I could keep my sock drawer neat and organized. Nope, that’s not possible, either.
Okay, I could live in an igloo in the North Pole for a whole winter, eating whale blubber sandwiches on Wonder bread, wearing only a bathing suit. Actually, that sounds more doable than getting a B-plus on my math test.
I can’t go on with this list, not because I’m out of ideas, but because my father is yelling through the door that Heather Payne called to say we’re meeting tomorrow morning before school to go over…yes…long division. Oh, Heather, will you ever get a life?
CHAPTER 10
IF YOU THINK THAT SEEING Heather Payne first thing in the morning is going to put you in a good mood, then you’re probably the type of person who likes to break their leg and walk around on it without crutches. But there she was, at school bright and early the next morning, waiting for me at the round table in the corner of the library—book open, pencil in hand.
“Ready to work on some long division?” she chirped like a twiggy cricket.
“I can hardly wait,” I said, sitting down on a blue plastic chair that she had pulled up real close to her. I pushed it back some. I like to keep some personal space between me and long division.
“Hank, why do you have such a poor attitude about math?” she asked.
“Because I can’t do it,” I answered.
“Long division, like all forms of mathematics, is just about remembering a logical sequence of steps, if you know what I mean,” Heather said.
“Well, in this case, I don’t know what you mean, because what’s logical to you isn’t necessarily logical to me.”
I wasn’t being a smart aleck. I was just trying to give her the picture of what happens inside my head when I see a math problem on the page. The first thing that happens is that I feel nauseous. Then my brain goes numb, like the way your arm feels when you sleep on it—except my brain doesn’t tingle, it just lies there in my head, staring at the problem and having no idea where to begin.
“I’ll walk you through the steps,” Heather offered. “For the first problem, we’ll try a simple one. What is seventy-five divided by five?”
“Forty-five,” I said, without a second of hesitation.
“Why did you say that, Hank?”
“Because forty-five is Pedro Martinez’s number.”
“Who is he and what does he have to do with long division?”
“He’s my favorite pitcher for the Mets, and he’s got nothing to do with long division, but he happens to be one of the best pitchers in the big leagues.”
“Hank, watch me as I solve this problem,” Heather said, picking up her pencil. “And please, concentrate.”
She started scribbling numbers down on a piece of notebook paper, talking in strange tongues as she wrote. She was throwing words around faster than Pedro Martinez’s fastball.
“You take the first divisible digit in the dividend, divide it by the divisor, and place the quotient up here,” she said.
Excuse me, Heather. Are you speaking Greek? Or is it Russian?
“Then you just multiply the quotient by the divisor. Subtract the product from the dividend, compare the difference to the divisor, and bring down the next digit. Are you following?”
I started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Heather asked, looking more confused than angry.
“I don’t know why you decided to teach me long division in Russian,” I said, “because that’s what those words sounded like to me.”
“They are common mathematical terms, Hank.”
“Maybe to you. But to me, they sound like Russian or Greek or Chinese or maybe one of those strange African languages like Swahili where they make those cool clicking sounds with their tongues. That I can do.”
I made a couple of tongue clicks that I thought sounded definitely authentic.
“Hank, please stop fooling around or we’re never going to get anywhere.”
“Heather, on my honor, I am not fooling around. I am trying to understand what you’re saying, but I can’t.”
“It’s not hard, Hank.”
“Heather, maybe not for you. It makes me crazy that it’s so easy for you, and all it sounds like to me is gobbledygook. I feel so stupid. So totally, hopelessly stupid.”
Did I just say that to Heather Payne? I just admitted the thing that makes me feel the worst in the whole world to…this very tall, very perfect girl.
Heather got real quiet for a minute. I could tell she was thinking about what I said. I was thinking about it, too, and wondering why I had just spilled the beans about something so personal to someone I hardly knew. Then Heather said an amazing thing. An amazingly nice thing.
“You’re not stupid, Hank,” she said. “Maybe I’m the stupid one, if I can’t figure out a way to teach you this.”
We both just sat there in the library, listening to the big clock on the wall tick off the seconds. The only other sound was the librarian, Mrs. Frishman, typing on her computer keyboard at the other end of the room.
“Let’s try it again, but without the fancy math words,” Heather said at last.
She wrote the problem down again.
“Now, first step. How many times does five go into seven?”
“I have no idea.”
She got up and went to the bookshelf and brought back a stack of books. She laid out seven of them on the table, then she gave me five books.
“Now place each of these five books on top of each book on the table.”
I did that. Five books were covered, and two were left uncovered. I looked at the table for a while, and then it dawned on me! I could see the division right there in front of me. On the table!
“Five goes into seven one time, with two books left over,” I said.
“Absolutely correct, Hank!” Heather screamed, jumping around like a baby monkey who just got a banana. A very tall baby monkey. Mrs. Frishman looked up and was about to tell us to settle down and use our library voices, but when she saw why Heather was so excited, she didn’t say anything. She’s really nice.
Seeing the answer to the math problem right there in front of me was like a door opening and letting light into my big, dark brain. My head couldn’t visualize the numbers on the page. Or understand the fancy math words. But it could see the books, count the books, and figure out the answer that was right in front of my eyes!
Heather and I went on with the problem, making stacks of books and adding and subtracting new books, working the problem all the way through to the end, until I figured out that five goes into seventy-five fifteen times.
That’s right. I, Hank Zipzer, solved a long division problem. It took a ton of books—one whole library shelf was on the table—and fifteen minutes, but who cares? I not only got the right answer, but for the first time, I actually understood what division was all about.
When I was finished, I was so excited, I jumped up and down, too, and nearly hugged Heather. But, and this is a big but, I caught myself just in time. If I thought admitting to her that I was stupid was bad, hugging her was totally off the chart and out of the question.
“That was so satisfying, Hank,” Heather said as we put the books back on the shelf. “I feel like I actually taught you this process, if you know what I mean.”
Yes, Heather Payne! I do know what you mean! I really do!
“Heather,” I said, flashing her my super-duper smile that shows my upper and lower teeth, “there might actually be a B-plus in my future.”
“What’s so important about getting a B-plus?”
“It’s the only way my dad is going to let me be in the school play. I’m going to audition for the king.”
“You’ll be great at that, Hank,” she said. “You’re so funny and you’re a natural leader. I’m going to try out for Anna, but I bet I won’t get the part. Probably all the other girls are going to try out, too.”
“So what if they try out? You’re a natural teacher. You can get the part if you just stay calm an
d be natural.”
“I’m not good at being natural,” Heather said. “I get a little…”
“Stiff?”
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
“I don’t know. I just took a guess.” I just couldn’t bring myself to tell her that she’s so stiff she makes a flagpole seem wiggly. Frankie and Ashley and I have always commented that Heather Payne looks like she’s got her braids pulled too tight.
“Maybe you could teach me to relax?” Heather said, almost in a whisper. I think she was blushing, somewhere between her eyebrows and her braids. Asking for help didn’t come easy for her, I could tell.
How could I teach her to relax? Man, that was almost as hard as teaching me math.
“My friend Frankie always tells me that oxygen is power,” I said to her.
“Oxygen is a molecule,” Heather said.
“Yeah, but his mom, who’s a yoga teacher, taught him to use those molecules to relax. It’s a deep-breathing technique. He taught me and I can teach you, if you like.”
Heather just nodded. This was getting weird. We were acting almost like…well…almost like friends.
“First you take a deep breath in,” I said, “and as you do, you say ‘I am’ in your mind.”
I took a deep breath in, to demonstrate. Heather did, too.
“Then you let the breath out, and as you do, you say ‘relaxed’ in your mind while you push the air out. Try it.”
Heather blew out a big breath, and I could see her lips moving, saying the word “relaxed.”
“How’s it feel?” I asked her.
“I feel a little light-headed.”
“Cool,” I said. “That’s the first stop on the road to relaxation.”
The bell for school rang, and we had to hurry to put the rest of the books back on the shelf. As we quickly stacked them, I saw Heather practicing her relaxation breathing. Suddenly, she looked over at me and smiled.
“You know what, Hank?” she said. “I have the feeling that my braids are pulled too tight, if you know what I mean.”
Did I ever!
I couldn’t wait to tell Frankie. Apparently, that yoga breathing is some mighty powerful stuff.
CHAPTER 11
I SPENT THE REST OF THAT DAY secretly warming up for the audition, getting into the character of the king. To other people, it might have just looked like I was acting weird. Like when Ms. Adolf asked me to take the attendance records to the office, I bowed and said, “Madame, the record of my subjects shall remain safe inside my kingly robes,” which by the way was actually my grey hooded Mets sweatshirt. At lunch, when I picked up my macaroni and cheese from the cafeteria line, I asked Frankie to taste it first, to make sure no one was trying to poison the king. Wouldn’t you know, he kept tasting it and tasting it until he ate it all. I tell you, you could go hungry being king.
When the final bell of the day rang, I shot out of my seat and headed for the door. The auditions were in the multipurpose room, and I wanted to be the first one to sign up for the part of the king.
“Your backpack, Henry,” Ms. Adolf said, tapping me on the shoulder. “I notice it’s not on your back, which is where a backpack should reside.”
“I got it, dude,” Frankie said, taking the backpack from her as he swung down the aisle and headed for the door. “The king shouldn’t have to carry his own stuff.”
That Frankie. He is such a great friend. He’ll support me no matter what I want to do.
As we headed down the stairs to the multipurpose room, a bad smell came up behind us. It smelled like rotten lettuce mixed with soggy newspapers. And if you’re wondering how I could possibly know what that particular combo smells like, then you haven’t been around the bottom of Katherine’s cage the day before Emily cleans it. Katherine is my sister’s pet iguana, and aside from being one ugly creature, she is also one smelly creature. Other than Katherine, only one animal on the planet could possibly smell like that, and this one wore sneakers the size of battleships as they pounded behind me on the stairway.
“Shove over, Zipperbutt, and let the real king pass,” Nick McKelty said, blasting some of his iguana-cage breath my way.
“McKelty, the only kingdom you rule is Gross Land,” Ashley said. “Don’t you ever brush your teeth?”
“I have people who do that for me,” McKelty snarled. It seemed like he was rehearsing for the part of the king, too.
“Well, dude, they must be on vacation,” Frankie said.
“As king, I have granted them a few days off,” McKelty said. Uh-oh, he seemed pretty into this king thing. I was going to have some competition.
“Give it up, McKelty,” Ashley said. “You won’t get the part. You wouldn’t know a king if you fell on one.”
“For your information, my great-great-grandfather on my mother’s side was the King of Albania,” McKelty lied, as usual. He had the McKelty factor, which is truth times a hundred, working overtime.
“His reign only lasted six hours because he was bitten on his butt by a black widow spider as he rode his horse to a duel,” McKelty went on. “But he’s a huge legend in Albania.”
“He’s a legend in your mind,” Ashley said.
“Which, by the way, dude, has nothing huge about it,” Frankie added.
We all cracked up.
“You’re laughing now, Zippertoes,” McKelty said, “but you won’t be laughing when I get the part of the king.”
He let out another blast of iguana-cage breath and blew past us. People clear the way when they smell him coming.
There was a long line of kids waiting outside the multipurpose room. There were clipboards laid out on a table, with the name of each role written in thick black letters at the top. You were supposed to put your name down for the part you wanted to audition for. There was one clipboard that said PRODUCTION STAFF. Frankie and Ashley headed for that list. Ashley signed up to be the costume designer, and Frankie put his name down for stage manager.
I picked up the KING clipboard, and of course, the first name on the list was Nick McKelty. I was surprised to see that a bunch of other guys had signed up to audition, too, including Luke Whitman. If he were a king, I guess he’d have to command one of his unlucky subjects to pick his nose for him. What a job, to be the royal nose picker.
As I was signing my name, I glanced over at the clipboard that said ANNA on top. Katie Sperling was the first one to sign up. Man, wouldn’t that be great if she got the part and I got to play the king? I mean, I’d get to dance with her, and here’s the best part—she couldn’t say no when I asked her.
Then I saw Heather standing at the back of the line. She was just hanging out around the edge of the crowd of kids, not pushing her way to the table to get to the clipboards like the rest of us were.
“Come on, Heather,” I called out to her. “Put your name down.”
“I’ve changed my mind. I’m not sure I have the time.”
“What are you talking about? You want to play Anna.”
“But what happens if I don’t get the part?” she said, so softly I could barely hear her over the noise of all the kids shouting in the hall.
“You’ll never know unless you try,” I said, picking up the clipboard and shoving it her way.
She took it, but I didn’t see whether she signed up or not, because just then, the doors opened and Devore stepped out into the hall.
“Good afternoon, fellow theater lovers,” he said, flinging his cape around like Superman. “Allow me to invite you into the magical world of drama.”
He turned on his heel and floated into the multipurpose room. There was a platform set up at the far end, and chairs set up in a semicircle around it. Mrs. Crock was sitting on the platform with a yellow pad and a Sharpie. She looked really happy to be his assistant. We all took our seats in the chairs as Devore took his place on the platform.
“Let me remind you that you must be respectful while each of your friends is auditioning,” he said. “The creative spirit needs silence to flo
urish.”
Luke Whitman made a farting noise with his mouth. Devore stared at him.
“What part are you trying out for, young man?”
“The king,” Luke answered.
“I do not recall the king communicating with the use of body sounds,” Devore said. “However, if that is your particular talent, perhaps you should try out for the role of elephant boy. Body sounds are definitely in character there.”
“I assure you, Luke has lots of body sounds, Mr. Devore,” Mrs. Crock said. “I mean, Simply Devore.”
Devore clapped his hands to get our attention.
“The first part we will be casting today is that of the king,” he said.
Great. I’m ready to audition. Bring it on, Devore.
“We have five young men who have signed up for the part. Ryan Shimozato. Hank Zipzer. Nick McKelty. Luke Whitman. And Salvatore Mendez.”
Okay, that’s the competition, Hankster. It’s good to know the competition.
“For purposes of the audition, Mrs. Crock will play Anna.”
That’s good. Mrs. Crock and I get along great. We’ve bonded over her lunch salad many times while I was waiting to see Principal Love.
“Now, who would like to read first?”
My hand shot up. Only then did my brain actually hear the words. When the word read reached my brain, my hand shot down.
“Did he say read?” I whispered to Frankie and Ashley.
“It’s an audition,” Ashley said. “You have to read the lines from the script.”
“But I thought I was just supposed to pretend to be the king,” I said. “I’ve been working on that since yesterday.”
“It’s a play, dude,” Frankie said. “There’s an actual script involved.”
I can’t read out loud without practicing first. Hey, I can’t read quietly. Face it. Reading and I don’t get along.
It was a scene between the king and Anna, where Anna tries to teach the king to dance, but he doesn’t want to learn, because he’s the king and he thinks he knows everything. Salvatore Mendez went first. He’s from Puerto Rico, and when he read the lines, he did it with a little Spanish accent. He was good, and I could tell he really wanted the part, because at the end of the scene, he even kissed Mrs. Crock’s hand. That’s wanting the part, all right.
The Curtain Went Up, My Pants Fell Down Page 4