The World's Greatest Underachiever and the Crazy Classroom Cascade

by Henry Winkler

“No,” I answered. I didn’t have the courage to look at her. “They said no exceptions.”

  “I can take his place,” Robert chimed in.

  “No, you can’t,” we answered together.

  As if what was happening wasn’t bad enough, suddenly a dark cloud appeared. Its name was Nick McKelty.

  “Oh, poor thing, did Head Teacher Love bust you hard?” the big creep said in this stupid baby voice. His teeth were looking especially wonky.

  “Hank got two weeks’ detention,” Robert volunteered. As you’ve probably already noticed, Robert doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.

  “What are you going to do about your grandpa’s magic show at my dad’s bowling alley?” Nick said. “Sounds like it’s not happening.” He was really enjoying this.

  Before I had a chance to answer, he threw his big, slimy arm round me. He put his face up to mine, and there it was – the bad breath again. I didn’t breathe.

  “Hey, don’t worry about it, Zipper man,” he said. “I got you covered.”

  “You?” I said, taking a breath and removing his arm from my shoulder. “What can you do, McKelty?”

  “I’ll put on a bowling show. I’ll knock down more pins than … than … than…” I could see him searching for something clever to say, but as usual, he came up empty.

  “I’ll knock down a whole lot of pins,” he finally spat out. “I just have to decide if I should use my left hand or my right hand.”

  “For your information,” said Ashley, “the bowling league doesn’t want to see bowling. They know how to do that. They want to see magic. That’s why they hired us.”

  “My ball handling is magical,” McKelty said. He was really happy with that comeback. He reached over and in one swipe his apelike hand nabbed Robert’s Jelly swirl and Ashley’s Nestlé Crunch right off the table.

  “Don’t feel bad,” he said as he walked away. “There’s always next year.”

  We were silent. We didn’t feel bad. We felt horrible.

  “Hey, come on, guys,” I said with fake cheerfulness. “You can do the show without me!”

  “We can’t build the hat without you,” said Ashley. “You’re the one who knows how to do everything.”

  “Besides, who do you think is going to get Cheerio inside the hat?” asked Frankie. “Do you think that dog is going to listen to me? Not in this century.”

  I knew they were right. I had ruined everything for them.

  I told them I was sorry.

  But I don’t think it helped.

  The Bell Rang at three o’clock. Everyone grabbed their rucksacks and headed for the door. They were on their way to football practice or sax lessons or other fun after-school activities. But not me. Nope. I was about to start my first day of detention. It was going to be me in a chair and Ms Adolf at her desk for the next fun-filled hour.

  I must have really sighed loudly.

  “Do you have something to say?” Ms Adolf asked.

  I didn’t say a word. I made a sound. The human body does that sometimes.

  “Henry,” Ms Adolf said, “I assume you want to use this time wisely.”

  “Yes, Ms Adolf,” I answered. I couldn’t imagine Ms Adolf having a first name. Maybe her friends just call her Ms Adolf.

  “I’ve decided to have you write your essay under my supervision,” she said. “Using paper and pencil, Henry. No monkey business this time.”

  I don’t know why people always think monkey business is a bad thing. I love monkeys. They always seem to have such a good time, picking bugs off one another and eating them.

  I took out a piece of paper and stared at it. It was blank. So blank. Ms Adolf sat down at her desk and began to write in her brand-new register. Neither one of us made a sound. It was so quiet, I could hear her breathing.

  The clock on the wall clicked and the big hand jerked forward. One minute down, fifty-nine to go. Suddenly, the classroom door flew open and a messenger from the office came in. She handed Ms Adolf a note and disappeared just as quickly. After Ms Adolf had read the note, she got her handbag out of the bottom drawer.

  “I have an emergency that I have to deal with,” she said. Her pet fire-breathing dragon must be sick. “My husband’s car won’t start and I have to pick him up from work.”

  Husband? Someone married her? No way. Do you think he kisses her goodnight?

  I must have wrinkled up my face, because Ms Adolf said, “What’s the face for, Henry?”

  “Umm … I was just thinking about … umm … how it would feel for a raisin to try to lift up an elephant,” I said.

  “You would do better to keep your mind on your work, Henry, and not fill your head with silly thoughts.” Ms Adolf put the register in the top drawer and locked it with her shiny key. She scribbled a note on a Post-it and gave it to me.

  “The office has arranged for you to spend the rest of the hour in the music room with Mr Rock, the music teacher. He’s on his way. Go there and give him this note. Sit quietly until he arrives.”

  The music room is in the basement. Even though it’s right next to the dining room, I don’t go there unless I have to. Being there makes me remember my second-grade choir audition, which I’ve been trying to forget ever since it happened. That was when Mrs Peacock, the music teacher, told me that if I wanted to be in the choir, I couldn’t sing out loud. I was only allowed to mouth the words so I wouldn’t throw everyone else off key. Mrs Peacock left last year to have a baby. I had never met Mr Rock. He was new.

  The first things I noticed when I went into the music room were the posters all around the walls. Most of them were of composers – Beethoven and Mozart and all those old guys. But there were other posters too – cool ones. Pink Floyd. A super-sized photo of Manhattan from the air. An action shot of Michael Jordan going up for a tomahawk dunk. And my favourite, a picture of the coolest 1959 red-and-white Corvette you’ve ever seen.

  A whole bunch of instruments were spread out in the room. There were triangles and xylophones and a piano. I sat down in a chair facing a set of silver-and-burgundy drums. I realized that my leg was bouncing up and down, about a mile a minute. It does that sometimes when I’m supposed to be sitting still.

  As I sat there, it hit me that I had two whole weeks of misery in front of me. It didn’t seem fair. I was being punished for trying to do my best.

  Thoughts started coming from every corner of my brain. I wished Mr Love had let me finish just one sentence. I wished my parents had given me a chance to tell them how much I know about Niagara Falls. I wished I was as smart as my sister. She could do anything. She has just toilet-trained her parakeet. My parents are always so proud of her.

  I picked up one of the drumsticks and tapped the big drum. It felt good. I liked the sound. I hit it again, a little louder. Then I picked up the other stick and looked around to make sure I was still alone. Bam! I hit the drum, first with one stick, then the other. Bam, bam, bam. The drums were starting to sound like I felt.

  Bam. I wish I didn’t always forget my rucksack.

  Bam. I wish I could do long division.

  Bam. I wish I didn’t feel so stupid all the time.

  Before I knew it, I was hitting the drums so fast I could hardly see my hands. The cymbal was right in front of me. Why not? I hit it. Clash. The sound vibrated all around the room. I smacked it again. Now back to the drums. Bam, clash, boom!

  “That’s for detention!” I shouted.

  Clash, boom, bam!

  “That’s for always getting into trouble!” My voice rang out.

  Bam, bam, bammitty bam!

  “That’s five, one for each paragraph I can’t write!”

  Bam, boom, bam, boom, bam, boom, boom!

  “And that’s for my stupid brain!” I yelled.

  From behind me, I heard a man’s voice say, “I bet your brain isn’t stupid.”

  I froze, then slowly turned round. The man in the doorway had a young face but a head full of curly, silver hair. He was wearing a blue denim sh
irt and a tie with musical notes on it.

  “Mr Rock?” I asked.

  “That’s me,” he answered. “Does your band have a CD out yet?”

  “I’m really sorry,” I said. “I know I wasn’t supposed to touch these, but—”

  “They’re instruments,” Mr Rock said. “They’re here to play. Sounds like they helped you express yourself.”

  “I’ve had a bad day,” I said.

  “Because of your stupid brain?” he asked.

  “Yeah. How did you know?”

  “Because you just said it,” he said with a smile. “It was hard to miss.”

  I handed Mr Rock the note from Ms Adolf. He read it, then pulled up a chair and sat down backwards on it. I assumed he was going to ask me why I was in detention, but he didn’t.

  “So your name is Henry Zipzer?” he said.

  “My friends call me Hank.”

  “Hank, that’s a good name,” he said. “Ever heard of Hank Aaron?”

  “April the eighth, 1974,” I answered. “The day Hammerin’ Hank beat Babe Ruth’s home-run record.”

  “I’m a baseball fan, too,” he said. “I don’t suppose you know what number home run Hank Aaron hit on that day.”

  “Seven hundred and fifteen. Do you want to know a weird Hank Aaron fact?”

  “Sure,” said Mr Rock.

  “In four of his twenty-three seasons in baseball, Hank Aaron hit exactly forty-four home runs, which was his uniform number. Pretty amazing, huh?”

  “Seems to me,” said Mr Rock, “that your brain isn’t as stupid as you think. It’s got plenty of good information tucked inside it.”

  “I don’t have a problem remembering interesting facts,” I explained. “I just can’t do a lot with them. Like writing essays and spelling are tough – stuff that’s easy for everyone else.”

  “Everybody learns differently,” he said. “Your brain is your brain. You just have to figure out the right way to feed it.”

  “I gave it a lot of Cocoa Pops this morning,” I said.

  “How about music?” He laughed. “Do you ever feed it music?”

  He actually waited for an answer.

  “No,” I said.

  Mr Rock rubbed his hands together as though he was about to eat something delicious.

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” he said. “Ms Adolf’s note says you’re supposed to work on your essay. We’ve got forty-five minutes of detention left. Let’s take a few minutes to listen to some music. It might put you in the writing mood. What do you like?”

  “Well, my essay is supposed to be about Niagara Falls.”

  “Let me see if I can find some water music,” he said. “What does Niagara Falls sound like?”

  “It sounded like thunder when I was there.”

  He shuffled through some CDs and picked one out.

  “This is part of the Grand Canyon Suite,” he said. “It’s called Cloud Burst.” He put it on, then turned it up loud. It really felt as though it was raining right there in the basement of PS 87. I’m not kidding.

  Papa Pete says that you never know where good luck is going to come from. In my case, it came from Big Harry’s Auto and Body Shop, which took the entire week to fix Mr Adolf’s car. Ms Adolf had to leave early every day to pick up her husband, so I got to spend one whole week of detention with Mr Rock.

  He taught me how to play “Hey Jude” on the xylophone. We looked at magazine pictures of our favourite cars. I picked the Ferrari F-50 convertible and he picked a 1947 Ford Woody with a surfboard on top. He put me in complete charge of trimming the dead leaves off his indoor plants. I liked that job.

  We worked on my essay too. When I got stuck, which was every other second of every other minute, he’d ask me questions like “How did the falls make you feel?” or “What did you like best about the trip?” That really helped me focus.

  The best part was listening to music. He’d put on a CD and then we’d just sit back and let music fill the room.

  It felt so good, I couldn’t believe I was at school.

  “What’s a nine-letter French word for eggplant?” my father shouted to no one in particular.

  I was sitting at the other end of the dining-room table, doodling in my maths workbook. As part of my punishment, my parents had taken away my privacy privileges. I wasn’t allowed to do my homework in my bedroom. The worst part was having to listen to my father’s crossword puzzle questions. I don’t get it. What’s the point of doing crossword puzzles if you have to ask everyone else for the answers?

  Emily walked out of her bedroom with Katherine on her shoulder. Her long tongue was darting in and out of her mouth – Katherine’s tongue, that is, not Emily’s.

  “Has anyone seen Katherine’s bag of dinner pellets?” Emily asked.

  “I put them in the cookie jar, honey,” Mum called from the kitchen.

  “Mum!” I yelled. “I ate those for my snack this afternoon. I thought they were one of your new healthy treats.”

  Emily laughed. Katherine jiggled up and down on her shoulder.

  “It’s not funny,” I said. “Now I’ll probably grow a long, disgusting iguana tongue.”

  As I was rinsing my mouth out at the kitchen sink, the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it!” I yelled.

  “Remember to look through the spyhole first,” Mum reminded me.

  If I stand on my toes, I can just about get my eye up to the spyhole. I looked out but didn’t see anyone.

  “Who is it?” I shouted through the door.

  “It’s us,” Frankie whispered. “Open up, Zip.”

  I pressed my face up against the crack in the door. “I’m grounded,” I whispered back. “You know I can’t play.”

  “We’re not here to see you,” Frankie said. “We’re here to talk to your dad.”

  I opened the door. Frankie and Ashley marched right past me, with Robert bringing up the rear.

  “Good evening, Mr Z.,” Frankie said, going right up to my father.

  “We’ve come to discuss a very important business matter,” added Ashley.

  My father looked up from his crossword puzzle.

  “You kids aren’t supposed to be here,” he said. “Hank is still grounded for another week.”

  “This matter can’t wait,” said Ashley.

  “Aubergine,” said Robert, looking at the newspaper in my father’s hand.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” snapped Frankie.

  “It means eggplant in French,” said Robert, pointing at the blank spaces on my father’s crossword puzzle. “Thirteen across is aubergine.”

  “Sometimes you scare me,” Frankie said to Robert.

  “Come on, boys, let’s not forget why we’re here,” Ashley said. She turned to my father, with her no-nonsense face on. “Mr Zipzer, as you know, Magik 3 has a contract with Papa Pete to put on a fantastic magic show this weekend at McKelty’s Roll ’N Bowl. We’ve tried all week to build the special hat we need for the grand finale. But our hat looks like a sofa.”

  “We’re begging you, Mr Z.,” said Frankie. “We’re pleading with you. Free Hank. We can’t make the hat without him.”

  My father shook his head no.

  “I’ll help you with forty-three down,” Robert offered. “Oh, I also happen to know three across.”

  “I’m afraid Hank has to learn his lesson,” my father interrupted. “There’ll be other magic shows.”

  He stood up, went to the front door and held it open. You couldn’t get a much more final “no” than that. Frankie, Ashley and Robert left. My father closed the door and started back to his chair. The doorbell rang again. My father span round and yanked the door open.

  “Now listen, kids,” he began. Then he stopped suddenly. The next thing I heard was him saying, “I’m sorry, can I help you?”

  I got up to see who was at the front door.

  What is Mr Rock doing here? Oh no. I bet I broke the drum and he’s here to tell my parents. I hit myself on the f
orehead with my fist. Not hard, but like I do sometimes when I’m frustrated with myself. How could I have been so stupid?

  “I hope I’m not interrupting your dinner,” Mr Rock said. “I’m Donald Rock, the music teacher from PS 87. I was wondering if I could talk to you for a moment?”

  My father opened the door wider and led Mr Rock into the living room.

  I was surprised to see him. I had never had a teacher pop by before. But then again, Mr Rock wasn’t like other teachers.

  “What’s he doing here?” Emily whispered to me. “You must have messed up big-time.”

  My mother came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a green checked tea towel. She picked up a plate from the dining-room table and offered Mr Rock a cracker with some of her new soy cheddar cheese spread. He popped it into his mouth before I had a chance to warn him. His lips stuck together when he tried to talk.

  “I had the pleasure of spending last week with your son during his detention,” Mr Rock began. He scraped some of the soy cheese off the roof of his mouth, trying to smile at the same time. My mother offered him another cracker but, smart guy that he is, Mr Rock said no thanks.

  “I’ve had a lot of time to talk to Hank and to observe him. I’ve noticed that he is somewhat frustrated about his schoolwork,” he said.

  “Very frustrated,” my mother added.

  “Mr and Mrs Zipzer, I believe Hank might benefit from being tested – to see if he has any learning difficulties.” Mr Rock waited for their answer.

  “There’s nothing wrong with Hank,” my father said. “If he spent as much time doing his schoolwork as he does daydreaming and mooching around his room and building things, he’d be an A student. Hank is just lazy.”

  “Maybe that’s not the case,” Mr Rock said.

  “You know, many children have learning difficulties. Every child’s brain is wired differently.”

  Every brain is wired differently? What was he saying? That my brain is messed up? Oh that’s great. Now everyone really will think I’m stupid!

  “What does that mean, ‘wired differently’?” my mum asked.

  “Different kids learn in different ways,” Mr Rock said. “I know that because I myself had difficulty at school.”