I Got a D in Salami #2 (4 page)

I pulled out my sandwich. My mom had packed me another one of her science experiments. Inside the Baggie with my sandwich was a note from her.

My mom runs a deli called The Crunchy Pickle, which my grandfather Papa Pete started. When she took over the deli, my mom said she wanted to bring lunch meats into the world of healthy eating. So she's always inventing stuff like soy-salami-pimento loaf. I'm her number-one guinea pig.

“That stuff looks nasty,” Frankie said, giving my sandwich the evil eye. “Here, buddy. Have half of mine. Yours looks like it has a rash, with all those red spots.”

The peanut-butter-and-jelly tasted great. It was the first good thing that had happened to me that day.

Ashley arrived with her tray. Her parents are both doctors. They don't usually have time to make her lunch in the mornings.

“Robert alert,” she said, shaking her chocolate milk. “Sorry, guys. I couldn't ditch him. He's on me like glue.”

Robert Upchurch was following Ashley to our table. He lives in our building, and even though he's only in the third grade, he thinks he's best friends with us. We don't have the heart to tell him he's not. I mean, the kid wears a tie to school every day. He's already got a hard enough life, right?

Robert took a seat next to me.

“Greetings,” he said, which is a typical Robert thing to say. He talks like he's an alien in a movie. They're always saying stuff like, “I bring you greetings from my people.”

A horrible smell drifted up into my nose. It was coming from Robert's tray. I couldn't believe it. He actually got the halibut—school cafeteria fish, the lowest of the low.

“Robert, I can't believe you got the fish,” I said. “I've never seen anyone get the fish.”

“Actually, fish is excellent for the brain,” Robert said. “It's full of fatty oils that provide nutrients that the brain needs to function. Maybe that's why I'm so intelligent.”

“Or maybe that's why you smell so bad,” said Frankie, holding his nose.

Robert laughed. You have to give him credit for that. You can say almost anything to him and he doesn't take offense.

“How was the spelling contest?” he asked, chomping down on a mouthful of fish.

“Can we talk about something else?” I asked.

“Sure,” said Robert. “Would you like to talk penguins? I know a great deal about the King penguin. Actually, it weighs up to forty pounds and grows to be three feet tall.”

Without taking a breath, Robert launched into the life cycle of the penguin. It was like having a
National Geographic
special right there at your lunch table.

Suddenly, I smelled something really foul behind me. Immediately, I realized it was the unmistakable odor of a rhinoceros with tooth decay—Nick McKelty breath.

“Nice work today on the spelling, dodo brain,” McKelty said, leaning over my shoulder to grab the last of my jelly doughnut.

“You didn't exactly light up the room yourself, McKelty,” I said.

“I just didn't want to make you stupid ones feel bad,” McKelty said. “I knew every word.”

“Right,” said Frankie. “And my name is Bernice.”

From the next table, Katie and Kim cracked up. Everyone loves it when Frankie does his “Bernice” line. Everyone but McKelty, that is.

Bullies don't like to be laughed at. He pulled himself up to his full height, and I have to admit, he towered over Frankie.

“Listen, Townsend, you say that one more time, and I'm going have my father call your father,” he said. Nick's father owns McKelty's Roll 'N Bowl, the bowling alley where my grandpa plays.

“And what's he going to say?” I asked. “Lane number three is available?”

Now Ryan Shimozato and his crew started to laugh. Luke Whitman cracked up, too, but not too loudly.

“Bowling shoes make your feet stink,” Luke said. That's typical Luke Whitman. Luke is one of those kids who'll say disgusting things like “booger slime” or “toe jam” or “diaper doodoo” for no reason at all. I'll bet there's a kid like that in your class.

McKelty was really mad now. He was searching for a comeback, but the big lug just couldn't come up with anything.

“Frankie,” said Ashley, “can you make Mr. McKelty here disappear?”

“No problemo,” said Frankie.

He stood up and looked over at Kim and Katie. He flashed them The Big Dimple. Boy, were they going for it, too. But this is what is so cool about Frankie Townsend. He could've done the magic all by himself and gotten all that attention from Katie and Kim for himself. But did he? No. Here's what he did. He took me by the arm and pulled me to my feet.

“I can't do magic without my man here. Zip, give me some of your magical moves, buddy.”

Kim and Katie stared at me. In fact, everyone in the cafeteria stopped what they were doing and looked at me. Frankie gave me the nod, and I started to wave my hands around like I was casting a spell. Frankie and I have watched
Behind the Scenes Secrets of Magic
videos until the tapes were practically worn out, so I have the moves down pretty smoothly. I gave it the full show-business treatment. Frankie let me go on until he saw that Katie and Kim were impressed. Then he stood up and closed his eyes. When he spoke, it was almost a whisper.

He opened his eyes, and the very second he did, the bell rang. I'm not kidding. It was amazing.

“Lunch is over; everyone back to class,” said Mrs. Tomasini, the teacher on lunch duty. “Nick McKelty, that means you. Get going right now. Hustle.”

Nick picked up his backpack and hurried out of the cafeteria.

“Wow,” Katie said to Frankie. “You did make him disappear.”

“You guys are great!” said Kim, smiling at me. “Can I walk back to class with you?”

“Why not,” I answered, giving her my big smile. I may be dumb in spelling, but hey, I'm no dummy.

I SPENT MOST of the afternoon smiling at Kim Paulson. She sits in front of me, so I was actually smiling at the back of her head. But, trust me, the back of her head is very nice. I couldn't believe how a day that had started out so terribly had turned so good.

I was such a fine mood that it didn't even bother me that much when Ms. Adolf said she was handing out our report cards. It was just before the end of school that day. As we packed up our books, Ms. Adolf went to her desk and unlocked the top drawer with a silver key that she wears around her neck. She took out her roll book, which was stuffed full of envelopes. Then she walked up and down the aisles, handing out the report cards individually. She gave each person a small, white envelope that was addressed to their parents.

When Ms. Adolf arrived at my desk, I put my hand out to receive my white report-card envelope. But instead of handing me one of the small envelopes that everyone else got, Ms. Adolf pulled out a large, brown manila envelope.

“Your report card is inside, Henry, along with a letter to your parents. Please see that they call me immediately.”

Everyone sitting around me got quiet. I looked around the class. No one else had gotten a big brown envelope. I didn't know what it meant, but I knew way down in my stomach that it wasn't good. It took exactly one second for Nick McKelty to open his big mouth.

“Dear Mr. and Mrs. Zipzer,” he said, making his voice sound like Ms. Adolf. “This is to inform you that your son is a stupid retardo.”

A few kids laughed. I was so embarrassed that I could feel the tips of my ears turning red. I grabbed my backpack. I had to get out of there. Fortunately, the bell rang.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I said to Frankie. “I'll meet you downstairs.”

I ran to the bathroom, ducked into one of the stalls, and locked the door. I think my hands were shaking as I ripped open the brown envelope. I pulled out my report card and looked at it.

I got a
D
in spelling. But that wasn't the worst of it.

I also got a
D
in reading.

I also got a
D
in math.

There was a note to my parents from Ms. Adolf. It was written in cursive. I couldn't make out all the words, but I got a few of them
. Doesn't follow directions . . . Poor study habits . . . Sloppy work . . . Fails to pay attention . . . Below
-
average performance.

It wasn't all bad news, though. I did get a
B
-plus in PE. And let's not forget music. I got a
B
-plus in music, too.

I leaned my head against the door of the stall. I felt like I wanted to throw up.

I tried to laugh at my own joke, but you know what? I cried instead.

I COULDN'T STAY in the bathroom stall forever. I wanted to, but I knew at some point I would have to leave. As I walked downstairs to meet my friends, I made a list in my head.

 

DID YOU NOTICE that I skipped number five on the list?

And that I left off the
W
in ‘wrinkled'?

It's just more proof that I deserve those lousy grades I got.

Frankie and Ashley were waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. They looked worried.

“Zip, are you okay?” Frankie asked. “You're not looking too good, buddy.”

“I'm not feeling too good, either,” I said.

“Maybe you have a temperature,” Ashley said, putting her hand on my forehead, the way my mom does when she thinks I have a fever.

“Don't touch me in public, Ash,” I said. “I'm not that kind of sick anyway. I got bad grades on my report card.”

“Like
C
's?” Ashley asked.

“Ashweena, a
C
isn't a bad grade,” Frankie said. “At least, I don't think it is. Otis got one once in the fourth grade.”

Otis is Frankie's older brother. He's in the eighth grade and is smart like Frankie.

“Did he get in trouble?” Ashley asked.

“Not really,” Frankie said. “My dad told him a
C
was a warning sign that he had to work harder. ‘Give it some more gas,' he said.”

At our school, PS 87, we don't get letter grades until the fourth grade. Up until then, your teachers only write comments on your report card, and they're usually pretty nice. In first grade, my teacher, Ms. Yukelson, wrote, “Hank has excellent scissors skills and has made many valuable contributions to our unit on the harbor.” My parents took me out to dinner to celebrate that report card. In third grade, my teacher, Mr. Chan, wrote, “Hank is a natural leader and is well liked by his peers. He needs additional practice in his reading and math skills.” We didn't go out and celebrate for that one, but it wasn't terrible, either.

“Not to worry, Zip,” Frankie said, throwing his arm around my shoulder. “So what if you got a
C
or two on your report card? You just got to give it a little more gas, right?”

“Pedal to the metal,” said Ashley.

I had to tell them the truth. They were my best friends.

“Listen up, guys. I didn't get a
C
,” I said. “I got three
D
's. In spelling, in math, and in reading. And a really bad letter to my parents.”

For a minute, Frankie and Ashley didn't say anything. Then Ashley gave me a hug and said I would do better on the next report card. Frankie offered to tutor me in math. I tell you, I have world-class friends.

Robert came to meet us for the walk home. While he was taking off his clip-on tie, which he does every day at exactly ten minutes after three, I told him the news about my report card. There's no point trying to keep anything from Robert. He finds everything out sooner or later. He's like an information magnet.

“I imagine three
D
's is well below the national average for fourth-graders,” Robert said.

“Not now, Robert,” Ashley said firmly.

He looked at me like my favorite pet goldfish had just died. Then he did a really weird thing. He asked if he could have my Rollerblades.

“Your parents are going to ground you for so long,” he said, “that by the time you get ungrounded, the Rollerblades won't even fit you anymore.”