Help! Somebody Get Me Out of Fourth Grade (2 page)

It's amazing to me how one kid can make you so mad. Who was he, Nick the Tick McKelty, to tell me that I was being left back in the fourth grade?

Wait a minute. He might be right. I mean, I did get a four Ds on my report card. And I still can't spell. And math . . . well . . . enough said about that. I don't even know my right from my left.

I'm going to be the only kid in my class repeating the fourth grade. That means I'm going to be in the same grade as my sister and her geeky, fact-spewing, nose-blowing, allergic-to-chocolate-cake boyfriend, Robert Upchurch.

I exploded out of my chair, my hand shooting up into the air.

“Ms. Adolf,” I shouted before she even called on me. “Can I go to the library?”

“The library? You?”

“I have to find out how to dig a hole deep enough so that I can crawl into it and never be seen again!”

USUALLY WHEN the recess bell rings, Frankie and I are the first ones out of class and in line for tetherball. Frankie's the tetherball champ of PS 87. No kidding. When they put tetherball into the Olympics, Frankie Townsend will get the gold medal, for sure. And while we're discussing the Olympics, can anyone tell me why tetherball isn't an Olympic sport and synchronized swimming is? Girls in nose plugs? Give me a break. They should give
us
a gold medal for watching
them
!

Don't tell anybody about this, but I once tried synchronized swimming in my bathtub. I put my legs up high in the air, lost my balance, fell over, and caused a tidal wave so big that it flooded the bathroom. There was so much water on the floor and so few towels that I panicked. I jumped out of the tub and watched in horror as the water flowed under the door and into our hallway. I flung open the door and bolted for the linen closet to get more towels. As I grabbed for a stack of towels and headed for the bathroom, I ran smack into my nine-year-old sister, Emily. Towels flew everywhere. I was totally naked, and she was totally screaming at the top of her lungs, which made me scream at the top of mine.

That little scream fest made our dachshund, Cheerio, start spinning in circles, which he does when he gets really nervous. As he spun right by me, I tripped over him and went sliding down the linoleum hall like a bowling ball, stopping just in time to wave hello to my mom, who was doing the dinner dishes.

“Hank, why are you sliding around naked?” my mom said.

“Just practicing my synchronized swimming, Mom. Gotta go.”

Wait a minute. Where was I? Oh, yeah, I was telling you about how I like to be first in line for tetherball. I lose focus sometimes. Your mind wanders a lot when you have learning challenges like I do. My dad always says, “Stay focused.” Hey, that's not as easy as it sounds.

The point here is that when the recess bell rang, I couldn't bolt out of my chair for the playground like I usually do. My legs felt like each one weighed about a thousand pounds.

“Let's jet,” Frankie said to me. “What are you waiting for?”

“I have more important things than tetherball on my mind,” I answered.

“What could be more important than that?”

“Being left back,” I said. The thought was so scary, I was barely able to say the words. “I think McKelty was right.”

“Hank,” Ashley said, putting on her red baseball cap, which she had decorated with a rhinestone smiley face. “Nick McKelty hasn't been right about anything since the brontosaurus walked the Earth.”

“McKelty said that he knows for sure that I'm going to have to repeat the fourth grade,” I said.

“Zip, my man, the only person who knows that info for sure is Ms. Adolfopolis, the flesh-eating tyrannosaurus of the fourth grade,” Frankie chimed in.

That's why Frankie is my best friend. Even at my lowest, he can make me laugh.

“Hank, you're not going to be left back,” Ashley said. “You've got to relax. Do what Frankie always says. Breathe.”

“Yeah,” Frankie said. “Enjoy that air shooting into your lungs.”

Frankie's mom, who is a yoga teacher, has taught him all about what she calls power breathing. You take a deep breath in through your nose and blow it really slowly out your mouth, letting all your worries float out into the universe. I tried taking a power breath, but halfway through it, I kind of choked. My worries did not want to go into the universe—they wanted to stay right there, somewhere between my left nostril and my throat.

“Listen, guys. I can't breathe,” I whispered. “I can't eat. I can't play tetherball. I can't think about anything else until I know for sure.”

Ms. Adolf was putting on her gray sweater to get ready to go out for recess duty. She stood up behind her desk and looked out at us over her gray glasses.

“What are you children doing still inside?” she asked. “Mr. Zipzer, it isn't like you to be doing extra-credit work.”

Ashley poked me in the ribs.

“Go ask her,” she whispered. “Or do you want me to?”

“I'll do it,” I said. “It's my future.”

How hard could this be? I'd just look Ms. Adolf right in the eyes and say, “I'm sure Nick McKelty was just messing with me, but I want to make sure that you're not going to make me repeat the fourth grade.” It was a simple sentence in the American language, which I happen to have been speaking since I was two years old. I could do this. No problem.

I walked up to Ms. Adolf's desk. The walk from my desk to hers seemed like a hundred million miles. I looked at her and swallowed hard.

“Ms. Adolf,” I began. “I have a very important question to ask you. It's about the fifth grade.”

“Yes,” she said. “Don't just stand there, Henry. I don't have all day.”

“Am I . . .”

Suddenly, the door to our classroom flew open, and a sixth-grader rushed in.

“Ms. Adolf,” he said. “They told me to come get you immediately. Mr. Sicilian was called to Principal Love's office, so there's no teacher on playground duty.”

“I'm right in the middle of something, young man,” she said.

“This can't wait. Robert Upchurch got his tie caught on the seesaw, and he can't get off. He says he's getting nauseous, and he's about to toss his string cheese.”

“Oh my, this
is
an emergency,” Ms. Adolf said. Without even looking at me, she ran out the door.

“I can't believe it,” I said, pacing back and forth in front of the desk. “Robert Upchurch screws everything up again. I'm right in the middle of the most important question of . . .”

My tongue froze mid-sentence. That's because my eyeballs landed on something that I wish they hadn't seen.

“Hey, guys, come here,” I whispered. “Look at this. Ms. Adolf left her roll book out of the drawer.”

This was definitely a first. Ms. Adolf keeps her roll book locked in her top drawer at all times, except when she's calling roll or entering grades. She wears the silver key to that drawer on a lanyard around her neck. It spends its entire life bouncing around her chest, like it's stuck on some icky roller-coaster ride.

I looked at the dark blue roll book sitting there on top of her desk. The answer to my fifth-grade future was calling to me from inside its cover. Just one peek inside would tell me if I was going to be a fourth-grader again, or if I could move on like all my other friends.

“Hank,” Ashley whispered. “Are you thinking what I'm thinking you're thinking?”

“I think so,” I answered.

“You can't do it,” Ashley said.

“I'll just look at my name. Zipzer. It's the last one. I know exactly where it is. I won't let my eyes wander to anyone else's name.”

“What if she comes back and sees you?” Frankie said.

“She's not coming back right away,” I whispered. “She's on the playground with Robert, untying his tie.”

“That's her roll book, dude,” Frankie said. “She catches you with your hands on that, she's going to send you back all the way to preschool. If you're not careful, you're going to be singing ‘Wheels on the Bus' with a bunch of ankle-biters spitting up all over your Mets T-shirt.”

Frankie was right, and I knew it. If Ms. Adolf caught me looking through her precious secret roll book, she would be really mad, madder even than she gets at Luke Whitman when he picks his nose and wipes his picking finger on the blackboard eraser.

But on the other hand, I had to know what was in there. I just had to. It wasn't like I was just a little curious. There was a super loud voice in my head saying,
Hank, you must find out about your future
.

I looked at the roll book, then over at Ashley and Frankie. I didn't know what to do.

1. It's not mine.

2. I don't have her permission.

3. She's told us we can't.

4. No living fourth-grader has ever dared to look in there before.

5. I might see one of her cooties walking across the page.

6. The cootie could attack me and bite me, and I'd turn into a grumpy, gray-faced fourth-grade teacher with lint on my skirt.

7. What if Ms. Adolf set a finger trap in there that would snap onto my fingers and never come off?

8. I need all my fingers, in case one day I decide to play keyboards in a rock band.

9. Come on, Hank. Who are you kidding???? You know you're going to do it!

P.S. I know, I know. You don't have to remind me that there are only nine reasons on the list. I couldn't come up with the tenth. As soon as I do, I'll let you know. But don't hold your breath.

IT WAS LIKE the roll book was yelling out to me.

I reached my hand out toward its dark blue cover. This was making me plenty nervous. I knew if Ms. Adolf ever caught me, it would be curtains. I could feel sweat forming on all parts of my body—the back of my neck, my forehead, and I don't mean to gross you out, but even in the little wrinkles behind my knees.

It was really quiet in the classroom. The only sound was the big hand on the clock clicking to the next minute. I took a step forward. The rest of my life was just inside that book. I took a deep breath and reached out.

“Will you hurry up, already?” Ashley said in a loud whisper. “If you're going to do it, do it!”

Her voice scared me so much that I almost jumped out of my sneakers, which wasn't easy because they were tied tight with a double knot.