by AnonYMous
I took a step forward. And then I heard footsteps approaching behind me. They sounded like a knight in armour. That is crazy, I thought. But then something grabbed my arm. A metal hand!
I spun around and found myself looking up at a knight in full plate armour, with a shield, and a sword and a visor and everything.
From behind the visor, a booming voice echoed, “You’ve already taken your photo, Zipzer. Stop wasting the photographer’s time.”
“But it’ll just take a second, a fraction of a second. Please?”
“Be silent!” the knight boomed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Evaluator’s interview with Emily Zipzer and her father (cont’d)
DR MEHAT: … which leads me to my final question. We consider family support to be a vital ingredient for success at the institute. Mr and Mrs Zipzer, how would you describe the Zipzer family and home life?
STAN ZIPZER: Loving, warm, scientific. Has Emily told you we bought her a lizard?
DR MEHAT: At length.
ROSA ZIPZER: And don’t forget, Stan, we like to do things together as a family. We know it’s not nice if we leave someone out. Because we don’t hurt the ones we love.
STAN ZIPZER: Although sometimes people get hurt by accident. You know, through bad luck. Strange things happen in this wondrous universe of ours, and no one’s really to blame. People get hurt accidentally all the time. I’m very interested in accidents… Perhaps Emily could study them at the institute.
DR MEHAT: If she’s accepted, of course.
STAN ZIPZER: Of course, Meera.
ROSA ZIPZER: Accidentally?! You mean like accidentally losing my arm in a salami-mincing machine?
EMILY ZIPZER: Just the bottom half, Mum. Below the mid-humerus.
STAN ZIPZER: Don’t get upset, love, you’ll damage your stitches. And you’ll need both arms to hold the flowers I’m going to buy you… I mean, the ones I’ve already bought you.
ROSA ZIPZER: Oh, let go of me. I don’t want to hold your hand, Stan. You baboon ape! Dr Mehat knows I don’t have a prosthetic arm.
EMILY ZIPZER: I’m coming to the same conclusion. My parents have been lying to me. Dr Mehat, do you see how dysfunctional my home life is? That’s why I need to be accepted at the institute. I need to be somewhere where my scientific gifts are appreciated.
STAN ZIPZER: We bought you that freaky lizard!
ROSA ZIPZER: How could you both lie to me?!
STAN ZIPZER: Meera, I mean, Dr Mehat, Your Grace, would you mind … er … can we redo this interview?
DR MEHAT: No.
ROSA ZIPZER: I suppose you’d leave me out of that one too?
STAN ZIPZER: Rosa, love, Emily just … we … just … I … just … thought it would be better if the two of us … if me and Em. Science isn’t your thing, you know.
ROSA ZIPZER: So what?
EMILY ZIPZER: I didn’t want you to make a scene, like you did at parents’ evening with my food-tech teacher.
ROSA ZIPZER: She was trying to tell me how to make minestrone! Me? Minestrone! I could make minestrone with baboon meat and it’d still be better than your silly teacher’s recipe.
EMILY ZIPZER: I tried to avoid this happening, and by trying to avoid it, it happened. This is quite ironic.
ROSA ZIPZER: Tonight I think I’ll try out a new recipe with lizard meat.
EMILY ZIPZER: No, Mummy, please! Don’t hurt her!
DR MEHAT: Fascinating. The familial behaviour is fascinating…
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The knight flipped up his visor. It was Mr Love.
“Ah, it’s Prince John,” the photographer said.
“No, no, no,” Mr Love said. “Maybe if you’d studied in school, you’d know that it was Richard the Lionheart who fought in the Crusades.”
“You were in the Crusades?” the photographer asked.
“Yes, see here. The red cross on my shield, the red cross on the hilt of my sword. Was Richard left-handed or right-handed? I don’t want to hold my sword in the wrong hand.”
“Come on, Mr Love,” I said. “I just need one second to take my photo. The last one wasn’t actually me. Some kid was pretending to be my fraternal twin—”
“No deal, Mr Zipzer. The photographer and I will need this remaining time to get my picture just right. Now” – he tried to unsheathe his sword – “get back to class.”
But I wasn’t going anywhere, and I was so frustrated that I tore a piece of paper to shreds in Frankie’s pocket.
“Why are you still here, Henry?” Mr Love asked.
“I’m just, uh, super interested in photography. Thought I’d watch how it’s done,” I said.
I don’t mean to be vain, but that was perhaps the best possible thing I could have said at that moment because, one, I created a believable excuse for hanging around. Two, I made Mr Love think I was interested in something sort of school-related and, three, I formed an unspoken allegiance with the photographer, based on our shared love of photography.
“Well, Henry,” Mr Love said, still trying to force the sword out of its sheath. “A knighted king needs a squire. Get my crown from that table there, and then you can help me with my armaments.”
FLASH. The photographer took a picture.
“Hey!” Mr Love shouted. “I wasn’t ready.”
“But I was. I’m only paid till three, you know.”
“I’ll pay you overtime, for as long as it takes.”
“I think it could take a while,” the photographer said. “Have you considered that the photo might look better with the visor down?”
“No,” Mr Love barked. He gave his sword a final yank. It came free with such force that it sent him spiralling into the chair, knocking it over. He fell on his bum – the only place not armoured. “I need a hand here, Henry! And where’s my crown?”
“I was so close.” I sighed, and moped over to pick up Mr Love’s crown. Then, from down the hall, came the echoing sound of two people yelling.
“Shouldn’t you check that out?” I hollered to Mr Love.
But Mr Love was in no position to help. He had become a metallic human pretzel. He would impale himself on his own sword if he wasn’t careful.
I crept down the hall to the room where the yelling was coming from. There was a glass window in the door and I peeked through it. What I saw made me immediately duck down again, out of view.
Mum and Dad were in there. Both of them were standing up, arguing nose to nose, their chairs overturned. Emily was still seated, but she’d made herself about as small as a ferret. At the other end of the room, a smartly dressed woman was rapidly taking notes.
“Hey, Zipzer man! You made it back. What are you doing on the floor?”
I turned and saw Frankie and Ashley jogging up to me. I sidled along the wall, doing my best spider impression, until I was out of view of the window.
“You actually did it,” Frankie said, inspecting my new uniform. “And with three minutes to spare. Did you get the photo taken?”
“Nope, Mr Love – or should I say, Prince John – over there stole my thunder.” I had failed in my mission.
“What’s going on in there?” Ashley motioned to the window.
“Oh, nothing,” I said. “Just my parents ruining Emily’s life.”
Frankie looked through the little window. “Why is your dad shirtless?”
“Who cares?” I said, and headed away from all the misery. “Let’s get out of here and go play video games or something.”
Ashley couldn’t help sneaking a peek in through the window before we left. “Gross!”
“I was so close.” I sighed.
“There’s always next year.” Frankie shrugged.
“Or,” Ashley said, “I could use my computer to edit out all the purple once you get the picture.”
“You’d probably have to edit out my entire face,” I said. “Or…” I stopped talking because I’d seen something tempting – so very tempting.
The fire alarm!
<
br /> “Or,” I went on, my smile so big my lips extended beyond my face, “we could empty the school, and I could get it right this year.”
I brushed my fingers over that oh-so-tempting button. What could be easier? All it would take was the slightest push.
“I’ve always wondered what happens when you push one of these things,” I said.
“Me too,” Ashley said, surprisingly.
“What do you guys think happens?” Frankie said. “The fire alarm goes off.”
“Do it,” Ashley whispered to me.
My finger hovered over the button, then I felt Ashley’s hand press it down. She giggled, and a fraction of a second later, the school exploded with a siren so loud you’d think Martians were invading!
We scurried away. As we passed the open door to the school hall, I caught sight of Mr Love. He threw down his visor. “That is very inconvenient!” he yelled. “Follow me to the playground! Everyone to the playground!”
He clanked and clinked down the hall, the photographer trailing after him. “I’m still on the clock,” he said to Mr Love. “Do you want me to take that sword?”
“A king never hands over his sword,” Mr Love said, then louder, “Come on, pupils. Everyone, outside.”
Every doorway in the school opened at once, and a stream of kids and teachers poured into the halls. We hung back, hiding behind some lockers before ducking into the lost property office. For a split second, I saw my dad through the crowds, and, yes, he was still shirtless.
Once everyone had left, we sneaked back to the school hall. I sat down on the metal chair and tried to act like there wasn’t an ear-splitting alarm going off.
Ashley got behind the camera.
“Why do you get to take it?” Frankie screamed at her. He had to shout because the alarm was so loud.
“Because I know what I’m doing. Dad’s been teaching me how to do x-rays.”
“Hank hasn’t broken any bones!” Frankie shouted.
“Somebody just take the photo before we’re caught,” I yelled.
Ashley put her eye to the viewfinder. “Gimme a smile. You can do better than that. Come on, work it, baby! Fierce eyes!”
Frankie and I exchanged blank looks.
Ashley sighed. “How about you just say cheese?”
“Cheese!” I cried, and flashed a perfect, million-dollar smile.
FLASH!
I rushed over to the camera to check out my likeness, and with my adrenaline pumping, I sort of shouldered Ashley out of the way.
“Hey!” she cried.
“Relax, man,” Frankie said. “She got the shot.”
“I have to delete my bad one,” I said. I scrolled through hundreds of pictures in a folder marked “Westbrook Academy photos”. For some reason, my pushing finger got tired at precisely the moment that Miss Adolf’s photo popped onto the screen. She was smiling. Gross!
“Get it away!” Frankie cried.
“OK, OK.” I scrolled faster and faster, until I got to the photo that I hoped no one would ever see, not Frankie, not Ashley, not my family, and certainly no one in the future. Especially those people who were deciding which kid should be the first in space.
I won’t even describe it to you. It was worse than I’d imagined. Much worse. It was like every weird face I’d ever made in my entire life compressed into one image. Plus, it was out of focus. Plus, I had moved when it was taken, so I looked like I was about to eat my own eyeballs. Plus, I was drenched in purple slime. Plus— Forget it, I’ve said enough.
“And you are outta here, buddy,” I said and pushed the “Delete” button.
But I wasn’t finished. A menu came up on the camera. It said something weird about “dillute fielder,” and a bunch of wiggly numbers started flashing. I just pushed the button with the only letter that wasn’t dancing all over the place: Y.
“Noooo!!!” Ashley cried.
“What?”
“Congrats, Hank,” Frankie said. “You just deleted the folder.”
“Right,” I said, “the folder with my bad photo.”
“And everyone else’s OK-to-excellent photos,” Ashley said.
“Where’s the undelete button?” I asked. There was no answer. “Guys, where’s the undelete button?”
“There is no undelete button,” Ashley said.
“There must be!”
Now my heart was really racing as I pushed the “N” button, and then I pushed every other button on the stupid camera.
“Dude,” Frankie said. “Let it go.”
“Never.”
“No, really, you have to let it go.”
“Why?” I asked, not looking up.
“Because—” Frankie said.
I felt a hand grab my shoulder and squeeze.
“Relax, buddy,” I said without thinking. “Where’s the fire?”
“You tell me, young man.”
I spun around and found myself looking up at a fireman, wearing breathing apparatus and holding an axe. I flashed him my million-dollar smile. He wasn’t impressed.
Oh, boy.
CHAPTER TWENTY
We all got the punishments we deserved. Me, Frankie and Ashley had detention for a week, and we each had to write a five-paragraph essay on fire safety. Actually, Miss Adolf made mine ten paragraphs, because she’s Miss Adolf.
Also – and this wasn’t part of my official punishment, but it sure felt like it – I’d had a long-standing appointment with my dentist for the day after the photo shoot. He found two cavities and extracted one baby molar that was refusing to fall out on its own, and it was absolute torture.
Emily and Dad had to make Mum breakfast for two weeks, and Dad also had to give her a hand massage every evening. Plus, Dad had to buy new clothes, more appropriately fitting ones, all picked out by Mum. And she threw out his lucky jumper.
With all the tension from the disastrous interview with the institute, I didn’t catch any flack at home. Mum and Dad hadn’t been told that I was sort of the one who set off the fire alarm. And steadfast Katherine the lizard kept her lizard mouth shut. She never once mentioned that I had poured liquid soap all over Emily’s dentist-recommended hypersonic toothbrush.
Actually, I was doing pretty well with my parents. My school photo came a week ago and it wasn’t bad at all. It was pretty good. It wasn’t amazing, but it looked like what I normally see in the mirror. Not weird, not perfection, just … me. And that was OK.
I thought I’d proved to my family that I could do something right in school, even if that something right only lasted for a fraction of a second. Even if it did take three uniforms and a fire alarm to achieve it.
I stared at the photo in admiration as Mum put it on the shelf. “Looking smart, Hank,” she said, plopping down next to me on the sofa. “How’s it coming in there?” she shouted through to the kitchen. “I’m starving!”
Dad and Emily were sweating over the open flame, shirtsleeves rolled up, bickering between themselves. Just then the post slipped through the letterbox.
Emily abandoned Mum’s eggs and dashed for the door. She tore through the stack of mail, tossing aside everything until her fingers landed on a big manila envelope. She ripped it open with her teeth.
“It’s from the institute!” she cried.
“Now, Em,” Mum said, “there’s always next year, sweetie. So don’t take it too—”
“I got in!” Emily screamed.
“What?” Mum sat up. “How?”
“Let’s see,” Emily said. “Here, it begins, ‘Dear, Emily, We are delighted to offer you a spot… You were one of the strongest candidates we interviewed all year.’ And there’s more about how I should feel proud of myself and expect to win Nobel prizes in twenty years, and here’s the best bit – ‘Out of all the candidates, we feel you would benefit the most from spending time in a less chaotic and more nurturing environment.’”
“Charming,” Mum said with a frown.
“That’s what it says, Mum. Should I read it aga
in?”
“No,” Mum said, picking up the rest of the post. She sorted through it. “Here’s a letter from school. Oh, it’s from Mr Love… Hmm.”
“He’s an odd one,” said my dad from the kitchen, “although I did like his sword.”
“You can tell him in person,” Mum said. “He wants us to come in. He wants to talk about the missing photos. What missing photos? Hank! HANK!”
But I had already bolted. I was out of the door and running straight for the surface of Mars.
Hank Zipzer the World’s Greatest Underachiever series by Henry Winkler and Lin Oliver
The Crazy Classroom Cascade
The Crunchy Pickle Disaster
The Mutant Moth
The Lucky Monkey Socks
The Soggy School Trip
The Killer Chilli
The Parent-Teacher Trouble
The Best Worst Summer Ever
The Ping-Pong Wizard
The House of Halloween Horrors
Who Ordered this Baby? Definitely Not Me!
The Curtain Went Up, My Trousers Fell Down
A Tale of Two Tails
The Life of Me (Enter at Your Own Risk)
The Cow Poo Treasure Hunt
(written by Theo Baker)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. All statements, activities, stunts, descriptions, information and material of any other kind contained herein are included for entertainment purposes only and should not be relied on for accuracy or replicated as they may result in injury.
First published in Great Britain 2015 by Walker Entertainment, an imprint of Walker Books Ltd, 87 Vauxhall Walk, London SE11 5HJ
Based on the television series “Hank Zipzer” produced by Kindle Entertainment in association with DHX Media Ltd. Based on the screenplay The Colossal Camera Calamity
Reproductions © 2014 Hank Zipzer Productions Limited
Text © 2015 Walker Books Ltd
Cover by Walker Books Ltd
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, taping and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.