A Brand-New Me! (2 page)

He looked up and without taking a breath, added, “And why are you still standing? Take a seat. Any seat. The red chair will do.”

I knew that chair . . . my old friend, the red chair. I've sat in that chair for the last six years. I know exactly where to rub my jeans across its leather to make it sound like I had beans for lunch, if you know what I mean. I sat down and before I could get completely comfortable, Principal Love continued. He couldn't wait to have his words fill the room until I thought the walls were going to pop like a balloon that was pumped with too much helium.

“I have been watching you, Mr. Zipzer, since your first day of kindergarten, and let me just say, the word impressed has never entered my mind. Other words have, however. Lazy, irresponsible, not living up to your potential, class clown, and impulsive . . . just to name a few. All these words help form an impression of a person who does not want to graduate, who is on his way not to graduate, and who in fact, may never leave this school.”

“But . . .” I started to say.

“No buts about it,” he interrupted. “The world of education recognizes those students who are willing to extend themselves through hard work, concentration, and . . .”

“But . . .” I tried to say. I mean, I really had to defend myself here.

“There's that but again,” Principal Love said. “I suggest you open your ears and close your mouth and hear what I have to say, because what I have to say is what you need to hear, which you can only do with your ears and not your mouth.”

“But, I . . .”

“No, Mr. Zipzer,” he said pointing at me with his hairy, stubby index finger. I looked closely at it and noticed he bites his fingernails. Wow, I thought only kids did that. “Listen, don't speak.”

I felt pretty good about my response, though. At least I got in two words. You definitely have to admit that's progress.

“Mr. Zipzer,” Principal Love went on. “I know what you're about to say. I've heard every reason, every excuse, every wisecrack . . . all of which have brought you to this sad and bleak and embarrassing moment.”

Oh, I
had
to answer that.

“B . . . b . . . b . . . b . . . b . . .”

He stood up suddenly, held up his hand, and just said, “NO! You will not make use of your mouth, lips, or tongue.”

On the one hand, it was too bad that he wouldn't let me speak, but on the other hand, saying all those b's in a row made my lips buzz. At least they were having fun.

“As the records show, Mr. Zipzer, you have done exactly zero hours of community service.”

Oh right. We're back to that again. I almost forgot why I was in here
.

“But I can explain why, sir.”

“Your explanations are of no interest to me, Mr. Zipzer. Here's all you need to know. You have exactly ten days to complete your required twenty hours of community service. What are your plans to accomplish that?”

I had no plans, but I did have a thought.

“Principal Love,” I said with a big smile. “What is your favorite suggestion of something I could do to fulfill my requirement?”

I thought he'd be pleased that I was asking for his input. But it didn't quite work out that way.

“Good try, Mr. Zipzer,” he snapped. “But this is something you should be in charge of, not me. It has to be your passion. What are you passionate about?”

“You mean community service wise?” I asked.

“What do you think we're talking about here, young man?”

Wow, that was a hard question. What was I passionate about, community service wise? Once I volunteered at the animal shelter and held some really cute puppies. Until that little schnauzer with the white spot on his chest peed on me. That kind of brought my passion level way down. And another time, Frankie and I collected litter on Rockaway Beach until we found a dollar and went off to buy ice cream sandwiches at the snack bar . . . which is also one of my passions. I like the ones that have three flavors of ice cream including strawberry.

“Hey, Principal Love. I do have a passion. Can I see how many ice cream sandwiches I could eat in ten days? Would that work?”

“Leave my office right now, young man, and don't come back until you've written out a plan to complete your community service. And keep in mind what happens to people who don't graduate fifth grade. Turn that over in your mind a few times. Perhaps that image will kick-start your wandering brain.”

My brain wandered out of that office as fast as it could, and before I could stop it, it had wandered itself right into a list of what happens to people who don't complete the fifth grade.

If you're curious, turn the page.

1. You get to ignore the alarm clock and sleep as late as you want. How great is that!

2. You get to lie on the couch and watch TV all day. Wow, that sounds wonderful.

3. You get to eat pizza for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Wow, why didn't I think of that before?

4. You get to play video games until your thumbs fall off. Who needs thumbs, anyway . . . you wouldn't have to hold a pencil anymore.

5. You get to see your friends whenever you want and watch movies on the computer. Yeah, that's the life.

6. Wait a minute. What am I thinking? If I slept late every day, I'd miss the morning. And I really like the morning, especially the smell of cooking waffles coming out of everyone's windows.

7. And about that all-day TV watching . . . come to think of it, it's mostly soap operas that are on, and everybody's yelling at one another . . . and if they're not yelling, they're kissing. Ick.

8. Pizza for breakfast, lunch, and dinner? Hey, I love pizza, but the thought of eating it three times a day every day is making me burp, and I haven't even had one piece yet.

9. And playing video games really gets boring after a while. And I don't want my thumbs to fall off. I like my thumbs. They really come in handy when you're giving a thumbs-up sign.

10. And about hanging out with your friends all day . . . well, that's not going to happen . . . they'd all be in school. That's where I should be!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So, let me ask you a question. Anyone out there got any good ideas for community service projects???

Whoops. False alarm. You can stop thinking about community service projects for me now. Mr. Rock, great guy that he is, came to my rescue.

I had just pulled Principal Love's office door closed when Mr. Rock, who is the music teacher at PS 87, came strolling down the hall, carrying three clarinets, two saxophones, and a trombone. He could barely see out from behind all those horns.

“Hey, Hank,” he said. His voice sounded pretty weird, because he was talking into the cone of the trombone. It sounded like he was a baby whale underwater calling for his mommy. “I really need your help.”

“Sure, Mr. Rock. Let me take those saxophones off your hands.”

I reached out and tried to remove the instruments from the tangle of horns, but Mr. Rock's fingers were wrapped around them pretty tightly.

“You can let go now, Mr. Rock. I got them.”

“Please be careful not to let them drop, Hank. These are the only ones we've got, and the school has no money to replace them.”

I took the two horns and followed Mr. Rock down the stairs to the music room in the basement, concentrating so hard on not letting them slip out of my hands.

“Can I ask you a question, Mr. Rock? Why are you carting all these horns around the hall? Not that there's anything wrong with that.”

“These are the instruments that the band members were borrowing to practice at home,” he answered. “I'm collecting them all, and I'm going to have to sterilize them, polish them, and store them for next year. It's a big job.”

Bingo!

I don't know what you're thinking, but what I was thinking starts with the letters C and S and rhymes with
zammunity bervice.

“Hey, Mr. Rock,” I said as we approached the door to the music room. “If I helped you clean and polish and store the instruments, would you call that a service to our community?”

“Of course I would, Hank. You would not only be helping me, but also the students who participate in band next year.”

“Great,” I said. “Then I'm volunteering. Raising my hand. Signing myself up for the job.”

“You know, Hank. This isn't a one day task. You'd have to come to me after school every day for at least a week.”

“Now that you mention it, Mr. Rock, I'm sure that it will take just about twenty hours. Wouldn't you say?”

By then, we were inside the music room. Mr. Rock switched on the lights, laid the clarinets and the trombone down on his desk, took the two saxophones out of my arms, and put them on their stands. Then he turned to face me, and he had this funny smile on his face. Don't get me wrong. It was a nice smile, the kind that says, “I know what you're up to, young man.”

“You weren't by any chance discussing your community service requirement with Principal Love, were you?”

“Funny you should ask.” I smiled back. “That's exactly what we were discussing. Correction. We were not discussing it. He was lecturing and I was nodding.”

“I've nodded with him a time or two myself,” Mr. Rock said with a laugh. “But I found it to be a great neck exercise.”

That's the cool thing about Mr. Rock. He's not like other grown-ups who think all other grown-ups are so correct. He's willing to see things from a kid's point of view.

He stuck his hand out, shook my hand, and said, “This is our contract, Hank. You help me with the instruments, and I'll sign your community service form. You have to do the work, though.”

“I will, Mr. Rock. I promise.”

“Great. Do you have the form with you?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

I reached into my Mets jacket pocket and pulled out the crumpled pink mess that was my community service slip. The gum wads were still there, of course. The thing about gum wads is that they just don't disappear when you want them to.

I flinched when Mr. Rock reached for it.

“I can explain,” I said.

“No need,” Mr. Rock answered, pulling his hand back without touching the paper. “I think I understand what happened. But you might want to stop at the office and pick up a new slip.”

“Done,” I said. “But can I just give you one small tip, Mr. Rock?” I pointed to a particularly large wad of purple gum that was smooshed in between a green wad and a pink wad. “This grape-raspberry burst Bubbletastic lasts the longest.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Mr. Rock said.

With that, I bolted out of the music room and headed straight for the office to get my new community service form from Mrs. Crock. It felt like a three-ton hippopotamus had been lifted off my shoulders. I mean, one minute I was in a gigantic pickle (which I love, by the way). And the next minute, a Zipzer solution came flying out of my brain.

Sometimes it's great to be me!

I walked home, and I promise you, I was taller. Or at least it felt that way. It's amazing what finding a solution to a problem can do for you. And I have to confess, the idea of graduating from PS 87 wasn't a bad idea, either. It was time for me to move on. To see what the future held. To take responsibility for my new life.

Whoa, just hold on there, brain. Take responsibility? I don't think so. Maybe I'll just stick with graduating from the fifth grade first.

As I hurried down 78th Street and crossed over Amsterdam Avenue, I saw Mr. Kim putting water in all of the flower buckets in front of his corner grocery store.

“Hi, Hank,” he said. “How was your day?”

“Hi right back at you, Mr. Kim,” I said, giving him a high five. “My day is looking better and better every minute.”

“Then you should celebrate,” Mr. Kim said. He reached over the flowers and grabbed a big bunch of something leafy and green with big, round, lightbulb-looking things at the bottom.

“Here,” Mr. Kim said. “Have some bok choy. Enjoy.”

“Wow, Mr. Kim. This is so . . . um . . . unexpected. And so organic. And so . . . what do I do with it?”

“Your mother will know.”

“Uh-oh. That's a dangerous thought. Knowing her, she'll put it in the pot looking all nice and green, and then she'll add octopus suction cups and who knows what else, and it will come out all brown and slimy and stinky, like everything else she cooks. And if you ever see her,” I added, “please don't tell her I said that.”

Mr. Kim laughed. “It's our secret.”

I tucked the bok choy into my backpack and ran the rest of the way to our apartment building. I even heard myself singing as I stepped into the elevator and punched ten. I don't sing often, and if you heard me, you'd know why. But this is what I sang.

Okay, I didn't promise you a good song, but it's my song, and trust me, it felt really good coming out of my throat.

When I burst thought the door of our apartment, the first thing I saw was my dad, sitting in his boxers at the dining room table, staring at his computer screen, which was filled with columns of little irritating numbers.