Help! Somebody Get Me Out of Fourth Grade (10 page)

WHEN WE REACHED THE Crunchy Pickle, the whole crew was working at triple speed to get the order out for the Tallchief party. Carlos was arranging pickles and olives on a big platter. Vlady was putting fancy toothpicks in the sandwich halves, because his sandwiches are so big they need toothpicks to hold them together. My mom was spooning her high-protein, low-carbohydrate, no-taste pretend potato salad into the reusable, recyclable containers she had made especially for our deli. My dad was trying to add up the bill while looking for his glasses that were sitting on top of his head.

Papa Pete tiptoed over to the glass counter where we display the cookies and other baked goods like marble cake and chocolate éclairs. He picked out the four biggest black-and-white cookies. Then he poured himself a cup of coffee and got us each a small carton of milk from the refrigerator case. You need to have milk with your black-and-whites, so you can dunk. We sat down in the turquoise leather corner booth and had ourselves the after-school snack of your dreams.

If you're ever in a place where they have those big, round cookies that have half white frosting and half chocolate, eat one immediately. You won't be sorry.

“Hey, niños,” Carlos called out as he passed our booth with the order all loaded up on his bicycle. “You clean me out of my black-and-whites. Save some for the customers.”

My mom held open the heavy glass door, and Carlos jumped on his bike and rode off to make his delivery. He should work in a circus because he's got great balance. My mom let out a sigh of relief. My dad, who had a real sparkle in his eye, immediately grabbed a piece of paper from the counter and practically skipped over to our booth. He pulled up a chair from one of the neighboring tables.

“Do you know what this says, Son?” he asked me, pointing to some words he had written down on a piece of paper.

I looked at the paper, but it looked like random scribbling to me. I thought I saw an
F
at the beginning of the scribbling.

“Flipper Frisbee fork,” I guessed, saying the first three words that came to my mind that started with
F
. Who knows? Maybe one of them was right.

“Hank, that doesn't make any sense,” my dad said, looking at me like my brains had turned into mashed peas. Okay, so I guessed wrong.

Frankie leaned over my shoulder and glanced at the paper.

“It says Filbert Funk,” he whispered to me.

“That's what I was just going to say next,” I said to my dad.

“And do you know who Filbert Funk was?” my dad asked.

My dad doesn't like it when he asks a question and you say, “I don't know.” He says that “I don't know” is a lazy man's answer. So I've gotten used to taking a guess when he asks me something, even if I don't know the slightest thing about the question.

“Filbert Funk was an English man who invented funk music in November of 1974,” I answered without skipping a beat.

“No, Hank,” said my dad. “Filbert Funk is one of my heroes. He was the younger brother of Isaac K. Funk.”

“Oh, Isaac,” I said. “
He
must've been the guy who invented funk music in November of 1974.”

Frankie and Ashley cracked up. Needless to say, my dad didn't. He was on a Funk Brothers roll, and he didn't want to be interrupted by a dumb joke.

“Isaac K. Funk, along with his partner, Adam Wagnalls, published
The Standard Dictionary of the English Language
in 1894,” my dad explained. “It's one of everybody's favorite books.”

“Except mine,” I said, which was the understatement of the year.

I can't stand dictionaries. I can't sound the word out that I'm looking up, so I can never find it buried in all those dictionary pages. You try looking up a word in the dictionary if you're dyslexic like I am. The letters flip around on the page, and before you know it, there are letters floating in front of your eyes like synchronized swimmers in the Olympics. Oops, there I go again, getting off on the subject of synchronized swimmers. Sorry. It won't happen again.

“Isaac Funk's younger brother, Filbert, wrote and edited the first
Crossword Puzzle Dictionary
ever published,” my dad said.

He looked so happy with that little announcement that I thought his face was going to light up and start to buzz.

“Wow, Dad,” I said. And because I couldn't think of anything else to say, I said it again. “Wow.”

By now, my mom had joined us in the booth. She looked very happy herself. I wondered why both my parents were so pumped up about the Funk Brothers.

“And here's the truly exciting part,” my dad said. I think his voice was actually shaking. “Guess where Filbert Funk was born?”

“Blowing Rock, North Carolina,” I said.

“No, Hank. Filbert was born in Philadelphia.” My dad broke into a grin the size of the Brooklyn Bridge. “I just happened to read that this morning in
Crossword Puzzle Monthly
.”

I wasn't sure where this conversation was going, but I had a hunch. And I liked my hunch. I liked it a lot.

“Did you say Philadelphia?” I said. “As in the place where the Stone Cold Rock concert is?”

“Yes, Hank,” my dad said. “When I mentioned this little-known fact to your mother, do you know what she did? She called and arranged for us to get a private tour of Filbert Funk's home in Philadelphia. I am going to be able to sit in the very chair where he created the
Crossword Puzzle Dictionary
.”

“Your father and I are going to tour the Funk House in the afternoon,” my mom said. “And he said if I go with him, he'll go with me to the Stone Cold Rock concert in the evening. How's that for the give-and-take of marriage?”

She leaned over and planted a big kiss on my dad's cheek.

I could feel Frankie and Ashley kicking me under the table. I glanced over at them. Boy, did they look happy. Ashley's eyebrows were wiggling up and down over her purple glasses, a thing she does when she's trying to keep a secret. And Frankie had such a big grin on his face that his dimple popped out. It looked like a moon crater.

“So you guys are going to Philadelphia, after all?” I asked. I had to be sure. “On Cousin Ralphie's tour?”

They nodded.

“Hank, your generosity has allowed me to realize a lifetime dream,” my dad said. “Imagine, my behind in Filbert Funk's favorite chair. It's pure joy, Hank. A three-letter word for happiness.”

“Isn't this all so wonderful, Hank?” my mom said.

Oh, she had no idea how wonderful this was.

BEFORE WE LEFT THE DELI, Papa Pete gave me a plastic baggie full of pickles to take home. That's our favorite snack food. Sometimes we go out on the balcony of my apartment and munch on a good, crunchy dill while Papa Pete tells me funny stories about playing stickball when he was a boy growing up in New York. Those are the best times. A pickle and a laugh, you can't beat that combo. That's what Papa Pete always says, and I have to agree with him.

As I unzipped the small compartment of my backpack to put the pickles in, I noticed the pink sign-up sheet wadded up at the bottom. I smiled. I had no use for that anymore. Nope, my parents didn't need to set up a time to meet with crabby old gray-faced Ms. Adolf. They'd be in Philadelphia on Friday.

I made up a letter in my head. It was the best head letter I had ever composed.

 

 

 

 

AT NOON ON THURSDAY, a great thing happened. My parents, Stan and Randi Zipzer, went to Philadelphia. They left us a note that said where they were going to be every minute.

At noon, they were picked up in a limo and driven to Philadelphia. At three o'clock, they'd take the tour of the Funk House. At six o'clock, they'd ride in the limo to the concert. At seven o'clock, they'd be in their front-row seats at the concert. At midnight, they'd be eating Philly cheesesteaks at Pat's. On Friday morning, they'd be treated to a tour of Philadelphia, and if they wanted, a trip to the tattoo artist. And sometime late Friday, they'd drive back to New York on the fully stocked Stone Cold Rock personal bus.

They left us their cell phone number where we could reach them in case anything came up. But believe me, I was planning to make sure that nothing came up. I wanted them out of sight, out of touch, and out of PS 87.

Papa Pete stayed with us that night, which is always so much fun. He lets Emily and me eat Eskimo Pies in our pajamas and play video games until we fall asleep. Well, he lets me play video games. Genius Girl Emily has no interest in video games. She'd rather stay up all night reading old issues of
Reptile World
. If you promise not to tell anyone, I'll let you in on a little secret: Sometimes she reads the articles aloud to Katherine, and when she does, it looks as if that leathery lizard is really listening. How weird is that?

The night went off perfectly. My parents called after the tour of the Funk House, and I have never heard my dad sound happier. He was in crossword-puzzle-dictionary heaven. They called again before the concert, and my mom said they'd try to call afterward.

They didn't, but I was glad. It meant they were having a great time. And so was I. I slept like a baby and dreamed about how great it would be to go on to fifth grade. Maybe I'd even get a nice teacher. I had heard that Ms. Warner was cool and let you watch videos on the days before vacations. And Mr. Mooser told funny jokes and didn't mind if you got a snack from your lunch bag if you were hungry in class.

In the morning, I woke up and hung around in my pajamas. It was great having no school.

“Don't you just love Parent-Teacher Conference Day?” I said to Cheerio when I woke up. He flipped over on his back so I could scratch his stomach.

“Yeah, boy,” I said with a big yawn. “We have all day to hang out and do whatever we want to do.”

That's what I thought, anyway.