CHAPTER 7

My grandfather, Papa Pete, picked us up from school after practice.

“How come Dad didn’t wait around to walk us home?” I asked him.

“He had to go pick up some doggy treats for Cheerio. You know how grumpy that little puppy gets when he rolls over and there’s no biscuit for him.”

We left school and headed down 78th Street toward Broadway. “So how are my favorite basketball players?” Papa Pete asked as we walked.

“Not so good,” I answered.

“Ms. Adolf didn’t have a team jersey for Hank,” Frankie explained.

“It’s not about the uniform, Hankie,” Papa Pete said, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “Basketball is about having fun and playing your best.”

“Well, it’s not fun when you play like me,” I said. “I couldn’t put a ball in the basket if it were as big as the ocean.”

“Maybe you’re not the best shooter in the world,” Ashley said to me, “but you can sure pass the ball.”

“It takes all kinds of skills to make a team,” Papa Pete said. “Take Larry Green on my bowling team, the Chopped Livers. He has never thrown a strike in all of our games. But he brings homemade doughnuts, and that keeps us all happy.”

“I didn’t even know doughnuts could be homemade,” Frankie said.

“Someone has to make them,” Papa Pete answered with a grin. “They don’t grow on trees.”

Frankie and Ashley burst out laughing, but not me. I was still feeling down in the dumps. Of course, Papa Pete noticed right away.

“I have an idea,” he said. “Let’s stop at Harvey’s and get ourselves a slice of pizza. My treat.”

The pizza cheered me up a little. It’s hard to feel too terrible when pepperoni is involved. But by the time I got home to our apartment, I was feeling bad again. It didn’t help that I had to show my dad the big blue T-shirt.

“This isn’t much of a jersey,” he said. “Is this what all the kids are wearing?”

“I was the last picked, and they ran out of the real ones,” I answered.

“Looks like I’m going to have to have another little chat with Ms. Adolf,” my dad said.

“I hope it goes better than the last one,” I said.

I was headed to my room when Emily called out, “By the way, Hank, someone named Heather Payne called for you. She’s a girl.”

“I know, Emily,” I said. “She’s in my class.”

“Your new girlfriend left her number.”

“She’s not my girlfriend, Emily. She happens to be a girl who is a friend.”

That wasn’t actually true. I had never hung out with Heather Payne. She had never called me before. I wondered what she wanted to talk about. I went into the living room, picked up the phone, and dialed her number.

“Hello. Harry’s Haircuts,” said a voice on the other end of the phone. “You grow it, we snip it.”

“May I please speak with Heather Payne?”

“Never heard of her, kiddo. You got the wrong number.”

Oh no. It happened again. Every time I try to dial the phone, I press the wrong numbers. Actually, they’re the right numbers, they’re just in the wrong order. My eyes are looking at the numbers, but my brain mixes them all up. I tried again, pressing each number slowly and carefully.

“Hello,” a voice said. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was Heather Payne.

“Hi, Heather. It’s Hank. I’m calling you back.”

“Yes, I know,” she said. “I hear your voice.”

We were both silent for a few long seconds, then—thank goodness—Heather began to talk.

“Frankie and Ashley suggested that maybe we could all get together in your courtyard tomorrow after basketball practice,” she said.

“How come?” I asked.

“Well, we were talking about how good you are at passing the ball,” she said.

“You were talking about me?”

“Yes. And I have an idea about how you could help us win the game. I think you might just be our Secret Weapon.”

Me? A secret weapon? Wow, that sounded great.

“I’m not sure it will work,” Heather said, “but it’s worth a try. Are you in for tomorrow after practice?”

“In? I’m in like Flynn. I’m in like grin. I’m in like we’re going to win!”

“You’re very good at rhyming,” Heather said. “Listen, I have to go and do my subtraction worksheet. See you tomorrow.”

I hung up the phone and felt pretty good . . . until I realized that I had the same subtraction worksheet. All those numbers on the page make my brain feel like mashed potatoes with no gravy.

The next day at school, all I could think about was how I might get to be the Secret Weapon. When Ms. Flowers asked me to name the three main cloud types, I didn’t even hear her at first.

“Hank,” Ms. Flowers said. “Are you listening? Or is your head in the clouds?”

Of course, that gave Nick McKelty a chance to shoot off his mouth.

“Zipper Teeth’s head is always in the clouds,” he said. “You should see him on the basketball court. He can’t focus on anything.”

That made me want to be the Secret Weapon even more. I’m sorry to say this, but I was super happy when Ms. Flowers made Nick McKelty write “I will not be rude” ten times in his notebook.

Our after-school practice was just like the day before—a total disaster. Ms. Adolf was especially nervous, since it was our last practice before the big game. You don’t want to be around her any time, but when she’s nervous, she blows her whistle after every word.

My ears were still ringing from her whistle when Frankie, Ashley, and I walked into my apartment.

“I put out a snack for you kids,” my mom said. “Some cheese and crackers.”

“Who wants to eat knees and smackers?” I asked.

“Hank, I said cheese and crackers. What’s wrong with your ears?”

“I have whistle-itis,” I said. But I couldn’t finish my explanation, because just then Heather Payne arrived at our front door. She was carrying a basketball and wearing her team jersey.

“Hi, Heather,” my mom said. “Come in and help yourself to a snack. You kids are going to need an energy boost before your basketball workout.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Zipzer,” Heather Payne said. “But I just had a slice of pizza with my mom.”

Frankie and Ashley dived in, making cheese and cracker sandwiches.

I didn’t have any, though. My stomach was all jumbled up. It talks to me sometimes when it’s nervous. This time it was saying, “Don’t send any Swiss cheese down here. I’m still working on that bean burrito you had for lunch.”

The truth is, it wasn’t only my stomach that was nervous. It was all of me. My entire basketball career at PS 87 depended on whether or not I could become the second grade’s Secret Weapon.

I was about to find out.