My Dog's a Scaredy-Cat

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GROSSET & DUNLAP
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Text copyright © 2006 by Henry Winkler and Lin Oliver Productions, Inc.

Illustrations copyright © 2006 by Grosset & Dunlap. All rights reserved. Published
by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2006004898

eISBN : 978-1-101-09886-8

“YOU'RE GOING AS A
WHAT
?” Frankie Townsend, my best friend, practically screamed at me.

“I'm telling you, Frankie,” I shot back. “No one has ever had this idea for a Halloween costume before.”

“That's because no one is as insane as you are, Zip.”

I had called Frankie and Ashley and told them they had to hurry to our clubhouse for a special meeting to discuss my brilliant idea for a Halloween costume. Ashley hadn't arrived yet, but I was so pumped up that I couldn't wait, so I just blurted my idea out to Frankie. It was not hard to notice that he didn't seem to think my idea was as brilliant as I did. As a matter of fact, I noticed that he thought it was totally stupid. And insane. And dangerous, too.

Usually, Frankie and I agree on most everything. Like the fact that our teacher Ms. Adolf is the worst teacher in the world. Like the fact that
The Moth That Ate Toledo
is as excellent an example of moviemaking as you could ever hope to find. Like the fact that boxers are better than briefs, and that your feet should never be tucked in tight when you're in bed. We think it sucks having the sheets so tight that they squish your toes under your feet like you're some kind of three-toed sloth.

So you can probably see why I was shocked that Frankie didn't like my idea for a Halloween costume.

“Frankie, the trouble with you is that you don't have an imagination with personality,” I told him.

“Hank, the trouble with you is that you have an imagination that is totally freaky.”

“What is wrong with going as a table in an Italian restaurant?” I demanded to know. “Tell me in twenty-five words or less.”

“I can tell you in one word, Zip. E-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g.”

“Are you seriously telling me that my idea isn't clever and original?”

“I'm telling you that you're going to be laughed out of the school yard, if not pushed.”

I flopped down on the beat-up purple-flowered couch and sighed. Then I coughed, because when you flop down on that couch, a huge cloud of dust erupts from the pillows like a volcano. Our clubhouse is in the basement of our apartment building, just down the hall from the laundry room. The clubhouse is really supposed to be a storage room where people keep things they don't use every day, like Christmas decorations or a bicycle with a flat tire. Mrs. Park, who lives on the seventh floor, put the flowered couch there last year when she got a new brown velvet one. There's a lot of dust that's collected in its pillows since then, but we don't care. I mean, how many kids do you know who have a clubhouse that comes complete with its own purple-flowered couch?

I put my feet up on the big iron birdcage that Mr. Grasso kept his pet parrot in before it flew away. Mr. Grasso told us that he named his parrot Gershwin because the bird liked to sing old Broadway tunes written by this guy named George Gershwin and his brother, Ira. That's a funny name, Ira. It sounds like it should be the name of a government office building, like: “The Ira Building will be closed on Saturdays and public holidays.”

“Zip,” Frankie said, snapping his fingers in front of me. “Where are you, man?”

“I was in Central Park, but I'm back now,” I said.

My mind wanders a lot, but Frankie is used to that. You get used to everything about each other when you've been best friends your whole lives.

“Hey, guys. I came as soon as dinner was over.”

It was Ashley Wong, our other best friend, who lives on the fourth floor of our building. She was breathing hard as she rounded the corner into the clubhouse, so she must have run down the stairs instead of taking the elevator.

“What's the urgent meeting about?” she asked me. “Another Hank Zipzer brainstorm?”

“Hank wants to discuss his idea for the Halloween costume he's going to wear in the school parade tomorrow,” Frankie said. “Hank, my man, go ahead. Tell Ashweena what you've decided to go as.”

“I can't believe it,” I said to Ashley. “Frankie's got a problem with the fact that I'm going as a table in an Italian restaurant.”

“That's amazing,” Ashley said, “because I'm going as a bowl of pasta in white clam sauce.”

“You're kidding,” I said.

“Yes, I am,” she snapped back. “And I hope you are, too. Tell me you're not serious, Hank.”

“What is wrong with you two?” I asked. “Does everyone have to go as some kind of bloodsucking vampire? That's so third grade.”

Frankie came over and flopped down next to me.

“Hank, let me tell you how it is,” he said, coughing from the dust his butt had kicked up. He put his hand on my shoulder and got that look on his face that he gets when he's explaining complicated things to me, like the plot of
The Moth That Ate Toledo (Part Two)
or how you figure out the earned run average of a pitcher. He looked me right in the eye.

“Hear me, dude. Blood is Halloween. Fangs are Halloween. Oozing scars and a rubber nail stuck in your cheek are Halloween. A table in an Italian restaurant is so not Halloween. It's not even Easter.”

“Hank,” Ashley chimed in. “It's our duty as your friends to warn you that if you go in the costume you're thinking of, everybody in the entire fifth grade will be talking about you. And you won't like what they're saying.”

“Fine, you've warned me,” I said. “But when you see me tomorrow in a red-and-white checkered tablecloth, with breadsticks in one hand and garlic-scented olive oil in the other, your minds will be changed forever.”

“Did he just say garlic-scented olive oil?” Frankie asked Ashley.

“Yes, I'm pretty sure he did.” She nodded.

“Ashweena, that tells me that this is way more than we can deal with. Way more.”

“I can pull this off, guys,” I said. “I don't want to be just another mummy. I want to express myself. Be creative.”

“Will you consider a bribe?” Ashley said.

“I'll buy you two slices of pepperoni pizza if you change your mind.”

I shook my head.

“Not even for a whole pizza with sausage, Canadian bacon, pineapple, and extra cheese,” I said.

Frankie got up and headed for the door, stepping over Gershwin's cage and a box of Mrs. Fink's old baking pans. Mrs. Fink lives next door to us, and she makes the best cherry strudel in the world. If you ever run in to her, you have got to ask her for a piece. Put some vanilla ice cream on top, eat that puppy up, and you'll be smiling for a week. I'm not kidding.

“Hankster, we tried to warn you, but we failed,” Frankie said. “So good luck. And when you come home tomorrow after the parade and crawl under your bed for the next six months, don't forget to send me a postcard.”

“You'll see,” I said to Frankie and Ashley. “I'm going to win first prize for originality. And by the way, I'll be accepting all apologies tomorrow in the clubhouse between the hours of four and six-thirty.”

Boy, I hoped I was right. I was sure my costume was going to be brilliant.

I had to be right.

I'm absolutely right.