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Authors: Henry Winkler

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BOOK: Help! Somebody Get Me Out of Fourth Grade

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Dr. Berger took me into her office and gestured toward the blue plastic chair next to her desk. I sat down. I noticed that she was watching my leg as it bounced up and down like it had an engine in it. My leg has a lot of energy.

“Aren't you supposed to be in class, Hank?” she began.

“Yeah, but I couldn't concentrate.”

“What's on your mind?” Dr. Berger took a sip of coffee from this mug she has that says: “Kids are people too.”

Suddenly, I felt nervous about asking my question. I mean, what if I asked Dr. Berger if I was being held back and she said yes? Then what? Would I cry? That would be so embarrassing.

“I came here early because I wanted to ask a question about a friend of mine named Bernice,” my mouth said, before I could stop it. “He . . . I mean she . . . has a question for you.”

“Go ahead,” Dr. Berger said. “What is it your . . . um . . . friend wants to know?”

This was good. I could get an answer to my question and not have to worry about being embarrassed.

“My friend is worried that he is going to be held back and have to repeat a grade,” I said, trying to sound like I didn't care too much about the answer.

“He?”

“Oh . . . I mean she.
She's
worried.
She's
very worried.”

“Well, I think you should tell your friend that being held back isn't necessarily the worst thing in the world,” Dr. Berger said.

“Can you possibly think of anything worse?” I asked.

“Sometimes, Hank, it really is in the student's best interest. However, the good news is that it's rare that a student is made to repeat a grade. Redo, if you will.”

Oh, no. Did she just say it? She did! Redo.

“Redo?” I heard myself saying. Whoa! Whose voice was that? It sounded so little and high-pitched, like something that would come out of a Cabbage Patch Kids doll.

“Redo,” Dr. Berger repeated. “As in repeat a grade.”

So it does mean that. It does mean my life is over.

“Hank, are you following me?” Dr. Berger asked.

“What? Yes. Yes, I am. It's just that he, I mean she . . . Bernice . . . will feel so bad. Everyone will make fun of her,” I said.

“Hank, did your friend have her parent-teacher conference yet?” Dr. Berger asked.

“No, I don't think so,” I answered.

“No, I didn't think so either. They are not until this Friday. If there are any big decisions to be made, they will be discussed at the conference.”

I nodded. There they were again, those words. Parent-teacher conference. The three worst words in the American languageâafter redo, that is.

“Can I know who your friend is, Hank?” Dr. Berger put her hand on my leg to slow down the bouncing. “Maybe I can talk to her and make her feel better.”

“Oh, no. I'll tell her what you said. Thank you so much, Dr. Berger.”

“Tell her not to worry,” Dr. Berger said. “I'm confident the school will make the decision that is best for her.”

All the way back to class, I told myself not to worry. But what was waiting for me in class told me just the opposite. It told me to worry.

Big time.

CHAPTER 15

IT WAS JUST AN ENVELOPE. From looking at it, you wouldn't think it was any big dealâa brown envelope, that's all. Ms. Adolf was passing one out to everyone in class.

“You are to give this envelope to your parents,” Ms. Adolf said as she walked up and down the aisles handing one to each student. “It contains some information that we'll need for the parent-teacher conference.”

The problem was, mine wasn't a thin brown envelope like every other kid in class got. Nope, mine was a thick brown envelope, Scotch-taped closed, and about as thick as the short stack of blueberry pancakes I get at the International House of Pancakes.

Large, thick envelopes are a reason to worry. I know this because the only other kid who got the big, thick envelope was Luke Whitman. That should tell you something. Luke Whitman isn't exactly the shiniest marble in the pouch. Let me put it another way. When they're dividing you into reading groups, you don't want to get put in Luke's group. It's not a good sign.

Naturally, the first person to notice that my envelope was different was Nick McKelty. I'm telling you, that guy has some kind of built-in radar that signals him when you're feeling your lowest.

“Looks like Zippy Boy got a thick envelope,” Nick the Tick smirked before I could hide the envelope in the bottom of my backpack. “You know what they say, Zippy Boy. The thicker the envelope, the thicker the kid.”

Usually, I can come up with something to say that puts McKelty in his place, but I was so upset when I saw the envelope that my mind went blank. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. It felt like there were a million cotton balls stuffed inside there. When I tried to talk, I made a noise that sounded like a cat spitting up a fur ball.

“Lay off, McKelty,” Frankie said to him, trying to cover for my fur-ball problem.

“Yeah, mind your own beeswax,” Ashley added. In typical Ashley style, she squinched down and got right in his face, putting the bill of her hat next to his hairy unibrow. If he exhaled any of his toxic breath on her, she was going to get blasted into the stratosphere. But she didn't care. She's my friend through and through.

The bell rang. I was still just sitting at my desk staring at the awful brown envelope. I was sure it contained the news that I was dreading.

Attention, world. Hank Zipzer, loser of all time, is being left back.

I felt a big lump rise up in my throat, the one that comes just before you're going to cry.

I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.

“Come on, let's get out of here, Zip,” Frankie said.

Ashley scooped up the envelope from my desk, and Frankie grabbed my backpack. Before I knew it, Frankie had me by one arm, and Ashley had me by the other, and we were on our feet and on our way out the door.

“I got the thick envelope,” I whispered to them as we shoved our way down the stairs to the first floor.

“Me too,” a voice said from behind. It was Luke Whitman. “I already looked inside mine.”

“You weren't supposed to do that,” Ashley said to him.

“Hey, I already know they're recommending I repeat fourth grade,” Luke said. “As if they need to prove it, they stuffed this envelope full of my really lousy tests and homework. But I figure I'm pretty lucky.”

“Why are you lucky?” I snapped. I could feel that lump moving from my throat to the back of my eyes.

I will not cry.

“First of all, fourth-graders get a longer recess than fifth-graders,” said Luke. “And recess is my favorite subject next to lunch.”

Oh, great. I'm going to have to sit next to this genius all next year.

“And second of all, I'm not going to have any homework for a whole year.” Luke had a big smile on his face. “I just have to change the dates on this year's homework and, you know, like I'm done. Cool, huh?”

That did it. I took off down the stairs, and I didn't stop.

Two at a time. Three at a time.

Watch me, Principal Love! I can go as fast as I want.

You can't hold me back!

When I reached the front door of the school, I pushed it open and bolted out into the fresh air. The tears were just forming on my eyeballs. Everything was all blurry, but I could make out a bright red object standing in front of the school. It looked like a giant strawberry. I ran toward it, slammed into it as hard as I could, and buried my head.

Then the tears came.

CHAPTER 16

“HEY, WHAT'S WRONG, Hankie?” Papa Pete asked me, rubbing my head as I buried it in the strawberry red jogging suit he always wore to pick me up.

“It stinks,” I said, wiping my tears and my runny nose on his sweatshirt. I hate to confess that I wiped my nose on his shirt, but it's true, and I wouldn't lie to you, not even when it concerns snot.

“What stinks?” Papa Pete asked. “My jogging suit? Sorry, Hankie, I just came from bowling.”

“No, school stinks,” I said. “Fourth grade stinks. And now I have to do it all over, and it's going to stink even more.”

“Who said you have to do fourth grade over again?” Papa Pete asked, reaching into his pocket and handing me his big plaid handkerchief.

“No one . . . yet,” I said. “But they're going to say that.”

“But they haven't said it yetâwhoever
they
are?”

“No.”

“Then there's nothing to worry about. I have a rule, Hankie. If it hasn't happened, don't worry about it.”

Papa Pete has a way of always making you feel better, no matter what's wrong. Last year when I cut my thumb and had to go to the emergency room to get stitches, he took the doctor's rubber glove and blew it up into a big balloon and played balloon volleyball with me in the waiting room. Since I could only use my left hand, Papa Pete did the same. How many grandfathers do you know who'd do that?

Frankie and Ashley came running out the main door, and when they saw me with Papa Pete, they dashed over to us.

“
Zengawii
, Zip,” said Frankie. “You disappeared.”

“Yeah, and you forgot this,” Ashley said, handing me the thick brown envelope.

I hate you, brown envelope. Zengawii! Disappear!

“What's in there?” asked Papa Pete. He was busy giving Ashley and Frankie a big pinch on the cheek, which is his way of saying hello.

“Papers from my teacher,” I answered. “Trust me, they're not going to make my dad very happy.”

“I happen to have just come from your father, and I can tell you this, darling grandson,” Papa Pete said, “he is at this moment a very happy man. And your darling mother, otherwise known as my darling daughter, is also a very happy girl.”

“Papa Pete, Mrs. Zipzer's not a girl,” Ashley giggled. “She's almost forty years old!”

“To me, she'll always be my little girl.” Papa Pete flashed me a smile from under his bushy, black mustache. “Just like you, Hankie, will always be my favorite oldest grandson.”

“But he's your only oldest grandson,” Ashley pointed out.

“Oh, I hadn't realized that,” Papa Pete said, giving my cheek a man-sized pinch.

Papa Pete was teasing Ashley, but she doesn't always get his jokes. She's not too swift on the grandparent-joke connection, since her grandma isn't much on jokes.

Papa Pete waved to Mr. Baker as we crossed the street and headed over to Columbus Avenue.

“Why are Mom and Dad in such a good mood?” I asked.

“Your father wants to tell you himself,” Papa Pete said. “He asked if I'd come get you and bring you to the Crunchy Pickle. He's helping your mom and Carlos get out a big party order for Mr. and Mrs. Tallchief's anniversary party.”

“Can we come?” Ashley asked.

“To the party? I don't know, let's ask the Tallchiefs. They seem like friendly people.”

“I'm not talking about the Tallchiefs,” Ashley laughed. “I'm asking if we can come to the Crunchy Pickle.”

“Only if you'll let me buy you a black-and-white cookie,” said Papa Pete.

“Deal,” Frankie and Ashley both said at once.

They took off running down Columbus Avenue.

I looked at the brown envelope. I figured whatever bad news was inside that envelope was still going to be there after I ate the cookie.

I stuffed the envelope into my backpack and took off after my pals.

BOOK: Help! Somebody Get Me Out of Fourth Grade

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