The Secret Life of a Ping-Pong Wizard (8 page)

“Of course you've got to get to class. Education comes first at PS 87. Like I always say, education comes first at PS 87.” Bingo, there it was. The repeat!

As I slipped out of the office and scooted down the hall, I could hear him talking to Mrs. Crock.

“Have I ever told you about my superior skill with a Ping-Pong paddle?” I heard him ask.

“Many times, Principal Love,” I heard her say with a sigh.

I ran out the double doors into the September sun that was heating up the school yard, looking around for Frankie and Ashley. They were waiting in line for a turn on the handball court.

“Hey, Zip,” Frankie said. “How'd it go with Dr. C? Did he do that close breathing thing again?”

“Yeah, but this time I tried to hold my breath as long as I could. Listen, Frankie, did you know that Dr. Crumbworthy is a Ping-Pong player?”

I'll be honest. I was fishing around to see what his reaction would be when I mentioned the game. Obviously, he didn't think much of it.

“No kidding, dude. Did you know that my aunt Eleanor is a five-time shuffleboard champion? Maybe we should fix them up.”

“I'm serious, Frankie. He plays with the Ping-Pong champion of Jamaica.”

“No way!” Frankie laughed. “Jamaica has a Ping-Pong champion?”

“Nerd alert! Did somebody just say Ping-Pong? I wouldn't play that game if you paid me.”

It was McKelty, who had just finished his turn at handball.

“Where did you come from, and who asked your opinion, anyway?” Ashley said. She loves to speak her mind to McKelty.

“No one has to ask me,” McKelty said. “It's my opinion that Ping-Pong is for subhumans.”

“Then you're probably great at it,” Ashley said. Frankie cracked up.

“Is that supposed to be funny?” McKelty said. That's the thing about McKelty. He gets jokes about a year after they're said.

“Ping-Pong doesn't get much respect here,” Ashley said, “but my relatives back in China are really good at it.”

“This is New York City, not China,” McKelty said. “China is all the way just past England.”

“McKelty, don't you know anything?” Ashley said.

“I know one thing. The only people I've ever heard of who play Ping-Pong are senior citizens. And I don't mean just grandparent-old. I mean old-old.”

I decided then and there that McKelty would never find out that I played Ping-Pong. Thank goodness I had stashed my paddle in my backpack before I'd come out on the yard.

“In fact, did you know that Dr. Crumbworthy is a Ping-Pong nut? But when you have nine fingers, that's all you can play,” McKelty continued.

“I don't think it's nice to make fun of someone because he has a disability,” Ashley said. “I think it's cool that he's learned to handle all those sharp instruments when he's missing a fingertip.”

“Don't remind me. I have to see him this afternoon after school,” McKelty said. “Got to keep the old choppers in shape.”

How a guy can think that his choppers are in shape when they point in every direction on a compass is amazing to me.

“Hey, Hank,” a little voice called from behind us. We all turned around to see Sam Chin, all three feet of him, running toward me holding his Ping-Pong paddle.

I tried to pretend I didn't see him. I certainly didn't want to tell McKelty that I was into Ping-Pong, and Frankie's cool reaction to the topic was holding me back from telling him and Ashley, too. That was crazy, though. Everyone knows you can't ignore a kindergartner who's trying to get your attention.

“You want to practice playing Ping-Pong with me against the wall?”

McKelty grinned at me, showing his snaggly tan teeth.

“You play Ping-Pong, Zip Butt?”

“No way,” I said. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Sure you do, Hank,” Sam chimed in. “Remember last night!”

“What's the little dude talking about?” Frankie asked, giving me a funny look.

“Hey, Sam, I just happen to have a fresh, chocolate Ding Dong that I traded a granola bar for,” I said. “It's got your name written all over it.”

“It does?”

“Yeah, come with me. I'll show you.”

I grabbed Sam's hand and nearly pulled him right out of his shirt. I couldn't get him away from that group fast enough. My heart was pounding. The last thing I wanted was for McKelty to discover my secret life as a Ping-Pong wizard. I'd hear about that for the rest of my life, and then some.

“You've gotta promise me, Sam, to never say that we play Ping-Pong together,” I whispered to him as I handed over the Ding Dong.

“Why? Didn't you have fun?”

“That's not the point.”

“Then what is?”

“You don't like it when people make fun of you, right? And neither do I. Some kids are going to tease me if they find out I play Ping-Pong.”

“That's silly.”

“Well, that's the way life is in the fifth grade.”

“Then I think I'll stay in kindergarten. Want to stay in kindergarten with me and Mason?”

“Sometimes I wish I could, little guy. I really do.”

ABOUT TWENTY MINUTES LATER, I was sitting in class copying my vocabulary words from the board to my notebook when it hit me like a bolt of lightning.

“Oh, no!” came flying out loud and clear before I got control of my brain and my mouth.

Ms. Adolf looked at me and headed down my aisle. “What's the problem, Henry?”

The problem was that I had just realized that Nick McKelty was going to be sitting in the dentist's chair that afternoon. And what was going to flash in front of his eyes, in red letters, over and over again?

“Congratulations to Hank Zipzer for exploring the excitement of Ping-Pong.”

He would read that, and then my life as I knew it would be over.

I had to erase those red letters before he saw them. But how?

The answer was Joelle Adwin.

“Psst, Joelle,” I whispered to her after Ms. Adolf had gone back to the board. Joelle didn't look up. I tore off the bottom of the paper that had my vocab words on it and scratched out a note.

“Need to borrow your sell fone. Ugent,” I wrote.

I folded the paper into a tiny wad and passed it to Luke Whitman, who had to pull two of his fingers out of his mouth before he could take the note. I'm sure the note was soggy from his spit when he passed it to Heather Payne. She looked at me and shook her head no, like she wasn't going to pass it to Joelle. I shot her my best desperate look, the one where my mouth droops down and my eyes get half closed. That worked, because she passed the soggy wad to Joelle.

Joelle was just starting to open it up when Ms. Adolf turned from the board and made a beeline for her desk.

“Joelle, perhaps you'd like to share this note with the entire class,” Ms. Adolf said.

“I don't even know what it says,” Joelle said. “It's kind of stuck together.”

“Allow me to assist you,” Ms. Adolf said, and very carefully peeled the note open with her grey fingernails. “And who is the author of this damp communication?” she asked.

Three fingers all pointed in my direction: Joelle's, Heather's, and Luke's. Luke's finger had a small wad of already-been-chewed Milky Way that he had finally managed to pry out of his back tooth.

“Henry, the same rule applies in the fifth grade as it did in the fourth grade,” Ms. Adolf snapped. “And that rule would be what?”

“I know that, Ms. Adolf. That rule would be to always use lined notebook paper, and not the kind with the skinny little lines.”

A few people in the class started to laugh. I wasn't trying to be funny, though, because one time I accidentally bought a whole pack of the skinny-lined paper and I almost went blind trying to write letters small enough to fit into them.

“The rule that was in my mind, Henry, was that we do not pass notes in class.”

“Oh, I was going to say that one next.”

She looked down at the note and read it over, then gave me what you'd have to call a pretty harsh look that shot right through her glasses. I'm surprised the lenses didn't crack. If this was a cartoon, they would have. But my life is all too real, because the next sentence out of her mouth was—

“And for your information, young man, urgent has an
r
, cell as in cell phone is spelled with a
c
, and phone starts with a
ph
and not an
f
.”

“I've made a mental note of that, Ms. Adolf.”

The entire class was splitting a gut, and if she wasn't riled up enough before, let me just say that that did it.

“Why don't you take your note to Principal Love's office so he can see how you're spending precious class time.”

A phone.

That's right. Sitting smack in the middle of Mrs. Crock's desk.

I ran all the way down three flights of stairs, through the long hall, and burst into the attendance office, skidding to a stop right in front of Mrs. Crock's desk.

“I'll tell you in a minute why I'm here,” I panted, “but before that, can I use your phone right away? It's an emergency.”

Mrs. Crock pushed the phone over to me, and I picked up the receiver. It was at that moment that I realized I had no idea what Dr. Crumbworthy's phone number was.

“May I call information?” I asked Mrs. Crock.

“Hank, this phone is for emergencies only, not for social calls.”

“But this is important.”

“I'm sorry, Hank. If it were up to me, I'd let you, but this is a firm school rule.”

Just then, Principal Love walked out of his office and spotted me.

“Well, Mr. Zipzer, I see you've been sent to my office already,” he said. “Starting the school year off on the wrong foot will definitely involve your other foot as well. So I suggest you walk them right into my office and take a seat. I believe you're well acquainted with the chair.”

I've spent so much time in that chair, I swear the shape of my butt is imprinted on it.

“Principal Love, am I right in guessing that if I asked you if I could make a phone call first, you'd probably say no?”

“How right you are,” he said.

 

The rest of the day remained completely phoneless. It wasn't until Papa Pete came to pick me up after school that I was able to get in contact with Dr. Crumbworthy. Papa Pete let me use his cell phone. He's the kind of guy who knows that when you say you have to make an important call, you just have to do it, no questions asked.

“Dr. Crumbworthy,” I said, after his assistant, Paula, put me on hold and had me listen to a country-western song for the looongest two minutes of my life.

“What's so important, Hank?” he asked.

“You've got to erase that Ping-Pong item about me from your news flashy thingamajig.”

“Why? You were so proud of it just a few hours ago.”

“Because Nick McKelty thinks Ping-Pong is for subhumans and he's called me enough names in my life and I don't need him to call me subhuman, too.”

“Nick McKelty? He's sitting with his father in my waiting room right now.”

“Please, Dr. Crumbworthy, I beg you. Hang up right now and erase it. I'll floss my teeth five times a day, I promise.”

“Now that's what I call a deal,” Dr. Crumbworthy said. “Don't you worry, Hank. I'll take care of it right away.”

“Thanks a million trillion,” I said.

Phew, that was close. As I clicked off the phone and handed it back to Papa Pete, he gave me a curious look. “What was that all about?” he asked.

Boy, that was a big question.

WE LEFT THE SCHOOL and walked down 78th Street toward Broadway. Papa Pete was quiet, which means he was waiting for my answer.

“I could really go for a slice of pizza,” I said, trying to fill the silence.

“Let's go to Harvey's. Afterward, I thought you might want to go hit some balls at the Ping-Pong Emporium.”

“I think I'll get the white pizza with spinach and garlic,” I said, trying to avoid the Ping-Pong topic.

We stopped into Harvey's, which was right on our way. I got a slice of the white pizza with a 7UP, and Papa Pete got pepperoni with a root beer. We walked the three blocks up to 81st Street in silence, just enjoying our pizza and sipping our drinks.

Papa Pete waited until I had finished my slice before he spoke again. “I'm waiting,” he said.

“I know you are, Papa Pete,” I answered. “This Ping-Pong thing has gotten pretty complicated all of a sudden. Nick McKelty thinks only old people and subhuman nerds play Ping-Pong.”

“Which is why you wanted your dentist to keep it a secret.”

Boy, Papa Pete is good at figuring things out. He'd put the whole thing together just like that.

“I get teased enough,” I said. “I don't need more.”

“No one needs to be teased,” Papa Pete said. “But you can't keep what you do a secret. Especially if you enjoy it.”

“Yeah, and there's something else, too,” I said. “I feel kind of bad saying this.”