A Brand-New Me! (7 page)

“I don't usually exercise with it,” she answered. “I'll make the call tomorrow, Hank.”

I didn't say a word, just kept staring at her. Then Dr. Berger looked through the open door to the gym and saw that Ms. Adolf was leading the class in an enthusiastic version of a disco favorite. She smiled at me.

“The class is in good hands,” she said. “Let's go to my office and use the phone there.”

As we walked down the stairs to Dr. Berger's office, my mind was swimming with thoughts. Ten of them, to be exact.

1. Let them say yes.

2. Let them say yes.

3. Let them say yes.

4. Let them say yes.

5. Let them say yes.

6. Let them say yes.

7. Let them say yes.

8. Let them say yes.

9. Let them say yes.

10. Let them say yes.

They did say yes.

As it turned out, the regular auditions were over, but there was a makeup day, and it was scheduled for the next Saturday. At first they said I couldn't audition because it was too late, but Dr. Berger told them that they really should meet me, which made me feel great. But then they said that the other reason I couldn't audition was that I hadn't filled out the application for the school. But when Dr. Berger assured them that I would do the application that night and have my parents drop it by in the morning, they said yes.

Wow, they said yes!

Mr. Rock walked me home so that he could explain the situation to my parents, and help me fill out the application. I carried the manila folder with the application that the school had faxed to Dr. Berger's office. Knowing how things seem to disappear in my backpack and never return, I was afraid to put it in there. I didn't want to take any chances that it would wind up covered in sticky gum wads like my community service notice.

“How do you think your parents are going to feel about you applying to the Professional Performing Arts School?” Mr. Rock asked as we crossed Amsterdam Avenue.

“Well, my mom is pretty strong in the supportive department. My dad, on the other hand, will probably stare at me for forty-five seconds and then give me one of his crossword puzzle answers . . . two letters across, two letters down, both of them N and O.”

“Hey, Hank, you have to think positively. Why would you think your dad would immediately say no?”

We were walking past Mr. Kim's grocery store now, and I waved to him as he was organizing the orange display.

“Because it's his favorite word in the English language. Remember when you came to our house to tell my parents you thought I had a learning challenge? What was the first thing my dad said to you? Let me refresh your memory,” I went on, before Mr. Rock could even respond. “He said, ‘NO, he doesn't.'”

“You have a point there,” Mr. Rock agreed. “But maybe this time it will be different.”

By then, we had reached the front door to my apartment building. I used my key to get into the lobby, and then pushed the button for the elevator. While we were waiting for it to come, I noticed that my foot seemed to be tapping like it had a mind of its own. I tried to make it stop by stepping on it with my other foot, but all that did was make me say, “Ouch.” I think my foot was telling me that I was nervous.

It was not the only part of my body talking to me. By the time we got into the elevator, my stomach had joined in, flipping around like an acrobat in the circus. I really wanted this audition to happen, but it wasn't up to me. My foot and my stomach were shouting to Stanley Zipzer, “Let the kid give it a try. Maybe he'll get into this school.” But I knew from experience that Stanley Zipzer was a tough nut to crack.

Mr. Rock wasn't prepared for what he saw when I opened the door to our apartment. Katherine, who is usually the laziest iguana in captivity, was running down the linoleum hallway at a speed I had no idea was in her. On her tail, and I mean actually on her tail, was our dachshund, Cheerio, chasing her like she was his favorite biscuit with legs. Usually, Cheerio gives Katherine a lot of space and pretty much ignores her. But she must have thrown one hissy fit in his direction too many, and the poor guy finally cracked. He was barking and growling and yipping all at the same time.

Right behind Cheerio was Emily, shrieking at the top of her lungs.

“Bad dog, Cheerio!” she hollered. “Katherine didn't mean to hiss at you. She was just trying to tell you that you were invading her personal space.”

But Katherine and Cheerio kept running. You could tell even if you weren't looking at her, because you could hear her iguana nails and his wiener doggy nails clicking along the linoleum.

“Here, Cheerio,” my mom called out, coming into the hall from the kitchen. “Leave Katherine alone and come get a treat Mommy baked for you. It's a yummy wheatgrass and Brazil nut doggy biscuit.”

Cheerio stopped in his tracks and gave my mom's biscuit a sniff. Instead of taking a bite, he started to sneeze. And not just one sneeze, but a whole slew of them.

“Bless you, honey,” my mom said. “Now take a bite.”

Cheerio looked at my mom's face as if to say, “Wheatgrass and Brazil nuts . . . are you kidding?”

Then he turned on his short but swift back two legs and took off after Katherine, who by this time, had bolted into the living room and was trying to dig a hole through the rug.

“I've found the net,” my dad hollered, running out of his bedroom waving an old trout fishing net that he kept by his desk and used for nerf basketball practice.

“No, Dad!” Emily screamed. “You can't trap Katherine in that net. It's disgusting. It smells like old fish.”

But there was no talking to my dad, who was already crawling around the living room on his knees, trying to swoop Katherine up in the net.

“Welcome to the Zipzer looney farm,” I whispered to Mr. Rock.

“Seems like a regular family to me,” he said with a smile.

Thank goodness Papa Pete was there or my family would still be running around the apartment like they were caught in a never-ending fire drill.

“Here, Cheerio,” he said, coming out of the kitchen, and holding a real world treat in his hand. “I got a nice slice of corned beef for you.”

Cheerio didn't even stop. He just spun in a circle and made a beeline for Papa Pete. Well, actually not for Papa Pete, but for his corned beef. He gobbled that meat down without even taking the time to chew, and his tail started to wag so fast, I could feel the wind against my cheek. Cheerio's corned beef break gave Katherine the opportunity to jump into Emily's arms and bury her head in her armpit. I'm surprised that stupid reptile didn't pass out from the fumes.

Emily immediately ran into her room, and put Katherine back into her glass tank.

“I'm going to play Kathy some classical music,” she said, “to soothe her nerves. Tell me, Kathy. Do you want Beethoven or Mozart?”

“Like that lower life form knows the difference,” I yelled at her.

Emily slammed the door shut with her foot, which is her favorite comeback to one of my jokes.

It was at that moment that all the adults in the room finally looked up and noticed that Mr. Rock was in the apartment. My mom turned beet red, like one of her vegetable concoctions, and started to stammer.

“Oh my. This is so embarrassing. I didn't notice you were here. You must think we're . . . oh my. Well, hello. Hi. I mean hi there. I mean hi there, Mr. Rock.”

“Mom, you just said hello eight times,” I pointed out.

“Won't you come in?” she said to Mr. Rock. “Come into the living room and have a seat.”

My mom gestured to the couch, and Mr. Rock took a seat. But no sooner had his butt hit the cushion, than he was standing up again. He reached down and picked up a green plastic rattle shaped like a dragon that belonged to my baby brother, Harry.

“I think this belongs to the youngest Zipzer,” Mr. Rock said, handing my mom the rattle.

“I've been looking for that,” my mom said, turning beet red for the second time.

All the grown-ups sat down and there was a moment of tense silence. I could tell my dad was preparing himself for bad news. I mean, when a teacher shows up at your house, it usually is a total disaster.

“Hank,” Mr. Rock said, finally. “Why don't you show your parents what you have in the manila folder that you're holding?”

“Let me just prepare myself,” my dad said. “Is this another notification of failure?”

“Stanley,” my mom said, a little embarrassed at my dad's gruff tone. “Let Hank explain what he's got before we jump to conclusions.”

I looked down at the application and took a deep breath. As I passed the folder to my dad, I noticed that my hands were trembling. Then I snuck a glance at my dad's face as he opened the folder and looked at the first page. His face instantly transformed into the face I saw when I was four and broke all the lead points on his new set of mechanical pencils.

Let me just say, this was not a happy man.

My dad looked over the papers in the manila folder for forty-five seconds, sat back, moved his glasses from his nose to up on top of his forehead, and said his most favorite word in the English language.

You guessed it. NO.

“No what?” I said. “I didn't even ask anything.”

“No on everything,” my dad said. “All of it.”

“Just like that? Without an example? My teacher always says you have to give examples to support your arguments.”

“All righty, then,” my dad said. “No, because this Performing Arts whatever it is, is not a normal school with a normal education that you can use for the rest of your life. And no because performing is too hard, nobody makes a living at it. And no, because it's not what we Zipzers do. We don't perform like circus cats. We work for a living . . . a concept you will become well acquainted with as you get older.”

My dad sat back in his chair, satisfied with his explanation.

“But, Dad,” I said, “that's only three measly examples.”

“Well, try this one on,” he said without missing a beat. “There has never been a Zipzer in show business or on the stage. It's all superficial.”

My mom took my dad's hand and gave him a little squeeze. She does that when she's trying to soften him up or calm him down.

“Stanley, don't you remember your grandmother's cousin Alfred? She told me once that Alfred taught the great magician Houdini to swim, so he could do his underwater escape trick in the Hudson River.”

My father looked annoyed. He wasn't at all happy with my mother uncovering a performing Zipzer. But me, I was thrilled.

“Wow!” I said. “I never knew that. Now I know where I got my talent as a magician. I can't wait to tell Frankie.”

Mr. Rock had been sitting quietly, listening to our conversation, if you want to call it a conversation. It was more of a lecture, which by the way, it often is when you're talking to my dad. He talks. You listen. Subject closed. Anyway, Mr. Rock cleared his throat and asked if it would be all right if he expressed his opinion. My dad didn't answer, but my mom told him we would all be very interested in his opinion.

“Over the years, I have spent a great deal of time with your son,” he began, “and it's my opinion that Hank has a gift that I believe needs to be nurtured. We all know how difficult school is for Hank. But when he is allowed to use his imagination, his intelligence comes shining through.”

“We see that all the time,” my mom said. “Hank entertains us at the dinner table and makes us all laugh. Isn't that right, Stanley?”

“You're missing the point, Randi. You can't feed a family by making them laugh or telling a cute story here and there. Hank needs a formal education.”

“I couldn't agree with you more, Mr. Zipzer,” Mr. Rock said. “And let me assure you that there is a very good formal education which is part of the curriculum at Professional Performing Arts.”

“Let me just try out for this school, Dad,” I said. “Please. I probably won't get in, anyway.” I was thinking as fast as I could here. “And auditioning will be a great
educational
experience. You have to admit that.”

My father just sat on the couch, scratching his chin. I was so involved in making my case that I hadn't noticed Emily standing at the entrance to the living room, Katherine draped around her neck. I guess they had finished their Mozart moment and Katherine was calm enough to be around humans again. I can't necessarily say the same for Emily, but there she was, anyway.

“Could I say something about this?” Emily asked.

I wanted to say no. I mean, the last thing I needed was brainchild Emily putting me down. When it comes to me, she always takes my dad's side.

“Kathy and I share a strong opinion about Hank's future,” she said.

“Oh great,” I said. “Now my future is in the claws of an iguana.”

Emily shot me a look that said, “Keep your mouth shut for once, will you?”

“Daddy,” she said. “We think that Hank is one of the funniest people on Earth. Annoying, but funny.”

My ears started to twirl around on my head. Were they really hearing this? Nice words from my sister Emily? Not possible. But she wasn't finished.

“Like take me,” she went on. “I happen to be excellent at science. It's a well-known fact in the fourth-grade science club that I am the expert on reptiles and small-boned rodents. So when I go to middle school, for sure I'm going to try to get into a gifted and talented science program. But Hank is gifted, too. Just different. And he should have the chance to shine, too, just like I do.”