CHAPTER 14
“Hey, McKelty,” I said. “What are you doing here? Did someone leave your cage open?”
“Very funny, Zipperbutt,” he said. “So funny I’m not even cracking a smile.”
“I’d like to help you out, Nick. Which way did you come in?”
Zoe laughed. There they were, those turquoise braces.
“What are you, some kind of comedian?” McKelty said, spraying a combo of ketchup and mustard and pickle juice from the space between his front teeth.
“You know, before I saw you I was hungry,” I said. “Now I’m just fed up.”
Zoe started to laugh really hard now, which made McKelty even more irritated.
“Me and my cheeseburger are out of here,” he said. “I don’t need to hang around with a loser like you.”
“Excellent idea, Nick. Why don’t you make like a tree and leaf?”
The big lug scooped up his messy cheeseburger remains, slid out of the booth, and stomped off. As he left, I called after him, “Why don’t you go to the library and brush up on your ignorance?”
(In case you were keeping track, I used numbers two, nine, seven, one, and six from the list . . . in that order. Hey, there’s no rule that I can use only one, is there?)
Zoe was laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes.
“My cousin Nick can dish it out, but he sure can’t take it,” she said.
“What’s it like being related to someone like that?” I asked her. “Does he ever get nice?”
“I don’t know him all that well,” Zoe said. “We just moved back to New York from Seattle because my mom got a new job here. We left when I was a baby, so I’ve only known Nick for a month or so.”
“I’ve known him my whole life,” I said.
“So he told me.”
“I bet he told you I was a jerk and a loser,” I said, sliding into the booth next to her.
“And an idiot and a moron and a knucklehead,” she said.
“Wow, he was really on a roll.”
I didn’t know what to say then. I mean, how do you tell someone that you’re not a moron, especially when a lot of times you actually think you are a moron? I could tell her that I’ve always had trouble in school, and ever since Nick figured that out way back in kindergarten, he’s been calling me names. I could tell her that I think kids who call other kids names because they have trouble in school are nothing but bullies. I could tell her that . . .
Earth to Hank. Get your brain back on track, buddy. Remember, you were having a conversation. It’s been a while since you’ve said anything.
I looked over at Zoe, embarrassed that my thoughts had carried me off to Jupiter while she was still there on planet Earth. But she didn’t seem to notice that I had been missing in action. She was listening to the music playing over the speakers, and drumming out the beat on the table.
“I want to be a drummer when I grow up,” she said.
“You’re already a drummer,” I said. “You play the table better than anyone I know.”
“You’re funny, Hank. It’s going to be so cool to be in Reading Gym together. We’ll have a great time, won’t we?”
Uh-oh. This was the moment. Decision time.
I closed my eyes and imagined two pictures of myself. In one, I was wearing my gi and delivering a powerful roundhouse kick. I looked awesome. In the other, I was sitting at a library desk, reading a book. I looked . . . well . . . way less awesome. Which one was the real Hank?
Face it, Hank. You’re a martial arts guy.
There it was. Decision made.
Okay, so this was the time to tell Zoe that I was going back to Tae Kwon Do class. That I was changing my middle name from “Improvement” to “The Smasher.”
“Yeah . . . about Reading Gym, Zoe. I was thinking that . . .”
Before I could finish the sentence, who should come galumphing up to our booth but Nick the Tick. He was holding a bowling ball in his ketchupy hand.
“I challenge you, Zipperbutt,” he said. “One ball each. Whoever knocks the most pins down gets to stay. The loser guy has to leave. Pick your ball and meet me on lane seven, Loser Guy.”
He stomped off before I could say no.
“This will be fun,” Zoe said, jumping up from the booth. “I’ll bet you can beat him, Hank.”
“No problemo,” I said out loud, but inside I was saying, “Yes, problemo.”
I am not too good on the athletic front. Frankie is a great athlete—he’s good at anything that involves a ball. Me, I’m a good swimmer. And a pretty good Ping-Pong player. And if you promise never to tell a soul, I’ll also share with you that I can do some complicated ballroom dancing steps that my mom taught me. But when it comes to baseballs and soccer balls and basketballs and other round objects, including bowling balls, I’m not the most talented guy on the team. McKelty knows that, too, which I’m sure is why he challenged me to a bowling duel.
Before I could explain any of that to Zoe, she was heading over to lane seven. I had no choice but to accept Nick’s challenge.
I grabbed the first ball I saw on the rack, and instantly fell smack on the ground. There must have been rocks inside that thing! It felt like it weighed two tons. After checking my arm to make sure it hadn’t stretched to twice its length, I grabbed another ball, a lighter one this time. In case you’re wondering how I knew it was lighter, it was because it was orange with yellowish swirly designs all over it.
I know, I know. This wasn’t the manliest ball on the rack. But I could pick it up and throw it without hurling myself down the alley, and I figured in a bowling duel, that had to be more important than the color scheme.
When I reached lane seven, McKelty was there tying his bowling shoes and Zoe was sitting at the score table.
“I can’t do this. I don’t have the right shoes,” I said.
“You can just bowl in your socks,” McKelty said.
“That’s against the rules,” I pointed out.
“It’s one ball, dingbat. Besides, my dad makes the rules and if anyone questions him he’ll go directly to his best friend who happens to be the first cousin of the mayor of Brooklyn. So there.”
I wasn’t in the mood to hear him rattle on about the McKelty factor, which is truth times ten, so I just took off my shoes without answering. I accidentally on purpose waved my feet around in front of Zoe, just to make sure she noticed that I was wearing matching socks. A guy has to play to his strengths, you know.
McKelty decided to go first, which was fine with me. He held the bowling ball up in front of his face and stared at the ten pins at the far end of the alley, making a big deal out of how seriously he was aiming. Then he took a few steps, swung his arm in back of him, brought it forward, and let the ball fly.
I have to admit, it was a pretty powerful performance. That ball went careening down the lane, straight and fast and dead-on center. When it hit the pins, they clattered loudly and nine of them fell down. The last pin standing wobbled back and forth, tipping to one side then the other.
“Fall over, stupid!” McKelty shouted to the pin.
It was like the pin had heard his voice and said to itself, “You can’t talk to me like that,” because it stopped wobbling and stood straight and tall in its corner of the lane.
“Nine,” said Zoe. “Pretty good, Nick, but beatable. Isn’t that right, Hank?”
“No problemo,” I said. And I think by now we all know that when I say that it means, “Yes, problemo.”
I picked up my orange and yellow swirly ball and walked to the starting position. They must have put oil or wax on the floor, because I noticed how slippery the wood was under my socks. I made a mental note to be careful not to slide.
I held the ball up to my face, just as Nick had done, and stared down the lane at the ten pins. Then I took a few steps forward and got up a little speed. Actually, I got up a lot of speed. Way too much speed. I couldn’t stop myself, and those few steps turned into an all-out slide. I went sailing down the lane like an Olympic speed skater, clutching on to my orange swirly ball with one hand and waving my other arm wildly in the air to try to keep my balance.
It wasn’t pretty, folks.
“Attention, bowler on lane seven!” Joe’s voice came over the speaker so loud you could probably hear him on the top of the Statue of Liberty. “There is no walking, sliding, or whatever the heck you’re doing, allowed on the lanes.”
What did he think? I was trying to look like a total idiot on purpose?
Thankfully, I finally came to a stop before I reached the pins. It would have been really terrible if I had knocked down the pins and kept sliding all the way through to the other side. Now that I mention it, what exactly is on the other side of the pins, anyway? I’ll have to check that out someday.
I was stuck in an awkward situation. If I wasn’t allowed to walk on the lane, how was I supposed to get back?
I had no choice but to take the gutter route.
Let me tell you, it’s not easy to hustle your rear end down the gutter of a bowling alley. It’s slippery and curvy and the whole time you’re worrying that you’re going to get clipped by a returning bowling ball coming down the gutter.
When I finally got back to the score table, I thought for sure Zoe would be laughing her head off at me. Nick the Tick certainly was.
“Zipperhead, that was pathetic,” he howled.
Zoe wasn’t laughing, though. “I think you need to put your shoes on,” she said. “It’s dangerous out there in just your socks.”
Wow. Not only didn’t she laugh at me, she actually had a helpful suggestion. That was really sweet.
I put my regular shoes back on, picked up the orange ball, and took my position at the head of the lane.
Concentrate, Hank. You have to score a ten to beat McKelty. You can do this if you look, think, and most of all, concentrate.
I took aim, swung my arm back, brought it forward, and let the ball loose.
“Go,” I whispered to myself. “Go! Go! Go!”