The Night I Flunked My Field Trip #5 (3 page)

“Nice call, Ashweena,” Frankie said.

I pushed open the double door to the school yard and we went outside. Even though it was officially spring and there were little green leaves on all the trees, it was still pretty cold. As we stopped to zip up our jackets, McKelty appeared again.

“You bring any of those yummy Twinkies in your lunch today?” he asked Ashley. McKelty always comes by our table at lunch and tries to swipe Ashley's dessert. He's a total Twinkie hog.

“What's it to you?” answered Ashley, snapping her head around so her ponytail flipped in his face. “You won't be having any.”

“We'll see about that,” he said. A basketball came bouncing toward him.
Bonk!
It hit him on the head and bounced off. The big lug didn't even react.

“Nice reflexes,” Frankie said.

“Oh yeah?” McKelty shot back.

“Nice comeback too,” Ashley added.

The conversation was moving too fast for McKelty and he stomped off to join the basketball game. Ordinarily, Frankie would have been the first one on the court. He's got the best moves of any kid in our class. He can stuff it from the inside, and from the outside it's nothing but net. But he said no when Ryan Shimozato asked him to join his team. Ashley stayed back too. I'm lucky to have such good friends, the kind that won't just go off and shoot baskets when I have a problem.

Ashley pushed her glasses back on her nose and started twirling her ponytail, which she does when she's thinking hard.

“Operation permission slip,” she said. She was all business. “Let's come up with a plan. The way I see it, gentlemen, we have forty-five minutes.” She checked her watch, which was decorated with blue and lavender rhinestones. Ashley glues rhinestones onto all her clothes, so when you see her in the sunlight, she's very sparkly.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

“All ideas are welcome,” Frankie said. “Speak right up.”

I couldn't think of anything. My dad was in New Jersey. My mom was in Queens. My dachshund Cheerio was spinning in a circle. And the permission slip was at home with him. End of story.

Ashley kept twirling her ponytail.

“Come on, guys,” she said. “Where there's a will, there's a way. Isn't that what Papa Pete always says?”

Bam! There it was. Papa Pete!

You know how when you've been friends with people for a really long time, sometimes you get the exact same idea at the exact same time? Well, that's what happened.

“If I'm not mistaken, I believe Papa Pete has a key to your apartment,” Ashley said.

“That he does,” I answered with a big grin.

“Gentlemen, we have our plan,” said Ashley.

WE RAN TO THE OFFICE faster than you can say, “Hank Daniel Zipzer, you're going on the field trip, after all!” Go ahead, try saying it. Now you know exactly how long it took us to get there. Pretty fast, huh?

Mrs. Crock was at her desk. She smiled at us. Yup, you guessed it. Old Mr. Lettuce Leaf was still there. I looked away, but Frankie didn't.

“If you don't mind my saying so, Mrs. Crock, you have something large and green playing hooky on your teeth,” Frankie said without batting an eye. Then he flashed her that big grin, the one that makes the dimple pop in on his left cheek.

“Thank you for pointing that out, Frankie dear,” said Mrs. Crock. Then she reached in her drawer, got out her mirror, pulled the piece of lettuce off her tooth, and sent it on its merry way to the wastebasket.

See, that's the difference between Frankie Townsend and me. I spent five whole minutes wondering if I should say anything to Mrs. Crock, but Frankie, he just broke the news like it was nothing. That's called confidence, and it's what you have when you're good at everything like Frankie is.

“May we use the telephone?” Ashley asked Mrs. Crock. “Hank has to call his grandfather because he forgot his permission slip.”

“Certainly, Ashley dear,” said Mrs. Crock.

And that's the difference between Ashley Wong and me. She knows exactly what she wants and isn't afraid to ask for it. Boom, just like that. From her brain to her mouth, out it comes.

Ashley picked up the phone. “What's Papa Pete's number at home?” she asked me.

“He's not there,” I said. “He bowls Tuesday and Thursday mornings.”

Papa Pete is the best senior bowler on the Upper West Side. His team, the Chopped Livers, has won the league championship at McKelty's Roll 'N Bowl for three years in a row. A long time ago, when he was in the navy, Papa Pete bowled a 300. In case you're not up on your bowling statistics, that is a perfect game. He never brags about it, though. I just happened to see the scorecard once when we were looking at pictures in his old photo album.

“I'll go ask Nick the Tick what the phone number is at his dad's bowling alley,” said Ashley.

Nick McKelty's father owns the bowling alley on 86th Street where Papa Pete bowls. That's why it's called McKelty's Roll 'N Bowl.

“Forget that creep,” Frankie said. “We'll find the number ourselves. Mrs. Crock, can we borrow your phone book?”

“Certainly, dear,” she said, smiling. Her teeth were as white as those little baby marshmallows that you float in your hot chocolate.

Mrs. Crock got the phone book from her drawer and handed it to me. I flipped it open to the M's and looked at the page. It seemed to me like there were a million little grey letters swimming around on that page like tadpoles in a pond. I could feel my eyes crossing.

In case I haven't mentioned it, I'm not too good at spelling. You might even say I stink at spelling. Ditto for reading. Double ditto for alphabetizing. Put all that together, and what you get is that looking up a name in the phone book is not my idea of a good time. And don't even talk to me about dictionaries. How can you look up a word that you don't know how to spell in the first place, or even know how to sound out? I'm still waiting for someone to explain that to me.

Frankie has known me my whole life, so he knew that if I looked up the phone number, we could have been there until next Easter, or maybe even summer.

“Mind if I have a look, Zip?” he said, taking the phone book out of my hands. He flipped through the pages and found the number easily. Ashley dialed it, and handed the phone to me. We're a good team, the three of us.

“McKelty's Roll 'N Bowl,” answered Mr. McKelty in a friendly voice. I wondered how such a nice man could produce such a jerky kid.

“Hello, Mr. McKelty. This is Hank Zipzer,” I said. “Is my grandfather there?”

“Is he here?” he shouted. “Son, he just bowled four strikes in a row. He's here and he's hot. Hang on, and I'll try to pry him off the lane.”

I could hear all the bowling alley sounds through the phone as I waited for Papa Pete to pick up. The balls rolling down the oiled wooden lanes, the pins clattering as they fell over, Fern the waitress calling out orders in the coffee shop. That Fern, she makes an excellent root-beer float. If you're ever in the neighborhood, check it out.

“Hankie, my boy. What'd you forget?” It was the first thing Papa Pete said when he picked up the phone, before he even said hello.

“How'd you know?” I asked him.

“Grandfathers know these things,” he said. “It's our job.”

Wow, he was amazing.

“I left my permission slip for tonight's field trip under the Chinese vase,” I said. “They won't let me go unless I turn it in.”

“When do you need it?”

“Ten minutes ago.”

“Ten minutes ago, it is,” said Papa Pete. “I'll jog over to your apartment lickety-split and be at school in two shakes of a lamb's tail. Meet me in the lobby by the trophy case.”

“Papa Pete, I'm sorry you have to leave,” I said. “I hear you're on a hot streak.”

“Hot, schmot,” said Papa Pete. “Bowling's a game. You're my grandson. Be right there, Hankie.”

Click.
Before he even said good-bye, he was gone.

Do I have the best grandfather in the world? Let me answer that for you.

Yes I do.

FRANKIE AND ASHLEY WENT BACK to our classroom to tell Ms. Adolf that I would be a few minutes late getting back to class. I waited by the trophy case for Papa Pete.

The walls all around the lobby were covered with kindergarten art. I guess you'd call it art. There were about fifty pieces of colored paper taped to the wall, each one with a green leaf glued in the middle. The theme was springtime. I went and looked at one of the leaves close-up. When I got near enough to the paper, I could smell the white glue, the kind we used in kindergarten. I loved school then. No spelling tests, no pop social studies quizzes, no home-work, no pressure. Just building with blocks and dressing up like firefighters and gluing a piece of noodle on colored paper. Man, I was a whiz with glue.

Finally, the front door burst open and Papa Pete came running in. He was wearing his red sweats, and he looked like a giant strawberry. A giant sweating strawberry. You've got to hand it to him, though. He jogged all the way there, which is pretty good for a guy who's going to be sixty-eight on June 26.

“Hankie, I got something you're going to love,” Papa Pete said with a big grin.

“My permission slip?” I asked.

“Sure, sure, I got that,” he said, handing me the blue slip of paper. “But look what else I brought.”

He handed me a ziplock baggie. It had a pickle inside.

“Your mother happened to have a couple of dills in the fridge. I thought you might want a snack.”

Papa Pete and I love to eat pickles together. Sometimes, he stops at the Crunchy Pickle and picks up whatever is fresh—half dills, garlic rounds, bread and butters—and we sit on the balcony outside my living room and eat them.

“Thanks, Papa Pete,” I said. “It looks great, but I've got to get the permission slip to my teacher now. I'm really late.”

“You go,” Papa Pete said. “And don't worry. I'll save the pickle for after school and—”

He was interrupted by a sound I've never heard coming from Papa Pete. It was a cell phone playing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” Papa Pete reached into his pocket and took out a brand-new, shiny, silver phone.

“Papa Pete!” I said. “When did you get a cell phone?”

“Yesterday!” he said. “Do you know you can play games on this thing? And check the baseball scores?”

Papa Pete reached out and pinched my cheek, like he always does.

“I love this cheek and everything attached to it,” he said. Then he turned to leave. I could see him pressing buttons on his cell phone like crazy and saying, “Hello, is someone there?” as he disappeared out the door.

I looked at the clock in the hall. I had three minutes to get to class and turn in my slip. I did my super-speed walk down the hall to the stairway.

Squeak
,
squeak
,
squeak.
Oh, no. Principal Love's Velcro shoes were coming down the hall from the opposite direction. And he was in them! Just my luck.

“Well, young Mr. Zipzer,” Principal Love said in a booming voice. “What are you doing in the halls during class time?”

Principal Love has this mole on his cheek that Frankie and I swear looks just like the Statue of Liberty, but without the torch. When he talks, he sounds like he should be tall with bushy black hair, but actually he's short and mostly bald.

“Nothing, sir,” I said. My voice sounded really little.

“Nothing accomplishes nothing, which is nothing you can use the next time you need it,” he said, holding one finger in the air like he had just said something really important. “Remember that, Young Zipzer.”

“Yes, sir, I will,” I squeaked. “I have to go now.”

“First, I have something of extreme importance to tell you,” Principal Love said, getting so close to my face that I thought I could see eyes on his Statue of Liberty mole.

Oh
,
no. Here comes one of his lectures.

I have never understood one thing Principal Love says when he lectures me. And the most annoying thing is he says everything twice, which means I don't understand it twice in a row.

“The greatest accomplishments are put into effect by doing something,” he said. “That's what I always tell young people. Yes, indeed. The greatest accomplishments are put into effect by doing something.”

“I'll never forget that, sir,” I said. “Thank you, but I have to get my permission slip to Ms. Adolf now.”

I looked up at the clock on the wall. I had one-and-a-half minutes left. I really had to go, but Principal Love looked like he had more to say.
Please let him be finished
, I thought. Then a lucky thing happened. Phillip Gunning, a huge fifth-grader with size-twelve Nikes, came running down the stairs at breakneck speed.

“Mr. Gunning,” Principal Love said in his bushy-haired man voice. “There is no running in these halls. Approach me immediately.”

That was my chance. I said a silent good-bye to the Statue of Liberty mole and started up the stairs as fast as I could go without running. I could hear Principal Love beginning to lecture Phillip Gunning, but I never looked back.

My class had already started science when I came bursting in.

“Here, Ms. Adolf,” I said, waving my blue permission slip at her. “I've got it.”

Ms. Adolf looked at the clock, then at me.

“You're late,” she said. “It's thirty seconds past the hour.”

Oh
,
no. She wasn't going to keep me from going because I was thirty seconds late. She wouldn't do that. Not even Ms. Adolf would do that.