Summer School! What Genius Thought That Up? (2 page)

Frankie always seems so confident. Why shouldn't he be? Things are easy for him. Like he and Ashley are both great students, not like me who has a hard time in school.

“Check this out, Zip,” Frankie said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I'm going to start with a layer of soystrami, then a layer of pickles, soy turkey, a layer of green olives, soylami, and a layer of pimentos. On Wonder bread, with melted provolone on each slice.”

“I must be really hungry,” Ashley said, “because that's actually sounding good to me.”

In case you aren't familiar with soystrami or soylami, they are what my mom calls “mock deli meats.” My mom's mission in life is to create healthy deli luncheon meats for the twenty-first century. So she takes perfectly delicious foods like pastrami and salami and messes them up by adding stuff like soy and crushed walnuts, putting them smack in the middle of the no-taste zone.

“Wait until you hear my recipe,” Ashley said. “I've got a triple decker that's going to roll your socks up and down.”

But just as she opened her mouth to describe it, Dr. Townsend stood up and clinked on his glass with a spoon. Dr. Townsend, Frankie's dad, loves to make speeches and toasts. Whenever I go to dinner at their house, even if it's just a regular dinner on a Wednesday night, he clinks on a glass to get everyone's attention and then launches into one of his long toasts. He's a professor of African-American Studies at Columbia University and he's really smart, but he uses more big words in one sentence than most people use in a year. I always need Frankie to translate what he's saying.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Dr. Townsend began, having gotten the attention of everyone in the deli, “I believe we should all take this opportunity to salute the ancient ritual surrounding the summer solstice.”

“Wow, that sounds like fun,” I whispered to Frankie. “If only I knew what he was saying.”

“Let us raise our vessels with joy and anticipation,” Dr. Townsend said, “as we surrender to the season of relaxation and renewal.”

“Yes! Yes!” I shouted, before I could stop myself.

It all sounded so good that it took me a second to realize I didn't have the slightest idea what I was yes-yes-ing.

“Frankie, can you translate?” I whispered.

“Sure, Zip. He said have a nice summer.”

“He did? Then of course yes-yes.”

“And profound gratitude to the Zipzers,” Dr. Townsend continued, raising his glass toward my mom and dad, who were standing by the buffet table. My mom had some coleslaw hanging from her blond, curly hair. She always has something from the menu in her hair. My dad was wearing his glasses on the tip of his nose, like he does when he works a crossword puzzle. They both looked kind of goofy but very happy. “You have our deepest appreciation for providing this neighborhood festivity with a sumptuous feast,” Dr. Townsend said.

I looked at Frankie. I didn't even have to ask for a translation.

“He said thanks for dinner.”

“Yes! Yes!” I hollered. Whoops, I did it again.

That really made Ashley laugh.

“And most of all, I raise my glass to the children in the room,” Dr. Townsend said, turning to us. “My congratulations on a finely executed school year. Enjoy this well-earned season of freedom as you begin your Junior Explorers Summer Program, so rife with adventure, amusement, and surprise.”

Everyone in the deli started to applaud. Frankie stood up and took a bow. He loves the spotlight. Everyone applauded even louder.

“Come forward, children, so we can gaze at the bliss radiating from your faces,” Dr. Townsend said.

All the kids went to stand next to Dr. Townsend. Frankie and Ashley, Robert and Emily, Ryan Shimozato and Heather Payne, who go to school with us and live in the neighborhood. We all took a bow. It was really fun.

Suddenly, I heard a voice from the back of the room, a voice that never, ever has anything nice to say. It was Nick the Tick McKelty, the meanest mouth in the entire fourth grade. I hadn't seen him come in, but his dad owns the bowling alley a few streets uptown, so I'm sure my mom and dad invited them.

“Sit down, Ziphead!” McKelty shouted. “He's not talking about you.”

That McKelty. Leave it to him. I could feel my face starting to turn red.

“He's talking about us kids in the Junior Explorers Program,” McKelty shouted, “not the dummies like you who have to go to summer school.”

“Excuse me, Nicholas,” Dr. Townsend said.

“I'm wishing all the children a wonderful summer, regardless of what program they're attending.”

That was nice of him to say, but it was too late. Everyone in the deli had already heard McKelty. I'm sure they were all feeling sorry for me, the dummy who has to go to summer school.

They were right. Everyone else was going to be a Junior Explorer.

Not me, though. I was going to summer school.

Stupid, boring, horrible, hideous summer school.

1. You can't dump summer school into a washing machine and make the stink go away.

2. Gym socks are soft and comfortable. Need I say more?

3. You can take a pair of socks off anytime you want. You have to sit in summer school from nine to three no matter what.

4. Socks come in all sizes. Summer school only comes in three sizes: tight, tighter, and cuts off the blood flow to your brain.

5. Gym socks help me play. Summer school keeps me out of the game.

6. Gym socks absorb sweat. Summer school makes it collect between my toes. That's right—a lake between my toes.

7. Gym socks are perfect for playing toe basketball. But did you ever try to slam-dunk a classroom into your waste-basket?

8. There are many uses for gym socks—dusting your computer keyboard, shining your shoes, blowing your nose. I can't think of one good use for summer school.

9. You can use gym socks to make hand puppets to entertain small children. Summer school, on the other hand, would make them hide under the couch.

10. No matter how badly my gym socks stink, trust me, summer school stinks more.

“I' NOT GETTING UP,” I said, burying my face in my pillow.

“Hank, it's the first day of summer school,” my dad said. “You can't be late. Remember, first impressions are . . .”

“. . . everlasting,” I cut in. “I know, Dad.”

It's not like I'm a mind reader or anything. It's just that I've heard all my dad's sayings a lot of times so I can finish them before he does.

“Tell you what, Dad. Since it looks like I'm going to be late, I think I should just skip school today altogether.”

I dove under my blue-and-white striped blanket, hoping my dad would leave my room and forget that I was there. I counted to ten. Then to twenty. My dad didn't say a word, so I figured that maybe he had left to go get some breakfast. Slowly, I edged up toward my pillow and stuck my eyes out from under the blanket.

“Boo!” my dad said, his face pressed really close to mine. He laughed really hard, like he used to do when I was little and we played peek-a-boo.

Sure, easy for him to be in a good mood. He wasn't going to have to spend most of his summer sitting inside a classroom while all his friends were outside being Junior Explorers—swimming and running and jumping and making lanyards to hold their apartment keys around their necks.

“Your mom was up very late last night, cleaning up from ‘Beat the Heat with Deli Meat' evening,” my dad said. “I'm letting her sleep in, so I made breakfast for you. How's that for being a good dad?”

“What kind of good dad would make his only beloved son go to summer school?”

I was hoping he'd feel guilty and tell me I didn't have to go. It didn't work. Not even close. Instead, I got the “Be Positive” lecture.

“Hank, you need to be positive about things. Why don't you try looking at your cup as half full?”

“Dad, I'm looking in my cup, and at this moment, I can't see any liquid whatsoever.”

My dad pulled the covers off me and gestured toward the bathroom. I had no choice now but to get up, walk into the bathroom, and wash Mr. Sandman out of my eyes. I heard my dad's leather slippers flip-flopping on the floor, following me into the bathroom. I knew he had more lecture on the tip of his tongue, and sure enough, he waited until I was brushing my teeth so I wouldn't be able to answer.

“Maybe summer school will be a positive and fulfilling experience for you,” he said.

I almost swallowed my toothbrush. With my mouth so full of toothpaste foam and bristles, all I could do was make a sound that sounded like
youf fot to fee fridding
.

“No, I'm not kidding,” my dad answered.

That was weird. How did he know what I had said? I wonder if parents take a class in understanding their kids when their mouths are full of toothpaste.

“To be perfectly truthful, Hank, fourth grade was really hard for you,” he went on. “I believe going to school this summer might give you a leg up on the fifth grade.”

I was finished brushing my teeth, so I was all clear to say everything I wanted to say.

“But, Dad, summers were invented for kids to kick back and relax. To journey into uncharted territories of new fun.”

“You'll have plenty of time to relax,” my dad said, obviously not as impressed with me as I was. “We're going to the Jersey Shore for a week.”

“That's not until the end of August.”

“Well, after school, I'll pick you up and we'll play exciting games of Scrabble Junior,” my dad said, looking like he had just had the brainstorm of the year.

“We've tried that already, Dad. Remember? I can't spell.”

“And there you have the reason for summer school.”

I couldn't think of another thing to say, so I just stormed off to the kitchen to eat my breakfast.

Wouldn't you know it, it was alphabet cereal.

“ALOHA, CAMPERS and students alike!” Principal Leland Love was inside the main door of PS 87, all five-feet-four inches of him, wearing a Hawaiian shirt that was so big I could have used it as a tent for an overnight in the woods.

“Check out his outfit,” Frankie whispered to me as we walked inside the school lobby. “Great shirt, if you're a dancing elephant.”

“I just read in
Teens in the Know
that people express themselves with their clothes,” Ashley said. “Obviously, he's trying to tell us something.”

“That there's a short Hawaiian wrestler inside him, dying to get out,” Frankie said.

“Let's hope he doesn't succeed,” Ashley answered, and we all cracked up together.

Principal Love saw us laughing, but he was clueless, as usual. He never suspects when we're laughing at him.

“Ah, laughing faces of children always make my heart burst into song,” he said, slapping me on the shoulder as I tried to sneak by. And, get this. He actually started to sing.

If this song was even a tiny sample of what summer school was going to be like, I was going to have to bolt for parts unknown. The only thing that stopped me was Mr. Rock's friendly face, greeting us as he jogged down the stairs to the school lobby. Mr. Rock is the music teacher at PS 87, and trust me, if you could pick any teacher in the world for your teacher, he's the one you'd pick. It's as if he knows what kids are thinking before they even think it.

Like he could see that I was thinking about how I could escape to the Central Park Zoo and spend the summer living in the monkey habitat. Hey, I love monkeys. They're so funny.

“Hi, Hank,” he said. “You're in my class.”

That was the first good news I had heard all morning. Well, let's be honest. It wasn't truly
good
news like “Hey, there's an all-night kung fu movie marathon on TV tonight.” After all, I still had to go to summer school. Let's just say it was just
okay
news, which is better than terrible news, if you know what I mean. Anyway, Mr. Rock could definitely see that I wasn't jumping up and down with joy.

“I promise you, Hank, summer school will not be the worst experience you've ever had on this planet or any other.”

“Mr. Rock,” I whispered, “I know you're trying to make me feel better, but it's not working.”

Before Mr. Rock could answer me, Principal Love held up a megaphone to his mouth.

“If you're a Junior Explorer, stand to the left of the stairs. If you're in summer school, stand to the right, please.”

Almost everyone went to the left of the stairs. I did too. That's because I still can't figure out my right from my left. I almost got it a couple of weeks ago when I fell during dodgeball and skinned my left knee. For a whole week, I could tell my left from my right by where the scab was. But when it healed and fell off, I was just as confused as before.

“Mr. Zipzer,” I heard Principal Love saying through the megaphone, “you are to go to the RIGHT side of the stairs. The summer-school side.”

Could this be any more embarrassing? Well, maybe. If Principal Love was on the top of the Empire State Building with a megaphone the size of a blimp, shouting out across the entire city:
“Hank Zipzer does not know his left from his right, and that is only one of the many reasons he has to go to summer school!”