The Zippity Zinger #4

by Winkler, Henry

  “Oh, speaking about lucky,” Emily said. “Mom, remind me to make sure I wear my lucky monkey socks on Tuesday for the Olympiad.”

  I nearly choked on my milk. Did she just say what I think she said?

  “What do they look like?” I asked.

  “The red socks with the pink monkeys stitched on them,” Emily said. “They always bring me luck. I wore them when I got one hundred percent plus ten extra-credit points on my math test. And I wore them when I got the solo part in the Winter Sing. And . . . ”

  I didn’t hear the rest of what she said. All I could do was look very slowly, so that no one would notice, down at my feet, which were covered in my sister’s lucky monkey socks.

  Maybe they really were the reason I could suddenly pitch.

  No, it couldn’t be.

  No way.

  CHAPTER 6

  AFTER DINNER, I TRIED to go back to studying for my social studies test. I had already finished listening to the tape, so I picked up my book and looked at the pictures. It had a whole page of pictures of kachina dolls. One was wearing moccasins with tiny beads. Another one had a cape made out of rabbit fur. In one hand he had a big spear, and in the other he was holding an orange, black, and yellow shield covered in feathers. But no matter how long I stared at those pictures, all I kept seeing were monkey faces on each doll.

  I’ve learned that when I have a powerful problem in my brain, it hangs around in there and takes up all my thinking space until I deal with it. I definitely had monkey socks on the brain, which isn’t very comfortable, so I decided to deal with it.

  I dialed Frankie’s number. You know when you really want to talk to someone, how it seems like the phone rings forever? That’s what happened. It felt like it took fifteen rings before Frankie’s dad answered.

  “Hello, Dr. Townsend,” I said.

  “Ah, it’s the young Mr. Zipzer,” he said. “Always a pleasure to hear your mellifluous voice on the phone.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I had no idea what I was thanking him for. He’s a professor of African-American Studies at Columbia University and he uses words that are a block long. They’re so long, I don’t even know how he gets them all out in one breath.

  “Frankie was just talking about you at dinner. He said you’re developing quite a rotation on the pitched ball.”

  “Thank you,” I said again. This time, I thought I actually understood him.

  “When did this nascent talent of yours emerge?” he said.

  “Dr. Townsend, I would love to um ... conversate with you,” I said, “but I’ve got a situation that demands Frankie, so could we conversate later?”

  “I understand the immediacy of your predicament,” he said.

  I was hoping that meant good-bye. It must have, because he put down the phone and called for Frankie.

  “Talk to me, Zip,” said Frankie, which is his standard way of saying hello.

  “Are you busy right now?” I said, sounding a little desperate even to myself. “I’ve got to come down and see you.”

  “Zip, I’m studying for the social studies test, which you should be doing, too.”

  “I’m trying, but all I see are monkeys.”

  “There are no monkeys on the Hopi reservation, my man. Never have been. Never will be.”

  “No, Frankie, the monkeys are in my head.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this,” he said. “Get down here right away. You need me.”

  I left the apartment so fast that if I were a comic-book character, you’d have seen streaks behind my feet. I didn’t wait for the elevator. I took the back stairs.

  Frankie was waiting for me at the door of his apartment. I flew past him, went straight to his room, and then realized I hadn’t told my parents I was leaving.

  “Can I use your phone?” I asked.

  “Are you calling any monkeys?”

  “No. Just my dad.”

  He handed me his phone, and I called home to say where I was. Then I hung up and turned to Frankie.

  “Ground rules,” I began. “You can’t laugh.”

  “About what?”

  “About these.” Slowly, I pulled up my jeans to reveal the red-and-pink monkey socks wrapped around my ankles. Frankie bit his lower lip.

  “Okay, I’m not laughing,” he said, “but I am requesting permission to grin. You have to admit, Hank, they’re funny. Now here’s an important question. Think before you answer.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “What are those socks doing on your feet?”

  “All my socks were in the washing machine,” I began. “Actually, they were in the dryer, but they were there because they had just been in the washing machine.”

  “Zip, I know how the laundry room works,” said Frankie. “Now get to the point. Those socks, your feet.”

  “Papa Pete was coming to play catch with me, and I had to put something on. My socks were drying, so I grabbed the first socks on top of the laundry basket. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “As usual.”

  “And then I threw strikes like I’ve never thrown before.”

  “Yeah, you were throwing some real heat.”

  “Then at dinner, Emily says she’s got to wear her lucky monkey socks because she’s going to be in the Brain Buster at the Olympiad. I nearly choked on my wheatgrass. I kept thinking what if, but then I thought, no, couldn’t be.”

  “Couldn’t be what?” Frankie scratched his head, running his hand over his curly black hair.

  “That these really are lucky socks. They’ve brought Emily all kinds of luck, and now they’re working for me, too. Tell me, Frankie, does that sound totally crazy?”

  “It makes all kinds of sense to me,” Frankie said. “Listen, Zip, almost every athlete has something that’s a lucky charm. Turk Wendell, he used to be on your stinkin’ Mets ...”

  “Number ninety-nine. What about him?”

  “He brushes his teeth and chews licorice between every inning.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Wade Boggs ...”

  “Formerly on your stinkin’ Yankees, then on the Devil Rays, now retired.”

  “Yup. That guy ate nothing but chicken on game day for his whole career. One slice of pizza and he would’ve been hitting like your sister’s iguana.”

  “What about socks? Does anyone have any lucky socks?”

  I hadn’t even finished the question before Frankie was on the Internet, typing in the words “sports superstitions.” His computer screen came alive with words as thick as ants.

  “Check this out,” Frankie said, pointing to the screen.

  When words are that close together and there are so many of them, I can’t quite make sense of them. I think I’ll never be able to read them, even before I try.

  “Just read it to me,” I said. Frankie nodded. He never makes me feel stupid. We’ve known each other too long for that.

  “There’s a million things listed here,” Frankie said. “Everybody’s got some lucky charm that works for him. Here’s a guy who’s got to wear a Jetsons T-shirt under his uniform for every game. Here’s another one who sticks a wad of gum under his hat for luck. And look at all these players who don’t shave. When you’re on a winning streak, don’t even think about shaving.”

  “I don’t,” I said.

  “And this guy, Mark ‘The Bird’ Fidrych, used to talk to the ball before every pitch.”

  “What did he say?”

  “I don’t know,” Frankie answered. “But what are you going to say to a ball? Strike the sucker out.”

  “So, Frankie, what you’re telling me is that these things actually bring people luck.”

  “It’s right here,” he said, pointing at the screen.

  I looked down at the red-and-pink monkey socks. Suddenly, they didn’t look stupid. They looked beautiful to me. They were my lucky socks.

  “So,” Frankie said. “You got your good luck charm. And with me catching for you, we go
t the Yellow Team victory locked up. Problem solved, Zippola.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “Problem solved. Over. Finito.”

  We high-fived.

  “Can I go back to studying now, Zip?”

  “Yup. As soon as you tell me one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “How do I break the news to Emily that her lucky socks are now mine?”

  CHAPTER 7

  When I went to bed that night, I hid the monkey socks in my third drawer, right in between my Mets sweatshirt and my Spider-Man boxers.

  Okay, I confess. I was hiding them from Emily.

  The next morning, all I could think about were those lucky monkey socks. I wanted to keep them more than I’ve ever wanted anything. If I could just have those socks for a couple of days, I could pitch at the Olympiad. I could lead the Yellow Team to victory. And, for once, I could make Nick the Tick McKelty, who has been picking on me since the day I was born, show me some respect.

  I was imagining how great that would feel, and eating my Captain Munch-a-Crunch cereal, when my mom walked in.

  “Hank, I put some sardines out for you,” she said. “Why aren’t you eating them?”

  “Because sardines are slimy, smelly, and let’s face it, Mom, revolting.”

  “But, honey, the fatty fish oils are brain food. Think how they’ll help you on your social studies test.”

  My social studies test! I had completely forgotten about it. Maybe I am stupid. How could I listen to an entire book on tape, take notes on both blue and yellow index cards, and still wake up and have completely forgotten that I have a test today?

  Maybe my mom was right. Maybe I do need fatty fish oils. I looked over at the plate of sardines. No, I thought. I can’t eat those. My taste buds would stand up and walk right off my tongue and never come back.

  These horrible thoughts were running through my brain when Emily came into the kitchen and sat down for breakfast.

  “Wow, Mom! Sardines! What a treat. Katherine and I love them.”

  She picked up one of the slimy little fish, split it in two, popped half in her mouth, and fed the other half to Katherine.

  “You have some fatty fish oil on your face,” I said, handing her a napkin. “Better wipe it off or it will ruin your social life. People will smell your face a mile away.”

  “Mom,” Emily called out, ignoring me as usual. “Have you seen my lucky monkey socks? I’ve looked all over for them and I still can’t find them.”

  I got very busy with my cereal, hoping that Emily wouldn’t see the panic that jolted through my body.

  “Did you check the laundry basket?” Mom asked.

  “They’re not there.”

  “The sock drawer? The hamper? Under your bed?”

  “Of course I did,” answered Emily. “I’m not Hank.”

  “Honey, I’ve got to get to the deli. Can I look for them later? Do you have to have them now?”

  “Not really,” answered Emily. “Today is only the tryouts for the Brain Buster Team and I won’t have any trouble making it. But I’ll need them tomorrow for the Olympiad. Hank, you haven’t seen them, have you?”

  My cereal bubbled up in my throat.

  “Hey, look at the time,” I said. “I’ve got to run.”

  And I did. Straight to my room and closed the door.

  Breathe, Hank. Think this through.

  True, they are Emily’s socks. And I guess the right thing to do is to give them back to her. On the other hand, she doesn’t really need them. She’s good at everything. She’ll do fine in the Olympiad, whether she has the monkey socks or not.

  “Hank,” my dad called from the living room. “Time to leave. You don’t want to be late for your test.”

  My test. If the socks helped Emily get 110 percent on her math test, then maybe they’d help me out on my social studies test, so I could get rid of that D on my report card.

  I’ll just use them today. Just long enough to bring my grade up.

  I went to the drawer and pulled the socks from their hiding place. When I slipped them on, I realized they could be seen from under my jeans. This was going to require camouflage. I pulled another pair of plain white socks from my drawer, slid them on my feet, and pulled them up to hide the monkeys.

  With two pairs of socks on, my shoes were so tight, I had to loosen the laces to get them on. I grabbed my jacket, left my room, and flew out into the living room where my dad was waiting to walk us to school.

  “Backpack,” my dad said.

  “Right,” I answered.

  I flew back into my room and took my backpack from my desk chair. I forget to take it sometimes. A lot of times. Okay, every day.

  As I headed toward the front door, Katherine appeared out of nowhere. She held very still for a split second and appeared to be sniffing the air. Her beady eyes zeroed in on me—on my feet. She must have smelled Emily on my socks, because she scurried across the floor and grabbed onto my ankles. I’m not kidding, she dug her little claws into my socks and hung on like she was riding a skateboard.

  “Get off me,” I whispered to Katherine. I shook my leg really hard, but she hung on. Then what I didn’t want to happen happened. Emily noticed.

  “That’s strange,” she said. “Katherine usually hates you.”

  “Not as much as I hate her,” I said. “Now could you please remove this scaly lettuce-eater from my ankles so we can get to school?”

  “Only if you lower your voice,” Emily said. “Kathy gets stressed out from yelling.”

  “I’m going to use Kathy as a football if you don’t unhinge her right now,” I growled.

  Emily bent down to lift Katherine off me.

  “Your socks are so thick,” she said.

  I was hoping that those monkey socks would stay put under my white socks, right where I had hidden them.

  Stay, boys. Don’t fail me now.

  I must’ve said that out loud, because Emily stopped what she was doing and looked at me.

  “Did you say something to me?” she said.

  “Why would I do that?” I answered.

  It took a lot of work for Emily to get Katherine off me. She had to pry her disgusting little iguana claws out of my socks. There was actually one tiny red thread that attached itself to the third claw on Katherine’s right front foot. Or maybe it was her left front foot—I’m not good with right and left. When I saw that red thread, my heart stopped. I could feel sweat starting to drip from my temples.

  But Emily was so busy talking her drippy baby talk to Katherine that she didn’t notice the red thread. The monkey socks stayed hidden.

  Phew. That was too close for comfort.

  CHAPTER 8

  ON THE WAY TO SCHOOL, I gave the monkeys a pep talk.

  I need you, boys. You got to give me everything you know about Native Americans, specifically Hopi. Pottery, kachina dolls, rain dances—let me have it all.

  Hey, guys—here’s a warm-up.

  What year was the chief’s house, the oldest house in America, built? 1145, you say? That’s right. You’re cooking now.

  And they were. Those monkeys pulled me through.

  I got a B-minus on the social studies test.

  I don’t know if a B-minus is a good grade to you, but let me tell you this: In the world of yours truly, Hank Daniel Zipzer, that is as good as a solid gold A.

  Go, monkey socks!

  CHAPTER 9

  “DR. BERGER! DR. BERGER!” I yelled before I even got through her office door.

  “Hey, slow down, Hank,” said Ms. Halzal, the other special-education therapist. “Where’s the fire?”

  “Me. I’m on fire. I just have to talk to Dr. Berger. Is she here?”

  “Dr. Lynn will be back in a minute. Have a seat,” offered Ms. Halzal.

  I sat down on one of the metal-legged chairs with a blue plastic seat, but I couldn’t sit still. My knee was shaking up and down like it had a motor in it. After a second or two, I decided my butt w
as not comfortable so I slid over to the yellow seat. But I didn’t stay long on that one either because Dr. Berger, who likes to be called Dr. Lynn, walked in. Without stopping, she said, “Nice to see you, Hank. Why don’t you join me in my office?”

  I got up and followed her into her office, which has these really great posters on the wall. One shows a basket overflowing with puppies. Every time I see them, I want to take one of them home. Then Cheerio would have a friend to chase, instead of his tail. And they both would keep Katherine in line.

  “So, how did the book on tape work out?” Dr. Lynn asked.

  “That’s what I wanted to see you about,” I said. “I have to tell you two important things. But you have to keep what I’m about to tell you a secret and please don’t laugh.”

  “I think I can handle those requests,” she said, smiling. “You’re not going to tell me you got in trouble at home for listening instead of reading, are you?”

  “No! No! Nothing like that. It’s weirder.” I took a deep breath. My insides felt like I could trust her.

  “I got a B-minus on my Hopi test and do you know why?”

  “Yes, I do. Because it is easier for you, Hank, to absorb information through your ears than through your eyes.”

  “Nope. It’s the monkey socks,” I blurted out.

  Dr. Lynn raised an eyebrow and started playing with the pearls around her neck.

  “It’s because of my sister’s lucky red socks with pink monkeys,” I went on. “I put them on by mistake yesterday, and now look. I did really well on my social studies test, and I also threw a softball faster and straighter than I ever have in my whole entire life.”

  “Wait a second, Hank. Let’s back up,” Dr. Lynn said. There was a smile waiting to burst across her lips, but I saw her catch it before it turned into a laugh. She’s a person who keeps her promises.

  “You’re telling me you think ...”

  “I know!” I interrupted. “I’m telling you ... even Frankie said it was the lucky monkey socks. They have cured my learning problem. It’s a miracle!”

  “That sounds wonderful, Hank. But can we look at another possibility?” Dr. Lynn asked.