The Zippity Zinger #4

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

GROSSET & DUNLAP
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Text copyright © 2004 by Fair Dinkum and Lin Oliver Productions, Inc.

 

Library of Congress Control Number: 2003019216

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-15377-2

 

 

To Bob Daly and Frank Dines, who are really great examples of what good friends are. And always, Stacey.
—
H.W.

 

 

“MOM! I'M OUT OF SOCKS,” I called down the hall.

My sock drawer was totally empty. Okay, it wasn't
totally
empty. There were a few things in there, like a piece of red licorice left over from Halloween, a shoehorn that we used to jam my feet into a pair of size two dress-up shoes for my cousin's wedding, and a bunch of those little rainbow-colored rubber balls that bounce super high.

Anyway, the point I was getting to was that there were no socks in my drawer. This was serious because my grandpa, Papa Pete, was coming over to play catch and that's something you can't do sockless.

“Mom!” I hollered again. “I'm having a sock emergency.”

My mom stuck her head in my room.

“What did you say, Hank? I can't hear you with these.” She pointed to her ears. I wondered why she couldn't hear with her ears. What else would she hear with? Her nose?

I looked closer and realized that she was actually pointing to little headphones that she was wearing over her ears. You couldn't see them at first, because they were covered by her hair, which is blonde and curly and sticks out on the sides like earmuffs.

“What are you listening to?” I asked her in a loud voice.

“Crashing waves,” she answered.

“Is that one of your eighties groups?”

“No, these are actual ocean waves crashing against rocks,” she said.

Wow, and they say kids listen to weird music. At least you can dance to my stuff if you wanted to. Myself, I don't dance—at least, not in public.

“The waves get me in the mood for yoga class,” my mom explained, “which, by the way, I'm late for.”

She headed for the door.

“Wait, Mom, you can't leave now. I'm out of socks.”

“You just noticed that?” she replied.

“No, I noticed yesterday, which is why I wore the same pair two days in a row.”

“All your socks are in the wash,” my mom said. “Just go pop them in the dryer and they'll be done in no time.”

“I'm ten, Mom. I don't know how to just pop things in the dryer.”

“It's easy, Hank,” my mom said with a laugh. She thinks I'm funny even when I'm not trying to be. “Run down to the laundry room and take Emily's clothes out of the dryer, put them in the basket, and transfer your clothes from the washer to the dryer. There are four quarters on the kitchen table next to the Tide. You fit the quarters into the slots, push the whole thing in, and, presto, the machine starts. Is that all clear?”

“As glass, Mom. Laundry room, basket, quarters, slots. Got it.”

My mom left for her class, which is held in my best friend Frankie Townsend's apartment, four floors down. His mom is a yoga teacher, and she's really good at it. She can bend all the way over and put her elbows on the floor. I tried that once, but I fell over on my head and split my pants right down the middle. It was pretty air-conditioned down there, if you know what I mean.

Mrs. Townsend has taught Frankie and me some really useful things, like how breathing deeply can help you relax when you're stressed. I did that when I took my last math test, and it really worked. I felt very relaxed—until I got my grade. There's something about getting an F that is extremely un-relaxing.

I checked the time. Papa Pete was coming in ten minutes, so I had to hurry. He was all excited about having a catch with me. To be honest, I wasn't so thrilled. I love to watch baseball, especially when my team, the New York Mets, is playing. But I'm not very good at
playing
it. In fact, I stink at it. And when I say stink, I don't mean I stink a little. I mean I stink-a-roony. I can't throw. I can't hit. And I can't field. Which just about covers everything that you'd ever have to do in baseball. It's embarrassing. Sometimes it seems that everyone in my class, my school, the world can play baseball, but me.

Papa Pete says all I need is a little practice. I think all I need is a new set of arms and legs and a brain that makes them work correctly.

At first, I told Papa Pete that I didn't really want to have a catch. But then he said that he'd stop by my mom's deli, the Crunchy Pickle, to pick up some dills for us to eat afterwards. Pickles are our favorite snack. Sometimes, we sit outside on my balcony at night and munch down a whole bag of them. Papa Pete, who used to own the deli before he gave it to my mom to run, is an expert at picking out the crunchiest ones. So I guess the thought of those dark green, crunchy pickles won out over my lousy throwing arm, and I told Papa Pete to come on over.

The laundry room is in the basement of our apartment building. My friends and I have a clubhouse in the basement a few doors down from the laundry. I am so lucky that Frankie and my other best friend, Ashley Wong, live right in my building.

I took Cheerio, our crazed dachshund, with me to the basement. Not because I was scared or anything. You know, just for company. He can be really funny when he starts chasing his tail. He spins so fast that he actually looks like a Cheerio, which is how he got his name.

I got off the elevator and followed the scent of soapsuds to the laundry room. I walked in and there were the machines, just waiting for me.

Done.

Done.

Yes, I did.
Way
to go,
Hank.

I'm not the best direction-follower in the world. In fact, I stink at that almost as much as I stink at baseball. No, maybe more, even. So I was pretty proud that I remembered everything my mom told me to do.

I started the dryer, picked up the white plastic basket, and plopped Cheerio on top of the warm clothes. He loves to sit on warm things. Then I ran to the elevator. I didn't want to keep Papa Pete waiting.

When I got back to our apartment, I put the basket down and reached for some socks.

“Hank Zipzer, you are a total moron!” I said out loud to myself.

I
still
had no socks. They were all in the dryer.

The doorbell rang and I heard Papa Pete's voice booming through the door.

“Is my favorite ballplayer ready?” he called. “Your number one fan is waiting for you.”

“Just a second, Papa Pete,” I shouted.

Without thinking about it, I kicked off my slippers and grabbed the first pair of socks on top of the basket and put them on without really focusing on what I was doing.

As I slipped on my sneakers, I caught a glimpse of the socks on my feet.

Let's be clear. I don't own red socks—and I certainly don't own red socks with pink monkeys stitched on them. But that's exactly what was on my feet. BRIGHT RED GIRL'S SOCKS WITH LITTLE PINK MONKEYS ON THEM!!!!

It was like my feet were on fire. I started hopping up and down, trying to get those monkey socks off before they were stuck on me forever. I think I yelled—screamed, really. It was as if an invisible monster had made me pull them on.

Can you imagine if someone saw me with my sister's monkey socks on? We would have to move to another city. No, another state! No, across the country! I would have to change my name, dye my hair, maybe even wear a mask.

Those monkey socks were staring up at me, and I swear they were laughing.

1. Monkeys should live in trees, not on your ankles.

2. Socks should be white, unless you're going to your cousin's wedding, and then your parents make you wear black ones.

3. I have never seen one player on the Mets wearing any member of the animal kingdom below his knees.

4. If Nick McKelty, the bully of our class, knew that I had even considered putting on red-and-pink monkey socks, he would say, “There's Monkey Boy,” when he saw me every day for the rest of my life.

5. Number four is such a horrible thought, it counts for number five, too.

6. When Nick McKelty gets tired of calling me Monkey Boy, he'll switch to saying, “Gonna eat bananas and hang from the lights by your tail?”

7. Actually, hanging from the lights sounds like fun, because I could drop banana peels on McKelty's head. (I know this isn't really a reason, but it sure is fun to think about.)