I Got a D in Salami #2 (5 page)

“Not now, Robert,” Frankie said, in the same tone Ashley used.

I think, in his own way, Robert was trying to joke around to make me feel better. But all his joke did was bring our attention to that word:
parents
.

My parents weren't going to be happy. It's not that they're mega-strict or anything. It's just that they have expectations. And their main expectation is that my sister and I do well in school. Emily more than meets their expectations—no problem. It's me who's the dud.

I decided that the best thing to do was talk to Papa Pete, who picks us up from school three days a week. Of everyone I know, he'd be the best person to help me figure out a way to break the bad news to my parents.

Papa Pete always seems to understand me when other people don't. I told him that once, when we were sitting on my balcony and sharing a pickle, which is our favorite thing to do. He put his big, hairy arm around me and said, “Hank, my boy. That's what grandpas are for.”

He is a great grandpa; there's no doubt about it. But I think it's more than that, too. Papa Pete says that everyone has a special gift in life. I think I know what his is. He's one of those people who can make you feel good no matter what. For example, one time, when I was little, I stepped on a bee at the beach. It hurt so much that even after the bee sting healed, I limped around for the rest of our vacation. Everyone else in my family teased me about limping so much, but not Papa Pete. He said to me, “Hank, my boy. If I had stepped on that bee, I'd be dragging my whole leg around like a sack of potatoes.” Papa Pete never makes you feel bad for what you're feeling, even if what you're feeling is silly.

We walked outside and sat on the steps, waiting for Papa Pete to show up. He was a little late, which wasn't like him. I didn't mind waiting, though. The cold air felt good.

I looked down Amsterdam Avenue. People were crowding along the street, carrying their groceries home, buying a take-out pizza, pushing strollers, walking their kids home from school. They all seemed so happy. I wondered if any of them had ever gotten three
D
's. That sure can suck the happiness right out of you.

“Hey, look,” said Frankie. “It's Silent Stan, the crossword-puzzle man.”

I looked across the street, and sure enough, my father was coming toward us.

Uh-oh
, I thought, which is not what you want to be thinking when you see your father.
Maybe he has already heard about my report card.

“Hi, Dad,” I said when he reached us. “I thought Papa Pete was coming.”

“He's busy,” my dad answered. “He called me at home and asked me to get you kids. He's going to meet us at the deli.”

He probably has a hot bowling game he can't leave
, I thought. Papa Pete spends a lot of time at McKelty's Roll 'N Bowl, where he's the best senior bowler in the league. His team is called The Chopped Livers.

“Hi, kids,” my father said, nodding to Frankie and Ashley. “Always good to see you, Robert.”

My father really likes Robert, because Robert helps him out with his crossword puzzles. The day before, when my dad couldn't think of a three-letter word for “infection result,” Robert came up with “pus.” Those moments have given them a special connection.

I should explain that my dad doesn't just lie around the house all day doing crossword puzzles and waiting for calls from Papa Pete. He works at home, doing something with computers. He's tried to describe to me exactly what he does, but when he talks about computer programming, it sounds to me like he's saying, “blah, blah, blahdity, blahdity, blah, blah.” I'm not exaggerating, either. My mind just doesn't follow what he's saying.

We started down Amsterdam Avenue, walking fast to keep up with all the people on the street. You have to do that in New York. They don't like slowpokes here.

“So, Mr. Z,” Frankie said. “Is Papa Pete okay?”

“He's fine,” said my dad. “He had a garlic emergency.”

We stopped at the corner of 78th Street and waited for the light to change. My father went on talking, which was strange, because he doesn't usually say much. We leaned in closer so we could hear him over the honking. Two taxis were having a horn-blowing war.

“Vince Gristediano, who owns the biggest supermarket chain in the city, called your mother today,” my dad said. “He heard about her vegetarian lunch meats, and he may want to carry her whole line of soy salami in his stores. He asked her to make samples so he can try them out on his store managers tomorrow.”

“My mom shops at Gristediano's,” said Ashley.

“Actually, everyone does,” said Robert. “They have thirty nine markets in Manhattan alone.”

“So if Mr. Gristediano buys Mom's soy salamis, will we be rich?” I asked.

“I don't know about that,” said my dad. “But it would definitely be a big order. It could be the start of a wonderful business for her.”

“So what does this have to do with Papa Pete?” I asked.

“He's working with your mom on the salami samples for tomorrow,” Dad said. “They're mixing up some new batches. Papa Pete felt the salami needed more garlic.”

I smiled. Papa Pete thinks everything needs more garlic. He thinks plain garlic needs more garlic.

The light changed, and my dad stepped out into the street.

“This is great news,” I whispered to Frankie.

“Why? Because you're going to be rich?”

“No,” I said. “Because with all the excitement, they'll forget to ask about my report card.”

“And the problem disappears,” said Frankie. He waved his hands out in front of him, like he was waving his magic wand.

“Well, it won't exactly disappear. I mean, I'll still have to figure out how to explain my grades to my parents, but at least I'll have the whole weekend to talk to Papa Pete and come up with a strategy.” I felt like I wanted to sing and dance. I felt like an elephant had been lifted off my back.

“Zengawii,” Frankie said. “It's magic, Zip.”

He stuck his hand up in the air, and we high-fived.

I started to skip. My luck had turned, and I had soy salami to thank for it.

AS YOU APPROACH my mom's deli, your mouth starts to water whether you want it to or not. It doesn't matter if you've just eaten a thirty-four-course meal and are so full you feel like your stomach's going to explode; you get hungry all over again.

When you pull that glass door open and step inside, you are in the Kingdom of Smells. Sauerkraut and pickle smells come racing in from one side. Hot pastrami and corned beef pour in from the other. Rare roast beef, salami, and sour green tomatoes circle in from behind. Your nose goes into overdrive. But wait a minute—what's that coming in from the counter?
Oh, no!
Pickled herring in cream sauce with onions. Duck—it's nasty, nasty, nasty!

I have never understood who eats pickled herring. When everything else in The Crunchy Pickle is so incredibly delicious, why would anyone choose a gray, salty fish with white slime all over it? That stuff should have a store of its own. Wait a minute, I know who eats it. Ms. Adolf probably does. It matches her gray face.

Papa Pete says pickled herring in cream sauce is an acquired taste. I've noticed that grown-ups say that about everything that's truly disgusting, like lima beans, brussels sprouts, beets, green peppers, and movies in French.

The sandwich counter is at the back of the deli, and in the front are the booths where the customers sit. Papa Pete picked out everything in The Crunchy Pickle himself. The booths are this special shade called periwinkle blue, which Papa Pete says he picked because it was the color of my Grandma Jenny's eyes. He's so proud of how nice the deli looks. He always tells me that the booths are genuine leatherette—which is not as expensive as real leather, but not as cheap as plastic. There are always people inside The Crunchy Pickle, because it's such a cheerful place. And the regular food is extra-delicious. I'm not sure my mom's soy lunch meats are such a big draw.

When we came in, Carlos, the best sandwich maker in New York City, was behind the counter. Even though he's only twenty-three years old, he's worked at the deli for as long as I can remember. He started working there when he was still in high school, because his family had just come from Puerto Rico and they needed the money. Carlos and I always talk about baseball, and sometimes after work, we'll go over to the park, and he gives me batting tips. Carlos has a great arm, and he throws a wicked curveball.

Carlos was building a tongue and swiss on rye for Mrs. Wilcox. I've never understood why anyone would eat tongue. Think about it. A tongue has spent its whole life in a cow's mouth, covered in grass. I'm not even going to mention the cud-chewing part.

“Don't forget the extra Russian dressing on the side,” Mrs. Wilcox said to Carlos.

“I already put two in the bag for you,” Carlos answered. “And I put in extra pickles for Mr. Wilcox. Really crunchy, just the way he likes them.”

“
Muchas gracias
, Carlos,” said Mrs. Wilcox. I think she might have winked at him. All the women who come to The Crunchy Pickle love him. He's a pretty good-looking guy, with his shiny black hair and diamond stud ear-ring. He always wears bright red socks, no matter what else he has on. Frankie says he must have a lot of confidence to wear bright red socks, even with shorts.

As he handed Mrs. Wilcox her takeout, Carlos flashed us a big grin. He's always happy to see us.

“Hey, Hankito,” he said. “I saved you a black-and-white.” He pulled an oversize cookie that's half vanilla frosting, half chocolate off the tray. It's my favorite because there are so many ways to eat it. You can take one bite and get both chocolate and vanilla. You can break it in half, eat all the chocolate and then vanilla. Or you can start on the chocolate, take a rest, and then have some vanilla.

“Frankie, my man,” Carlos said. “Here's your oatmeal-raisin.” Frankie's mom wants him to eat whole grains, so he's gotten into oatmeal-and-raisin cookies. They're the most healthy-sounding cookies in the display case.

Carlos turned to Ashley. “
Ah
,
bonita
, I got your favorite, too,” he said. Then he gave Ashley a sugar cookie covered with rainbow covered sprinkles. “A beautiful cookie for a beautiful young lady.”

“And what do you want, little man?” Carlos asked Robert.

“Actually, I don't eat sugar,” said Robert. “It causes tooth decay.”

“Is that what happened to that tooth on the side there? Sugar got it?” Carlos asked Robert.

“No, that was an incisor that had to be removed because it was blocking the molar behind it. My dentist says I have an overcrowded mouth.”

“You have an overcrowded brain,” said Frankie.

We all laughed and spit bits of cookies everywhere. A few of Ashley's sprinkles stuck onto the glass case.

“This is no laughing matter,” Robert went on. “If your teeth are too close together, it traps food particles that create plaque, which hardens and causes decay, not to mention gum disease.”

“Hey, little man, you shouldn't talk about that stuff. It's gross.”

“That's okay, Carlos,” Ashley said. “We're used to it. Robert says anything, anywhere, at any time.”

We threw our backpacks down on one of the empty tables and sat down to finish our cookies. My father went to his usual corner booth where he keeps a stash of
New York Times
crossword puzzle books. As Carlos brought him his favorite drink, a cup of hot water with lemon, my mother came out from the back of the store. She was wearing her white headband, which means she's in her cooking mode. She has lots of blond, curly hair, and when she cooks, food splatters in her hair and stays there. Once she had so much chocolate frosting in her hair that she looked like she had brown hair. The headband keeps her hair clean and blond.

“Hi kids,” she said. “How was school?”

“Fine,” we all said at once—probably a little too quickly.

“How'd the spelling contest go?” she asked me.

“It was incredible, Mom. Remember the trouble I had with ‘rhythm' last night? I aced that word today.”

“Good for you! Anything else interesting happen today?”

“Nope,” I answered, barely looking at her. Okay, I admit it, I felt a little guilty not telling her about my report card. But if you think about it, there was really no need for me to feel guilty about my answer. She asked if anything interesting happened, and I said no. I don't happen to find getting a really bad report card interesting, so technically, I wasn't lying.

“So, how's the soy salami coming?” I asked, changing the subject as quickly as I could.

“Papa Pete and I are having an argument over it,” she answered. “He doesn't think it has enough flavor. He went to get more garlic.”

“I'm so interested to know all about your recipe, Mom,” I said.

“Since when?” she asked, giving me a strange look.

“Since . . . uh . . . last Tuesday,” I said. “Or maybe it was Wednesday. Yeah, it was Wednesday that I realized that I should know a lot more about what's in the lunch meats you make.”

Just then, the deli door swung open and in came Heather Payne and her mother. Heather Payne is the most perfect girl in our grade. Her mother was smiling. Actually, she was beaming. I knew that spelled trouble for me.

“We're here to get a special cookie for my straight-A student,” Mrs. Payne said. “Heather got a perfect report card today.”

My mother slowly turned her head in my direction. The silence hung in the air like boiled cabbage fumes.