The Zippity Zinger #4
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2 - TEN REASONS WHY I WOULDN’T BE CAUGHT DEAD IN MY SISTER’S MONKEY ...
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12 - EIGHT REASONS I SHOULD KEEP THE MONKEY SOCKS AND NOT GIVE THEM ...
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27 - TEN WAYS TO GET OUT OF A BOWLING ALLEY WITHOUT PEOPLE NOTICING YOU ...
About the Authors
GROSSET & DUNLAP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700,
Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland
(a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell,
Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre,
Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads,
Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Books (South Africa)(Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue,
Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other
means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law.
Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not
participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
Your support of the authors’ rights is appreciated.
Text copyright © 2004 by Fair Dinkum and Lin Oliver Productions, Inc.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2003019216
eISBN : 978-1-101-15377-2
http://us.penguingroup.com
To Bob Daly and Frank Dines, who are really great examples of what good friends are. And always, Stacey.—H.W.
For Oliver Baker, illustrious pitcher and beloved middle son.—L. O.
CHAPTER 1
“MOM! I’M OUT OF SOCKS,” I called down the hall.
My sock drawer was totally empty. Okay, it wasn’t totally empty. There were a few things in there, like a piece of red licorice left over from Halloween, a shoehorn that we used to jam my feet into a pair of size two dress-up shoes for my cousin’s wedding, and a bunch of those little rainbow-colored rubber balls that bounce super high.
Anyway, the point I was getting to was that there were no socks in my drawer. This was serious because my grandpa, Papa Pete, was coming over to play catch and that’s something you can’t do sockless.
“Mom!” I hollered again. “I’m having a sock emergency.”
My mom stuck her head in my room.
“What did you say, Hank? I can’t hear you with these.” She pointed to her ears. I wondered why she couldn’t hear with her ears. What else would she hear with? Her nose?
I looked closer and realized that she was actually pointing to little headphones that she was wearing over her ears. You couldn’t see them at first, because they were covered by her hair, which is blonde and curly and sticks out on the sides like earmuffs.
“What are you listening to?” I asked her in a loud voice.
“Crashing waves,” she answered.
“Is that one of your eighties groups?”
“No, these are actual ocean waves crashing against rocks,” she said.
Wow, and they say kids listen to weird music. At least you can dance to my stuff if you wanted to. Myself, I don’t dance—at least, not in public.
“The waves get me in the mood for yoga class,” my mom explained, “which, by the way, I’m late for.”
She headed for the door.
“Wait, Mom, you can’t leave now. I’m out of socks.”
“You just noticed that?” she replied.
“No, I noticed yesterday, which is why I wore the same pair two days in a row.”
“All your socks are in the wash,” my mom said. “Just go pop them in the dryer and they’ll be done in no time.”
“I’m ten, Mom. I don’t know how to just pop things in the dryer.”
“It’s easy, Hank,” my mom said with a laugh. She thinks I’m funny even when I’m not trying to be. “Run down to the laundry room and take Emily’s clothes out of the dryer, put them in the basket, and transfer your clothes from the washer to the dryer. There are four quarters on the kitchen table next to the Tide. You fit the quarters into the slots, push the whole thing in, and, presto, the machine starts. Is that all clear?”
“As glass, Mom. Laundry room, basket, quarters, slots. Got it.”
My mom left for her class, which is held in my best friend Frankie Townsend’s apartment, four floors down. His mom is a yoga teacher, and she’s really good at it. She can bend all the way over and put her elbows on the floor. I tried that once, but I fell over on my head and split my pants right down the middle. It was pretty air-conditioned down there, if you know what I mean.
Mrs. Townsend has taught Frankie and me some really useful things, like how breathing deeply can help you relax when you’re stressed. I did that when I took my last math test, and it really worked. I felt very relaxed—until I got my grade. There’s something about getting an F that is extremely un-relaxing.
I checked the time. Papa Pete was coming in ten minutes, so I had to hurry. He was all excited about having a catch with me. To be honest, I wasn’t so thrilled. I love to watch baseball, especially when my team, the New York Mets, is playing. But I’m not very good at playing it. In fact, I stink at it. And when I say stink, I don’t mean I stink a little. I mean I stink-a-roony. I can’t throw. I can’t hit. And I can’t field. Which just about covers everything that you’d ever have to do in baseball. It’s embarrassing. Sometimes it seems that everyone in my class, my school, the world can play baseball, but me.
Papa Pete says all I need is a little practice. I think all I need is a new set of arms and legs and a brain that makes them work correctly.
At first, I told Papa Pete that I didn’t really want to have a catch. But then he said that he’d stop by my mom’s deli, the Crunchy Pickle, to pick up some dills for us to eat afterwards. Pickles are our favorite snack. Sometimes, we sit outside on my balcony at night and munch down a whole bag of them. Papa Pete, who used to own the deli before he gave it to my mom to run, is an expert at picking out the crunchiest ones. So I guess the thought of those dark green, crunchy pickles won out over my lousy throwing arm, and I told Papa Pete to come on over.
The laundry room is in the basement of our apartment building. My friends and I have a clubhouse in the basement a few doors down from the laundry. I am so lucky that Frankie and my other best f
riend, Ashley Wong, live right in my building.
I took Cheerio, our crazed dachshund, with me to the basement. Not because I was scared or anything. You know, just for company. He can be really funny when he starts chasing his tail. He spins so fast that he actually looks like a Cheerio, which is how he got his name.
I got off the elevator and followed the scent of soapsuds to the laundry room. I walked in and there were the machines, just waiting for me.
What did my mom say? Take my sister Emily’s clothes out of the dryer.
Done.
Put them in the white plastic basket and transfer mine from the washer into the dryer.
Done.
Did I remember the quarters for the machine?
Yes, I did. Way to go, Hank.
I’m not the best direction-follower in the world. In fact, I stink at that almost as much as I stink at baseball. No, maybe more, even. So I was pretty proud that I remembered everything my mom told me to do.
I started the dryer, picked up the white plastic basket, and plopped Cheerio on top of the warm clothes. He loves to sit on warm things. Then I ran to the elevator. I didn’t want to keep Papa Pete waiting.
When I got back to our apartment, I put the basket down and reached for some socks.
“Hank Zipzer, you are a total moron!” I said out loud to myself.
I still had no socks. They were all in the dryer.
The doorbell rang and I heard Papa Pete’s voice booming through the door.
“Is my favorite ballplayer ready?” he called. “Your number one fan is waiting for you.”
“Just a second, Papa Pete,” I shouted.
Without thinking about it, I kicked off my slippers and grabbed the first pair of socks on top of the basket and put them on without really focusing on what I was doing.
As I slipped on my sneakers, I caught a glimpse of the socks on my feet.
Hank Zipzer, are these your feet? Because, if they are, you are about to die of embarrassment.
Let’s be clear. I don’t own red socks—and I certainly don’t own red socks with pink monkeys stitched on them. But that’s exactly what was on my feet. BRIGHT RED GIRL’S SOCKS WITH LITTLE PINK MONKEYS ON THEM!!!!
It was like my feet were on fire. I started hopping up and down, trying to get those monkey socks off before they were stuck on me forever. I think I yelled—screamed, really. It was as if an invisible monster had made me pull them on.
Can you imagine if someone saw me with my sister’s monkey socks on? We would have to move to another city. No, another state! No, across the country! I would have to change my name, dye my hair, maybe even wear a mask.
Those monkey socks were staring up at me, and I swear they were laughing.
CHAPTER 2
TEN REASONS WHY I WOULDN’T BE CAUGHT DEAD IN MY SISTER’S MONKEY SOCKS (OR ANYONE ELSE’S MONKEY SOCKS, EITHER)
1. Monkeys should live in trees, not on your ankles.
2. Socks should be white, unless you’re going to your cousin’s wedding, and then your parents make you wear black ones.
3. I have never seen one player on the Mets wearing any member of the animal kingdom below his knees.
4. If Nick McKelty, the bully of our class, knew that I had even considered putting on red-and-pink monkey socks, he would say, “There’s Monkey Boy,” when he saw me every day for the rest of my life.
5. Number four is such a horrible thought, it counts for number five, too.
6. When Nick McKelty gets tired of calling me Monkey Boy, he’ll switch to saying, “Gonna eat bananas and hang from the lights by your tail?”
7. Actually, hanging from the lights sounds like fun, because I could drop banana peels on McKelty’s head. (I know this isn’t really a reason, but it sure is fun to think about.)
8. Let me remind you, these were pink monkeys on red socks. Is that not reason enough?
9.
10.
**I skipped nine and ten because my brain stopped thinking of reasons after number eight. It does that. There’s no arguing with my brain. When it’s done, it’s done.
CHAPTER 3
BEFORE I OPENED THE DOOR, I looked through the peephole to make sure it was Papa Pete. If I stood on my tippy toes, I could just barely see a big, red blur in our hallway. Then a burst of garlic and vinegar fumes wafted under our door. It was Papa Pete in the hall, alright, wearing his red warm-up suit like he always does on Sundays, and carrying a bag of garlic dill pickles.
I twisted the top lock open and then the bottom one and Papa Pete flew into the apartment and closed the door behind him.
“Just in the nick of time,” he said. “Mrs. Fink is trying to get me to come in for a piece of her cherry strudel.”
Mrs. Fink is our next-door neighbor. She’s always baking things for Papa Pete. Once, I heard my mom telling my dad that she thinks Mrs. Fink wants to have a romance with Papa Pete. When I heard her say that, I covered up my ears and starting yelling “peas and carrots, peas and carrots” really loud to block out the rest of the conversation. Trust me, you would have done that, too. Mrs. Fink is really nice—it’s just that she cruises around our hall always wearing a huge, pink bathrobe and not always wearing her false teeth. That fact alone pretty much puts the whole romance topic off-limits for me.
“Hankie, we are going to have a great day. Very productive!” Papa Pete said. He grabbed my cheek between his thumb and pointer finger, and pinched. “Have I ever told you how much I love this cheek and everything attached to it?” he said.
“Only about a million and ten times,” I answered.
“Good, then make this the million and eleventh,” he said. He laughed as he went into the kitchen and put the bag of pickles into the refrigerator.
“Are you ready? Let’s go to the park!” he shouted from the kitchen.
“I can’t leave the apartment, Papa Pete,” I said. “No socks! They’re still in the dryer downstairs.”
“There is a solution to every problem,” he said as he came back into the living room.
“Not to this one,” I said. “The only socks I could find were these.” I lifted my pants to show him Emily’s red monkey socks.
“Do they fit?” he asked.
“They do,” I answered. “So what?”
“So you’ll wear them to the park. Your pants will hide them, and with your handsome face, who is going to look at your feet?”
“No way, Papa Pete. My body is not leaving this apartment. Period.”
“Listen, Hankie. You want to learn to throw, right? Today is the day. I can feel it!”
“Do you know how many kids I know who will be at the park?” I shook my head. “No thanks, Papa Pete. I’m sorry you came all the way over here for nothing.”
“Wait a minute,” Papa Pete said, twisting his big mustache with his fingers. “Something tells me you’re trying to wiggle out of this because you think you’re not good at baseball.”
I didn’t answer.
“Hankie, I wouldn’t lie to you. You’re getting better every time we try.”
“I catch like a five-year-old girl with a blindfold on,” I said. “Face it, Papa Pete, I’m no athlete and never will be.”
“Didn’t you tell me on the phone that your school was having a big softball game this week?” Papa Pete said.
“It’s the School Olympiad. The tryouts are tomorrow for the softball team.”
“Do you want to play?” he asked.
“Of course. It’s my dream,” I answered. “But I’m horrible. I’m not going to try out.”
Papa Pete put his big hand on my head. “I want only positive thoughts running around in there. You won’t succeed if you don’t believe you can. Now, come, let’s practice.”
“You’re forgetting about these,” I said, pointing to the monkeys that were still staring up at me from my ankles. Papa Pete pointed his finger toward the ceiling and spun it around in a circle, which he does when he has a great idea.
“We’ll have the catch in
the courtyard outside the basement door. We’ll be alone. You can wear monkey socks or rhinoceros socks and no one will see. End of conversation.”
Leave it to Papa Pete to figure it out in the best possible way. I ran to my room, picked up my mitt, and flew out the door.
Whoops! It was only when I pushed the button for the elevator that I realized I had forgotten something very important. I went back and opened the apartment door. Papa Pete was still standing there, tapping his foot.
“Did you forget something? Namely—me?” he said.
We went back into the hall and got in the elevator. Just as the door was closing, we caught sight of Mrs. Fink coming out of her apartment. She was carrying cherry strudel and her mouth was closed, so we couldn’t really tell about her teeth.
Papa Pete grinned at me as the elevator door shut.
“Saved by baseball,” he said. We laughed as we rode the elevator down to the courtyard.
CHAPTER 4
“RIGHT HERE,” Papa Pete yelled, pounding his fist into the center of his glove. “Put it right here!”
We were alone in the courtyard. Our apartment building towered over us on three sides, and the fourth wall was formed by the bricks of the building right next to ours. It was quiet there, and peaceful. The courtyard was starting to fill up with the smells of all the Sunday dinners cooking. I was pretty sure Mrs. Park was making Korean barbequed ribs, and I thought I smelled Mr. Grasso’s sausage and peppers cooking on top of his stove. On Sundays, Ashley’s grandmother always makes the greatest soups with wontons and pork and Chinese cabbage floating around like delicious little boats. I was wondering how wontons float when I suddenly realized that Papa Pete was talking to me.
“Hank, where are you?” he said. “Are we going to play ball or are we going to day-dream?”
“Sorry, Papa Pete, I was thinking about wonton boats,” I said.
Papa Pete came over to me and put his hand on my shoulder.