The Zippity Zinger #4 Read Free Page B

stood there staring at one another.
    Just as the door to the building closed behind me, I heard Papa Pete say, “I’ll talk to him.”
    â€œWell, good luck,” Frankie answered. “I know Zip, and he doesn’t sound like he’s in a listening mood.”

CHAPTER 5
    WHILE WE ATE OUR CRUNCHY DILLS that afternoon, Papa Pete tried to talk me into pitching for the Yellow Team. I said no. With or without monkey socks, a guy knows his limits.
    I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I have learning challenges. Certain things in school are really hard for me, like reading and math and spelling. And certain things out of school are hard for me, too, like throwing and catching. There are so many things to concentrate on that my mind just sort of goes blank. My mind and my hands don’t seem to like each other. They sure don’t listen to each other.
    I’m not bad at all sports. My best sport is archery, which I did at camp last summer. I even won a Master Archer pin for hitting ten bull’s-eyes in a row. Too bad I don’t live in Robin Hood’s time. I would have been such a cool dude, running around in those green tights, shooting off my bow and arrow to protect people. Cool dudes with bows and arrows aren’t too welcome on the Upper West Side of Manhattan these days.
    After Papa Pete left, I went to my room to study for my social studies test. I was lying on my bunk bed with my headphones on and my book on the Hopi Indians open next to me. There was a really interesting picture of the oldest house in America that was built for the chief of the Hopi over one thousand years ago. I stared at the picture, thinking about all the things they didn’t have way back then—toilets, skateboards, striped toothpaste, cell phones, Pop-Tarts. Of course, even if they did have Pop-Tarts, they couldn’t have eaten them because they didn’t have toasters, either.
    â€œHank! How many times do I have to call you?” I could hear my dad yelling through the headphones. He tapped me on the shoulder and I nearly jumped out of my skin.
    â€œDon’t do that, Dad. You scared me!”
    â€œI’ve been calling you for the last five minutes,” he said.
    â€œI was studying.”
    â€œWith headphones on?” he said. “You shouldn’t be listening to music while you’re studying. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
    â€œI’m not listening to music,” I said. “Here, listen for yourself.”
    I handed my dad the earphones and he put them on.
    â€œWhat is this?” he asked.
    â€œIt’s Dr. Berger, reading from our social studies book.”
    Dr. Berger is the learning specialist at my school, and she works with me sometimes to figure out how I can best study my way. She is really nice, and doesn’t think I’m even a little bit stupid.
    â€œShe recorded some Hopi facts for me to listen to,” I told my dad. “She thinks maybe they’ll stick in my head better if I listen to them while I’m looking at the book.”
    â€œSounds like that would be more confusing,” my dad said. “If the TV is on when I’m doing a crossword puzzle, I can’t concentrate on either of them.”
    â€œIt’s working for me, Dad,” I said. “I know so much about the Hopi that I didn’t know ten minutes ago. Like did you know that—”
    â€œSave it for the table,” my dad interrupted. “Dinner’s ready.”
    â€œWhat are we having?”
    I always ask that question with some fear, and I have a good reason for that. My mom is what you’d call an experimental cooker. At her deli, the Crunchy Pickle, her goal is to bring lunch meats into the twenty-first century. So, instead of making salami and corned beef the regular way, she makes them out of tofu and soy and a bunch of other low-fat, low-taste things. At home, our kitchen is her science lab.