The Zippity Zinger #4 Page 6
“Shhh,” Ashley said to Frankie. “You can’t talk. You don’t have the talking stick.”
“Then pass it over here, Ashweena,” said Frankie. “Who said you could hog the talking stick?”
“Guys,” I said. “Will someone just take the talking stick, already? I’ve only got fifteen minutes left.”
Ashley picked up the feathered spoon and Frankie grabbed it.
“If the socks aren’t lucky enough for you now, we’ll fix that,” Frankie said. Then he started to chant. “Oh, Spirit of the Ancient Ones, come into the kiva and bestow your magic into these monkey socks. Make them lucky for Brave Hank Zipzer.”
Frankie waved the socks around.
“Boy, I’m sure glad those socks don’t smell,” I said.
Ashley shot me a dirty look.
“Come on, Hank. We’re doing this for you. Now be serious.”
“Okay,” I said. I got a really serious look on my face, cleared my throat and shouted, “Animal spirit, show yourself now!”
We waited for something to happen. Now, you’re not going to believe this, but the door flung open, and there, standing in our laundry room at 210 W. 78th Street, New York City, was the panting spirit of a small bear.
We of the Council Circle let out an earth-shattering scream and jumped so high, we landed on top of the ancient ceremonial Hotpoint dryer.
CHAPTER 17
WE WERE CROUCHED on top of the dryer, shivering with fear and excitement. The small bear started to creep toward us, step by step. In the dark, we couldn’t see him clearly, but I did see one tuft of brown fur so thick you could stick a spoon in it.
“It’s him,” Ashley whispered.
“Him who?” I said.
“Your totem spirit,” Ashley said. “You asked the Ancient Ones to call him, and he came to fill the lucky socks with his magic.”
“Guys,” whispered Frankie. “Look.”
He pointed to the wall across from us. The red glow from the EXIT sign cast a shadow that made the bear look as if he weighed eight hundred pounds.
“Nice Mister Totem Dude,” Frankie said, trying to smile, but I could tell that even he was pretty scared.
“Do you think he’s going to do his magic before he eats us?” I said.
“Totem spirits don’t eat kids, do they, Hank?” Ashley asked.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “They might have left that part out on my tape.”
The totem spirit lunged toward us and started to shake.
“Oh, no!” Ashley screamed.
I couldn’t help myself. I screamed like a baby, too. Yes, I did. But so did Frankie.
I think we actually scared the bear totem, because he lifted his leg and peed all over those monkey socks.
“Hey, cut that out,” Ashley yelled.
“Ashley, you can’t talk to the animal spirit like that,” Frankie said.
“Spirit, schmirit,” she snapped. “There are thirty-five individual rhinestones on each of those socks. Do you have any idea how long that takes?”
Ashley jumped down off the dryer and went toward the bear.
“Back off, buster,” she said, wagging her finger at him. “You don’t mess with my rhinestone art.”
Frankie and I held our breath and waited to see what would happen. Suddenly, the spirit started to move in a circle. Around and around it went. Was this an ancient Hopi ritual?
As the spirit continued to spin, something very strange began to happen. Its fur started to shift and slide to one side.
Wait a minute. I know that spin.
I looked closely and saw my dog’s face poking out from under a furry coat.
“Cheerio?” I yelled.
He stopped spinning, let out a hello yelp, and wagged his tail.
Frankie flipped on the lights. Cheerio was wearing Mrs. Fink’s old fur coat that she keeps in a box under the couch in our clubhouse.
As I bent down to pick Cheerio up, I saw the puddle he had left behind. I don’t want to gross you out, but the monkey socks were floating in a Cheerio-made lake. We all looked at the socks in silence. Finally, Frankie spoke.
“Maybe,” he said, “this sacred liquid gives the socks even more power.”
“We’ll never know,” I said, “because they’re not going on any part of my body—no matter how many times you wash them.”
“But Zip, the Hopi used all kinds of potions in their magic.”
“That’s absolutely right,” Ashley added. “I think I read that they used antelope poop.”
“Good for the Hopi,” I said. “But as far as I, Hank Zipzer, am concerned, any magic that was in these socks has been washed away by the Yellow River.”
“So what are you going to do tomorrow for the game?” Ashley said.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “But I do know that if I’m not back in my apartment in three minutes, I’m dead in the water with my mom.”
I grabbed Cheerio and took off. Halfway down the hall, it occurred to me that Frankie and Ashley had gone to a lot of trouble to set up that kiva. I turned around, ran back to the laundry room, and stuck my head in.
“Thanks, guys,” I said. “You tried. Sorry it didn’t work out.”
“What about me?” Ashley said. “I’m left with only one pitcher. I need backup. What are we going to do tomorrow?”
It was a good question. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the answer.
CHAPTER 18
I WAS LYING IN BED THAT NIGHT when the thought came to me like a galloping horse across my brain. We asked for an animal spirit, and Cheerio showed up. Who said totems had to be antelope or snakes or owls or buffalo? Why couldn’t they be dachshunds?
I sat up in bed, forgetting about the top bunk, and clunked my head on the board above my bed that holds up the top mattress. But I didn’t care, because I had the answer to the question.
Cheerio was my totem spirit, sent to me by the Ancient Ones. I would bring him to my game. He would bring me luck.
I looked around the dark room and saw Cheerio asleep on his pillow next to my bed. He was twitching a little, as if he was dreaming.
I’m sure it was the twitch of a spirit.
CHAPTER 19
“No WAY,” my dad said.
“But, Dad, you don’t understand.” I was pleading with him. Actually, what I was doing was something between pleading and whining. “I need Cheerio there. He’s my lucky charm, my totem. I can’t pitch without him.”
I was sitting at the kitchen table. Emily had her face in a book, studying last-minute world capitals for the Brain Buster. My dad was at the stove, stirring the oatmeal. He makes us oatmeal for breakfast on special days when he thinks we need extra vitamins and minerals. If ever there was a day I needed extra vitamins and minerals, the day of the Olympiad was certainly it.
“Think about it, Hank,” my dad said, putting a steaming bowl of oatmeal down in front of me. “You know Cheerio is high-strung. Now imagine him in your school yard with a crowd of two hundred people. His nerves will kick in and he’ll disrupt the entire event.”
“He’ll behave, Dad.”
“Since when? Cheerio does exactly as he pleases. Always has. Always will.”
“But, Dad—”
“And even if he does behave, your mother and I are going to be going back and forth between your game and the Brain Buster Competition, which is in the auditorium. They won’t let Cheerio in the auditorium.”
He had a point there.
“We’ll ask for special permission,” I said. It was a weak argument, and although I hate to admit it, even I knew it.
“Hank, did you hear what I said? The answer is no. That’s N - O.”
Oh, boy, he was spelling, and when he spells, it means end of discussion.
“I’m going to get my jacket, kids,” my dad said. “Be ready to leave for school in five minutes.”
My brain was going a mile a minute as I ate my oatmeal. If I was ever going to get off the bench and touch the ball, I needed a lucky cha
rm. And if I couldn’t have the lucky monkey socks, I needed the next best thing. And that was Cheerio. The spirits had spoken, hadn’t they? I mean, they had brought Cheerio to our kiva. And you don’t mess around with stuff that happens in a kiva.
I looked around the kitchen, searching desperately for a solution. The refrigerator, the stove, the bulletin board cluttered with notes and takeout menus, the calendar, the spice rack, the phone. The phone!
“Emily, would you mind leaving?”
“Yes,” she answered.
I should have known. I had to take it to the next step.
“Emily,” I said sweetly. “Katherine was on the windowsill in Mom and Dad’s room this morning. Last time I saw her, she was heading down the fire escape.”
“You’re kidding?” she said.
“Maybe,” I said. “But if I were you, I’d check it out for myself. I wouldn’t take my word for it.”
That worked. She tossed down her book and bolted for our parents’ room. I picked up the phone and dialed.
“Hello,” Papa Pete answered.
“Hi, Papa Pete,” I said. “I’ve got to talk fast.”
“Good,” he said. “Then I’ll listen fast.”
“I need your help,” I began. “Can you come here and pick up Cheerio at eleven o’clock and bring him to my school? I want him to see my softball game, but my dad doesn’t want to bring him because he’s not allowed in the auditorium. But if he stays with you, then he won’t have to go into the auditorium, so can you please do this for me?”
“Is it okay with your father?” Papa Pete asked.
“As long as Cheerio behaves, he’ll be fine,” I said. “Just keep him on the leash.”
“I assume you mean Cheerio and not your father,” Papa Pete said.
I laughed.
“We’ll be there,” Papa Pete said. “One tall, proud grandpa. One short, crazy dog.”
“I love you, Papa Pete,” I said. Which was entirely true.
CHAPTER 20
THE DAY OF THE OLYMPIAD is a big deal at PS 87. Everything is decorated. The cafeteria has streamers, the bulletin boards have signs that say GO BLUE or YELLOW RULES. Even the trash cans are wrapped in crepe paper. Usually, they’re green, which is our school color. But on Olympiad Day, half of them are blue and the other half of them are, you guessed it, yellow.
When we walked up to school, Principal Love was waiting outside. Talk about school spirit, he was overflowing with it. I’m not kidding—even his clothes were cheering. For starters, he was wearing a scarf that his wife had knit that was half yellow and half blue. I noticed that the yellow half was hanging down the front of his overcoat, and the blue half was in the back. I wondered if that meant he was a yellow-ie at heart.
“Check out the feet,” Frankie whispered.
Principal Love always wears black Velcro shoes that squeak when he walks up and down the linoleum halls. On this particular day, he had replaced those beauties with two other Velcro shoes. One was blue. And the other was, you guessed it, yellow.
“Where do you even buy shoes like that?” I whispered to Frankie and Ashley.
“A clown store?” Frankie suggested.
“No, silly, they’re homemade,” said Ashley. “I bet he got white shoes and colored them with magic markers.”
“I hope it doesn’t rain,” Frankie said. “He’ll end up with polka-dot shoes.”
“Good morning, students,” Principal Love said in his loudspeaker voice. “Welcome to the Olympiad.”
“Hi, Principal Love,” we all muttered.
“Remember, children, the body, the mind, and the spirit all win today—regardless of whether you actually win or not. There’s no losing in winning and no losing in losing. Isn’t that right, Mr. Zipzer?”
“Absolutely, Principal Love,” I said, even though I had no idea of what he had just said. Everything he says sounds like it belongs in some really important library book. I’m sure as soon as someone figures out what he’s talking about, they’re going to write it down.
“And what team are you participating in today, Mr. Zipzer?” he asked.
I didn’t answer, but Ashley jumped right in.
“He’s pitching for the Yellow Softball Team,” she said right into his face. “And I’m not sure whether you know this or not, Principal Love, but I am the first female softball team manager in the history of PS 87.”
“Of course I know that, Manager Wong,” he said. “I read my newsletter cover to cover. I believe it’s a new age for women and that their particular age makes no difference in this age.”
Wow, he was doing it again. I think that sentence is going in the same book. Maybe he’ll call it Long Sentences That Make No Sense At All by Leland Love. I’d use my library card to check that one out.
As we were going up the stairs, Nick McKelty was racing down them. He was already wearing his blue T-shirt and carrying the bases to set up the softball diamond.
“Hey, Yellow Team punks,” he said. “I don’t know why you guys even bothered to show up today. You got no chance of winning. We’re going to wipe the bases with you.”
“Yeah, and my name is Bernice,” Frankie said.
No matter how many times I hear Frankie say that, it always makes me smile.
“And my name is Bruce,” McKelty shot back and laughed his hyena laugh as though he had said something funny. His comeback was so un-funny that we couldn’t even come back with a comeback.
“Gotcha!” McKelty said, and flicked me under the chin. “And good luck with your little throwing arm today. Hope it doesn’t give out on you.”
When we hit the second floor, Mr. Rock passed by us in the hall. He’s the music teacher and a really cool guy. In fact, he’s the teacher who first suggested to me that maybe I have dyslexia. And he didn’t make me feel bad when he said it.
“Hey, kids,” he said. “Hurry to your classroom and pick up your T-shirts. You should warm up before the game. Ashley, are you ready with your starting lineup?”
“Pretty much,” Ashley answered, “except for Hank. He’s giving me a hard time about pitching.”
“You kids go on ahead,” Mr. Rock said to Ashley and Frankie. “Let me have a word with Hank.”
I tried to avoid his eyes. When Mr. Rock looks at you, you’re forced to tell the truth.
“So, what’s up?” he said. “Are you having last-minute jitters?”
“First, last, and in-between minute jitters,” I said. “I can’t pitch. Everyone knows that.”
“Ashley thinks you can. Frankie, too. They told me you’re the team’s secret weapon. They say you’ve got a mean fast pitch.”
“I only threw that pitch for one day. Then it disappeared. I don’t know where it came from. I don’t know where it went.”
“It’s in there somewhere,” Mr. Rock said, pointing to my middle section. “If you did it once, you can do it again. Just concentrate on what you’re doing.”
“That only works for most people,” I said. “Not for me.”
Suddenly, it smelled like there was an open can of old tuna fish next to us. Mr. Rock must have smelled it, too, because we both turned our heads at the same time. Yup, there he was. Nick McKelty, the mouth breather, letting out gobs of bad breath. I looked down and the fabric of my shirt was starting to wrinkle.
“A little pre-game chatter?” he said, shooting some of his fishy breath over my way.
“Mr. McKelty, isn’t there some place you need to be?” Mr. Rock said.
“Yeah, the pitcher’s mound.” Nick the Tick grinned. “I’m gonna have the Yellow Team for lunch.” He gave me a slap on the back with his paw-sized hand. “This little guy is my first course.”
McKelty galloped off down the hall. I looked at Mr. Rock.
“What’s the use?” I said. “I was born to be on the bench.”
“Hank, you’ve got a decision to make, and today’s the day. Do you really want to sit on the sidelines your whole life? Or are you going to get in the game?”
Life is filled with questions, isn’t it? Whoa, do I wish I had a few answers.
CHAPTER 21
HOW DID I GET HERE? On the mound. I’m sure I said no over and over again to Ashley and Frankie and to anyone who would listen. But here I am, with two hundred people looking at me. Every eye on me. Every person waiting for me to do something. Anything.
Principal Love stood next to the bleachers, tapping his Velcro sneakers on the artificial turf, staring at me.
It was exactly noon. We had been playing for almost an hour, and the score was 6 to 5 in favor of the Yellow Team. It was the last inning, and the Blue Team was up. There was still time for them to score and win the game.
My Yellow Team had used four pitchers, and for one reason or another, they all had to leave the game. Even our ace, Ryan Shimozato, who had pitched every one of his Little League games since first grade without so much as a sprained ankle, had to leave the field. Normally, Ryan’s a ball-throwing machine, but, wouldn’t you know it, in the last inning of the Olympiad game, he trips over second base on his way to third and lands on his right hand. His pitching hand.
I had been sitting on the bench the whole game. Actually, I had been sitting on my mitt with the ball in it, which is not all that comfortable. Papa Pete hadn’t shown up with Cheerio. My confidence level was so low, it felt like it was around my ankles.
When I saw Ryan catch his left foot under the second base bag, my heart sank. He flew through the air as if in slow motion, bounced on his right side, and, yup, landed on his right pitching hand.
Everyone in the stands was up on their feet. Only one person on that whole entire field was high-fiving the rest of his teammates. You know who that was ... of course you do. It was Nicky Ticky McKelty.
“Alright!” the big moron yelled. “They lost another pitcher! The Blue Team rules!”
Ms. Adolf, who was umping the game, ran as best as she could to see if Ryan was okay. I could tell he was trying not to cry in front of that big crowd. I know how that feels. I started yelling, “Way to go, Ryan! You are the coolest!”