, I think I’ll let McKelty go next,” I said. “I’m sure there’s so much I can learn from watching him audition.”
Yeah, like the lines!
“I like your attitude, Mr Zipzer,” Devore said. “There is so much one actor can learn from another.”
“There’s a lot you can learn from me,” McKelty said, wedging his thick body out of his seat. “Pay attention while I show you how this theatre thing is done.”
“Humility, Mr McKelty,” Devore said.
“I got that, too,” McKelty said, as if he even knew what the word meant. To be honest, I didn’t know what it meant, either, so I shouldn’t talk.
I don’t know if McKelty was any good, but he was certainly loud. I bet you could hear him all the way to Mr Kim’s grocery shop on the corner of 78th Street and Amsterdam. He paced around with his hands on his hips, yelling and blasting his iguana-cage breath right in poor Mrs Crock’s face. At one point, a glob of McKelty spit left his mouth and landed squarely on the tip of Mrs Crock’s nose. I think Mrs Crock almost passed out, but she was a trooper and hung in there, smiling to the bitter end.
When McKelty was finished with the scene, he applauded himself. Devore nodded his head and wrote a lot of comments on his yellow pad.
“Thank you for your excellent effort,” he said.
“See, I knew I’d get the part,” McKelty said as he took his seat back in the semicircle. “You’ll never top that, Zipzer.”
I stood up and went to the platform. Mrs Crock flashed me a reassuring smile as she handed me the script.
“You’ll do fine, Hank,” she whispered. I think she was just glad to be out of the line of bad breath and spitfire. Then she read her first line, which I was supposed to answer.
The Curtain Went Up, My Trousers Fell Down Page 4
