by AnonYMous
“Can I interest you in a trade, then, Frankie?” I asked, waving the half-eaten chocolate bar at him.
“I don’t want an old-rucksack-mystery bar.”
“No, but guess what my mum made me for lunch?”
“My favourite pudding?” he asked.
“Your favourite pudding,” I said.
“You know, Hank, you’ve always been my best friend,” Frankie said, pulling his jumper over his head.
CHAPTER TEN
From the pages of Emily Zipzer’s field notebook…
12:51 p.m., 8th March
I am trying to stay positive, but I fear I am losing control.
Let me start at the beginning.
Dad arrived punctually at 10:55 a.m. and met me outside the science classroom, where all the shortlisted candidates were to be welcomed by Dr Mehat, who will be conducting the interviews.
I had half-expected Dad to arrive hand-in-hand with the mother, but he came alone. He was, however, visibly nervous and sweaty, and he was wearing his most unflattering jumper. The black one he’s had since his university days and is two sizes two small. The mother hates it. On this point, I have to agree with her. Dad loves it, though. He insists that it’s his lucky sweater. Lucky for what?
As we filed into the classroom, Dad attempted several times to change my mind about the mother. “Think how you’d feel if your daughter didn’t want you around?” he said.
“The question is meaningless,” I replied. “I don’t have a daughter.”
He tried again. “How would you feel if Katherine didn’t want you around?”
Again, the question was without merit. Lizards have limited emotional responses.
Dr Mehat and Mr Love greeted everyone on the shortlist warmly. Mr Love commented on the mother’s absence. The father said she was tied up at work. Mr Love seemed to approve. “Probably for the best,” he said.
Dr Mehat then spoke in generalities about the institute and the summer programme – information which I was already familiar with from the institute’s website. I observed her intently, though, to try and find in her speech, her choice of words, her body language any insight into her character that I could take advantage of in the formal interview. She gave nothing away, so I began to use this time to size up my competition.
There were ten candidates in all, including Molly Phillips. Molly shows no real vigour in her studies and has gravitated to the flaky subject of cold fusion simply to sound smart.
Amit Kahn was also in attendance.
I know little about him or his studies. He is in the year above me. I watched him a moment. He wore small horn-rimmed glasses, which he adjusted frequently, when not biting his nails. His eyes, however, showed a look of calm intelligence. I will have to make an effort to get to know him better.
After a brief observation of the other contestants, I concluded that none of them posed a threat. I watched Mr Love for a while. He was staring intently and at great length and with great interest at a full-size skeleton of a baboon.
After the welcome meeting, we went to wait our turn. I must admit that I became slightly nervous at this time.
Dad noticed and told me to relax. “You don’t want to choke when you get to the crease,” he said.
I had no idea what he was talking about and told him so.
“I’m talking cricket,” he said. “If you’re too uptight, you’ll be out for a duck. Stay loose and you can hit it for six.”
I asked him if this was supposed to be helping.
He said he was trying to “prep me for the big game” and went on to mention several more analogies having to do with cricket. I did not appreciate his comparing scientific excellence with a mindless sporting event. “If anyone needs prepping, it’s you,” I said.
He was outraged by this. “I interview people for a living!” he said. “There’s nothing the doc can throw at me that I can’t handle.”
I then asked him a few basic questions about the institute and the “Leg-Up Future Achievers” Summer Session. It turned out he knew nothing whatsoever about either.
“We might as well not bother going in,” I told him, “if you can’t even say what it is you like about the institute.”
“She’s not going to ask me that question. You’re the one applying for the course.”
I told him that he was here to show support for my interest in science. To which he replied, “We bought you a lizard, didn’t we?”
I dearly wished Katherine was with me. She would have been of more use.
I became even more tense then, and grew more so as the wait dragged on, especially when I heard each applicant exit the interview room to laughter and friendly words from Dr Mehat. Several times I considered asking my dad to leave before the interview.
At 12:29 p.m., one minute exactly before my interview with Dr Mehat was scheduled to begin, my plans started to unravel.
The mother, perhaps sensing an opportunity to ruin my life for ever, chose that moment to call Dad on his mobile. I begged him not to answer it. “Let it go to voicemail. She can tell when you’re lying.”
He hesitated for a second and then said, “No, I’d better answer it. She might get suspicious otherwise.”
My dad is a good man. An honest man. A simple man.
A fool.
He answered the call. “Hi, love, how’s it going? … Emily? No, why would I have heard from her? She’s probably at that interview… No, I mean … I really, really think she wanted to do this on her own… Lying?” he protested, his voice rising an octave. “Why would I lie about this?’
At that moment, Dr Mehat poked her head out of the interview room and called my name.
Oh, gentle reader of the future, have you ever wanted to just disappear into the floor? I did. And so I fell to the floor, and tried to hide under the bench.
Dr Mehat called my name louder.
Dad, meanwhile, was still talking to the mother. “No, love, no one is calling Emily Zipzer.” He then made up a ridiculous story about being in a pet shop to pick up some lizard food and some parrot shouting, “Am I a hipster?”
Yes, he actually said that. I wonder if it is possible that I’m adopted.
Dr Mehat overheard this entire confabulation. She looked very confused, so I told her that Dad was an actor. “He’s working on a new role. Perhaps you saw him in his latest commercial. For a product claiming to cure athlete’s foot.” She had not, but she did agree to reschedule our appointment for a later time.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“It’s good to know how easily you can be bought,” Ashley said to Frankie as we headed down the hall to our next lesson. “All it takes is a little pudding, huh?”
“Mmm,” Frankie said.
“That’s all you have to say?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Hey, look,” hollered a kid from the year above. He pointed at Frankie.
The girl with him giggled. “It’s the purple pudding monster!” she said.
Frankie was so busy with his cake that he didn’t even hear them.
“In exchange for something sweet,’ Ashley said, “you’ll wear clothes with blackcurrant stains and let people laugh and point at you?”
Frankie took another tiny little bite of my mum’s extra special, chocolate-chocolate sugar treat, so he could savour every last moment of it. “If we do a permanent swap, can I get one of these every day?” he asked me, ignoring Ashley.
My mum’s pastries are ridiculously good. When we were really little, Frankie and I would share our lunches. I would give Frankie half of my pastry – the bigger half – and he’d give me half of his strawberry milk. We stopped trading lunches a while back, but every now and then I give him a bit of pastry, when I’m feeling especially nice, or I want something.
“Hey, Hank,” Ashley said suddenly. “Isn’t that your dad?”
I followed her finger, and my heart travelled up to my throat. The man in the poorly fitted jumper talking into a mobile phone was definitely my dad. But
why was he here? Had I done something wrong? And why was he wearing his ridiculous “lucky” jumper?
“He can’t see me in these clothes!” I cried, in a white-hot panic.
I spun around and would have darted behind a row of lockers, had I not run sweater-first into Frankie. Our collision made a strange sound – like a bowling ball squelching into a mud pit.
“My pudding!” Frankie said. He began to scrape up the pudding. He even put a bit of it in his mouth.
“Frankie!” Ashley cried. “Think of the germs.”
“Three-second rule!” Frankie said. He put another handful in his mouth. “It’s still good.”
Ashley rolled her eyes. “You are going to get so sick.”
Frankie ignored her. He was still trying to pick the pudding up off the floor. “Where’s the rest of it?” he asked, panic in his voice.
“On my sweater,” I said.
“On my sweater,” he said, looking up at me. “Now you’re wearing my jumper and my pudding. You owe me a new jumper and a new pastry.”
“Why’d you freak out like that at seeing your dad?” Ashley asked me.
“Dad can’t see me in this uniform. It’s the third one I’ve ruined this term.”
“And that one isn’t even yours,” Frankie grumbled.
I surveyed the damage to my new sweater (or if you like, Frankie’s old sweater). It was toast. And so were my tie and my collar. I was a chocolate-y mess. A fraction of a second had yet again ruined me for ever.
Ten seconds ago, the plan had been perfect. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t quite worked out how I was going to convince the photographer to take my photo again. I had a rough idea involving my identical twin, and I was confident I could convince him. The important thing was that I had a clean uniform. And then my dad had turned up to prowl the school halls and ruined everything!
He must have been there because of Emily’s science thingy. They were acting all buddy-buddy at breakfast. I bet she secretly asked him to come for the interview and not tell Mum. I bet she took a perfect picture today too. And I bet this summer she’ll be heading towards scientific excellence – probably preparing to be the first kid on Mars – while I hang around at home in Frankie’s stained jumper…
“… still don’t get it,” Ashley was saying. “Everyone’s uniform looks the same. How would he know it was Frankie’s?”
I snapped back to the present. “Oh, I guess he wouldn’t. You’re pretty smart, Ashley.”
“Well, thank you!”
I looked Ashley up and down, and put my hand on my chin. “And you look very smart today, I must say. You always look smart. But you look especially smart today. New shampoo?”
“This is getting weird.”
“Yes, you really do look smart in that jumper and that tie and that—”
“Don’t even think about it. I’m not giving you my uniform.”
“I just need the top half. You can keep the skirt.”
“Uh, I think I’m keeping all of it. Hello? Height difference.”
“Oh yeah,” I said, my eyes level with her chin. “You’re smart, Ashley. You know that?”
“Not going to happen, Hank. You’ll just have to stay in Frankie’s pudding-coated jumper or go back to lost property and get that tiny jumper.”
“You know, super-tight sweaters are in,” Frankie said.
“They were actually in … last year,” I said.
“Really?”
“No.” I sighed. “What am I going to do? Even if I can convince the photographer to snap me again, I won’t have a clean jumper. And right now I look like the Pudding Monster.”
Frankie patted my shoulder. “Face it, Hank. This perfect-photo thing is just not happening this year, dude. You’re going to have to deal with having a unique picture.” He crossed his eyes to punctuate his point.
I groaned.
Right then, Karen, the prettiest girl in school and who I’ve had a hopeless crush on for years now, came walking by. She was with Jack James, a big square-jawed athlete with steely blue eyes and never a hair out of place. Bet he never ruins his school photos – he probably looks brilliant in all of them.
“Hey, nice haircut!” Karen called out and giggled.
I just stood there, hoping the floor would open and swallow me up.
“Looks like your mate with the haircut needs a bib,” Jack said to Karen, who giggled some more. Then she stopped giggling and started blushing when he put his arm around her.
That was when I decided enough was enough. This year I was going to own my school photo. It was time for the Zipzer man!
“I am not giving up,” I said resolutely. “This year is my year cos I’m going to run home and get my spare uniform.”
“There’s no time,” Ashley said. “It’s already twenty to two. Classes start again in ten minutes.”
“There’s plenty of time,” I said. And I started off towards the exit.
“But the photographer’s leaving at three!” Ashley called after me. “Hank! Wait! What will I tell Miss Adolf?”
“I had a fashion emergency!”
I broke into a run once I had safely passed by Mr Love’s office. He seemed to be playing dress-up in there. He was standing in front of the mirror with one hand tucked in his vest and a three-cornered hat on his head.
He reminded me of a crazy man I met in the park last summer. He’d had his hand in his vest and a hat like that too. He’d called himself Napoleon.
I should mention that Mr Love had also been having a full-on conversation with his image in the mirror.
“Hey!” Frankie yelled. “Come back with my pudding!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE INSTITUTE FOR SCIENTIFIC EXCELLENCE OFFICIAL EVALUATION FORM FOR “LEG-UP FUTURE ACHIEVERS” SUMMER SESSION, WESTBROOK ACADEMY
Evaluator: Dr Meera Mehat, PhD, MD
Evaluee: Emily Zipzer
Evaluator’s Notes:
Having reviewed Miss Emily Zipzer’s sterling written application, I was very much looking forward to chatting with this promising young lady. I considered her the strongest candidate. However, I was unable to meet with Miss Zipzer at the appointed time, as her father, Stan Zipzer, was engaged in a mobile phone call. (Minus 5 points.)
What follows is a full transcript of my interview with Emily Zipzer and her father.
DR MEHAT: Shall we continue?
STAN ZIPZER: You bet. Fire away, doc! Oh, boy. I mean, Dr Mehat… Er, I mean, Your Grace. Or would you prefer Your Honour? Herr Doktor? Sorry, I sometimes slip into German. Those things happen when you’re fluent in half a dozen languages.
DR MEHAT: Meera will be fine.
STAN ZIPZER: Brilliant! Call me Stan. It’s nice dropping formalities, eh? I think you and me, Meera, get each other. You might even say we have a real convalescent bond.
NOTE: It is this evaluator’s opinion that Mr Zipzer was referring to a “covalent” bond.
EMILY ZIPZER: Take a breath, Dad.
STAN ZIPZER: Of course I’m breathing, Em. I would keel over if I wasn’t, right, Meera, scientifically speaking, of course, Your Grace? Is there a window or something we can open in here? Bit stuffy, no? Bit hot too. Anyone else hot, or is it just me?
DR MEHAT: I’m adequately comfortable.
STAN ZIPZER: Think I’ll take off this sweater…
EMILY ZIPZER: I’m sorry about my father, Dr Mehat. He’s nervous cos he … just got a call from the hospital. About … my mum.
DR MEHAT: Oh, my.
EMILY ZIPZER: She runs a small business – a deli – and she lost most of her arm, from below the mid-humerus, in the salami-mincing machine.
STAN ZIPZER: Yes, we couldn’t believe it when that happened.
EMILY ZIPZER: That’s why it’s so crucial that I’m accepted into your esteemed “Leg-Up Future Achievers” summer course. I want to give Mummy something to smile about again. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to cry. It’s just all … so terrible…
DR MEHAT: I understand. Do y
ou feel up to a few questions?
EMILY ZIPZER: I think so, Meera.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As I ran, I tried to do the maths. I could run from the flat to school in twelve minutes, easy, which meant that once I got home, I’d have twenty minutes to get dressed, redo my hair and floss my teeth, then another twelve to fifteen minutes to run back. If I added in a couple minutes for exhaustion, I’d get back to school at approximately… Well, I’d get back to school with a little time to spare. It’s hard to add minutes and hours together. Try it.
I was on track to make it home in eleven minutes – a new world record, although not a Martian one. As I rounded the corner of my street, I got the Zipzer sense that all was not right in the world. I slowed down. I checked my shoelaces. I checked my fly. All good there. But that was the only good thing about these trousers, because these were not my trousers.
And that meant the keys in my pocket were not my keys. That was not my gorgeous face smiling up at me from my school ID card.
I really started to dislike Frankie’s face at that particular moment.
Exhausted and frustrated, I sank down onto the pavement. A woman walked by and dropped a quid on the ground in front of me. I bought a bottle of water from the corner shop with it and a chocolate bar with a quid from Frankie’s wallet. Now I owed Frankie one jumper, one pound and one pudding from Mum’s deli.
Of course – the deli!
I could find Papa Pete and get the spare keys off him.
The deli was a six-minute sprint from the flat. I still had time. I still had a little life in me.
I ran through puddles. I ran through traffic. I ran like the fastest man on Mars. I ran until my side was burning and I nearly threw up the chocolate bar. I only stopped once, to check through a bin, in case some kid had decided to chuck his uniform in it on his way home from school yesterday.
When I got to the deli, I saw Papa Pete through the window. He was clearing tables. Mum was nowhere to be seen. That was good. Papa Pete would be cool about the ruined school photo, the trashed uniform and the lost keys. My mum? Not so much.