by Theo Baker
From the pages of Emily Zipzer’s field notebook:
March 8, 12:51 p.m.
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 short-listed 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 sweater. The black one he’s had since his college days and is two sizes too 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 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 program — information I was already familiar with from the institute’s website. I observed her intently, though, studying her speech, her choice of words, and her body language for 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 aptitude 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 a year ahead of me. I watched him for 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 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 offended 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 even 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 forever, chose that moment to call Dad on his cell phone. I begged him not to answer it. “Let it go to voice mail. 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.
“It’s good to know how easily you can be bought,” Ashley said to Frankie as we headed down the hall to our next class. “All it takes is a little dessert, huh?”
“Mmm,” Frankie said.
“That’s all you have to say?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Hey, look,” hollered a kid from the next grade. He pointed at Frankie.
The girl with him giggled. “It’s the purple dessert 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 grape stains and let people laugh and point at you?”
Frankie took another tiny little bite of my mom’s extra-special, chocolate-chocolate sugar treat so he could savor 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 mom’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 traveled up to my throat. The man in the poorly fitted sweater talking into a cell phone was definitely my dad. But why was he here? Had I done something wrong? And why was he wearing his ridiculous “lucky” sweater?
“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 cake!” Frankie said. He began to scrape it up. He even put a bit of it in his mouth.
“Frankie!” Ashley cried. “Think of the germs.”
Ashley rolled her eyes. “You are going to get so sick.”
Frankie ignored her. He was still trying to pick pieces of cake 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 sweater and my dessert. You owe me a new sweater 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 semester.”
“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 chocolatey mess. A fraction of a second had once again ruined me forever.
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 Mom. I bet she took a perfect picture today, too. And I bet this summer she’ll be heading toward scientific excellence — probably preparing to be the first kid on Mars — while I hang around at home in Frankie’s stained sweater. . . .
“. . . 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 sweater 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 chocolate-coated sweater or go back to the lost-and-found and get that tiny one.”
“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 uniform. And right now I look like the Dessert Monster.”
Frankie patted my shoulder. “Face it, 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 great 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 pal with the haircut needs a bib,” Jack said to Karen, who giggled again. 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!
“I am not giving up,” I said resolutely. “This year is my year because 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 toward 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 dessert!”
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 cell 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 Honor? 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: Terrific! 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 because he . . . just got a call from the hospital. About . . . my mom.
DR. MEHAT: Oh my.
EMILY ZIPZER: She runs a small business — deli — and she lost most of her arm, from below the midhumerus, 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 Mommy 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 you feel up to a few questions?
EMILY ZIPZER: I think so, Meera.
As I ran, I tried to do the math. I could run from the apartment 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 brush my teeth, then another twelve to fifteen minutes to run back. If I added in a couple of 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 hom
e 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 pants, because these were not mine.
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 dollar on the ground in front of me. I bought a bottle of water from the corner shop with it and a chocolate bar with money from Frankie’s wallet. Now I owed Frankie a sweater, some cash, and a dessert from Mom’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 apartment. 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 trash can, 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. Mom 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 mom? Not so much.
I got down low and pressed my hands and face up against the window, trying to send a telepathic message for Papa Pete to look over at me. Even though I couldn’t see Mom, I decided it was too risky to go inside without knowing exactly where she was. I didn’t want her to appear at the wrong moment.
A man with a very obvious toupee looked at me. Since my hair was all messed up, and my face was dirty, and my hands, shirt, and tie were smeared with chocolate, the guy must have thought I was Oliver Twist, begging for scraps. He shook me off with a snooty sniff and flipped open his newspaper.
I smushed myself up against the glass and tapped as loudly as I dared until I finally got Papa Pete’s attention. Then I gestured for him to come outside. But Papa Pete gestured for me to come inside. I gestured for him to come outside. Like my regular vocabulary, my gesture vocabulary is not very extensive. Then a woman with a tray stepped between him and me.