My Dog's a Scaredy-Cat (5 page)

“How would my learning challenges help me with anything?”

“Well, Hankie,” Papa Pete said, smiling at me from below his furry mustache, “you are very well aware of how difficult things can be, and because you know that about yourself, it makes you sensitive to how other people are feeling. That's a lesson you can't learn in a book.”

Papa Pete gave my shoulder a big squeeze with one hand, then opened the door to Harvey's with the other one.

I thought about what he'd said as I slid onto a stool and breathed in the wonderful smell of Parmesan, tomato, and pepperoni all sizzling in the oven. Papa Pete did have a point. Not to brag, but a lot of people tell me I'm a pretty nice guy. Frankie and Ashley always say that I'm a good friend. And my mom says that I have a kind streak as wide as the whole Atlantic Ocean
.

I made a mental note to think about that more sometime when my stomach wasn't screaming out for pizza.

I did a three-sixty spin on the shiny silver stool—it's part of my Harvey's tradition before ordering my usual: a slice of pizza with mushrooms and extra cheese. But before I could even order, Harvey came up and brought me a really gooey slice loaded with mushrooms and extra cheese. The great thing about having a neighborhood pizza place is that they know what you want before you even say it.

“Thanks, Harvey,” I said.

“I'll be right back with your Sprite,” he said to me. “And your coffee,” he said to Papa Pete, who had already helped himself to a crumb donut they keep on a cake plate on the counter.

I took a bite of my pizza, but before I could even swallow it, I had an idea that was so powerful I had to blurt it out loud with my mouth full, even though this is not allowed in the Zipzer family.

“I really want to scare Nick McKelty out of his socks,” I said, spitting a few crust crumbs out into the air in front of me.

“Getting even, are you?” Papa Pete said.

“I just want to prove to that guy that I'm not the wimp he thinks I am.”

“Don't you know that on your own?”

“The only thing I know is that the guy made fun of me and of Emily, too. And the other kids laughed, so they must've agreed with him.”

“Not necessarily. Maybe they just thought he was funny.”

“Listen, Papa Pete,” I said, pulling a long string of cheese off my lower lip and popping it into my mouth. “McKelty thinks I'm a wimp, and I think I acted like one. That makes me feel bad.”

Papa Pete took a sip of his coffee. He looked at me and nodded. Then he put his hand on my head and tousled my hair like he used to do when I was little. He doesn't do that so much now that I put gel in my hair.

“Feeling bad is not good,” he said. “Feeling good is good. Eating pizza is good. Bowling three strikes in a row is good. Having a fun Halloween is good.”

“So far, this Halloween hasn't been much fun,” I told Papa Pete.

Papa Pete took a big bite of his crumb donut. He can polish off a donut in two bites. He chewed for a moment, took another sip of coffee to wash it down, and then turned to me.

“Why don't you build a haunted house?” he suggested. “The best Halloween I can remember was when your mother and her sister, your aunt Maxine, built a haunted house in the garage. The neighborhood kids came from blocks around to see it.”

Papa Pete described how they put wet grapes in a bowl and told the kids they were eyeballs. I thought to myself,
Hank, you could do that.

He told me how they boiled spaghetti until it was mush and told the kids it was ghoul brains. I thought to myself,
Hank, you could do that
.

When he described how they had their dog, Annie, howl into a tape recorder until she sounded like a ghost living in the subway tunnels of New York, I thought to myself,
Hank, Cheerio could do that
.

My mind raced as my mouth chewed.

Sure, we didn't have a garage to use for a haunted house. But we had a living room and sheets we could use to make walls. And I could turn out all the living-room lights to make it dark and creepy. Wait! My parents even had that black light they used for a sixties party once that makes everything white glow in the dark.

This was it! This was how I could turn the most awful Halloween ever into the most amazing Halloween of my life.

All I had to do was put together the scariest, creepiest haunted house ever. Sure, it would be fun to invite a bunch of kids from my class. But I have to confess, I was thinking of fun second. I was thinking of revenge first!

Wouldn't it be great to invite one very special guest and scare him out of his mind?

You guessed it.

Nick “The Tick” McKelty.

I MADE PAPA PETE RUN all the way home from Harvey's with me, which is fine with him because he's in great shape for a guy who's sixty-nine years old. He is a champion Ping-Pong player, not to mention the best bowler on the Chopped Livers, his league team at McKelty's Roll 'N Bowl. He even holds the all-time strike record for one night when he bowled four strikes in a row.

“I'm going to need help building the haunted house,” I told Papa Pete as we pushed open the door to my apartment.

“You don't have much time,” Papa Pete said, checking his watch. “It's almost four o'clock.”

“I'll put a sign on the front door that the haunted house opens at seven o'clock. That gives us four hours to put it together.”

“Hankie, slow down for a minute and concentrate,” Papa Pete said. He held out his arm, pushed up the sleeve of his red running jacket, and pointed to his wristwatch.

“Look at my watch. Here's the four, and there's the seven,” he said, pointing to the numbers. “Now tell me again. How many hours do you have to finish the haunted house?”

I had to concentrate on slowing my brain down to look at the numbers on his watch. Seven take away four is . . .

“Three,” I answered. “Right. We have three hours to finish. Thanks, Papa Pete. You know me and numbers. We're not exactly best friends.”

Papa Pete just smiled. He never makes me feel bad when I get things wrong. That's one thing I love about him.

Cheerio came running out of the bedroom to say hello to us. I could tell he had been asleep because he was still yawning as he trotted out.

“Great news, boy,” I said, scratching him behind the ears. “We're going to build a haunted house.”

He flopped down in front of me and rolled over on his back to get his tummy scratched. He felt all warm, like he always does when he's been asleep.

“That may not be such great news for Cheerio,” Papa Pete said. “Dogs don't really understand about Halloween. The haunted house could scare him.”

“Not my Cheerio,” I said, giving him the special Double-Trouble-Tummy-Ear Scratch I had invented just for him. “He's no scaredy-cat. Are you, boy?”

Cheerio wagged his tail and seemed really happy. I was sorry that I had to cut our scratchfest short, but time was ticking by and I had a lot to do.

“So three hours,” I said, jumping to my feet and pulling off my jacket. “That's enough time, isn't it, Papa Pete? It's got to be. That's all I got.”

“Maybe you could use a little help from your friends,” Papa Pete said. He sat down at the green desk in the living room and looked for some paper in the drawer.

“Once again, great idea, Papa Pete,” I said. “I'll call Ashley and Frankie immediately. Well, not exactly immediately, because I have another call to make immediately.”

I ran to the phone in the kitchen and pulled out the directory from my school, which my mom leaves on the yellow-tile counter under the phone. I looked up Nick McKelty's name under the
N
's. It wasn't there.

I tried N-O-C-K and then N-E-C-K, but I still couldn't find a listing. I was just starting to get really frustrated when I got a brainstorm.

It's just like grown-ups to do a crazy thing like that! I flipped through the pages of the directory really fast until I got to the
M
's. I looked down the list until I came to it. There it was. McKelty, Nick.

I could hardly wait to dial that number. I purposely tried to slow my brain down as I read the number. Lots of times, I flip numbers around when I read them. It's like I don't see them in the right order.

Actually, I could probably reach McKelty there, too. In the ape cage.

I dialed carefully, and while the phone was ringing, I grabbed a dish towel and put it over the receiver. I had seen this trick in an old movie once that I watched with my dad when I was home with a sore throat. A detective in a weird plaid hat was calling his cousin who was planning to rob a bank. The detective didn't want his voice to be recognized, so he put a towel over the receiver. His own cousin never even knew it was him. I didn't know if the dish towel would work, but I figured if it worked for the guy in the weird plaid hat, it was worth a shot.

“Hello,” said Nick the Tick on the other end of the phone.

I lowered my voice as low as it would go.

“Nick McKelty,” I growled into the dish towel, “are you man enough to risk being scared all the way to Pluto and beyond?”

“Who is this?” McKelty said.

“No questions,” I growled into the phone. “Just listen. Tonight at seven-thirty sharp, and I mean like a razor, you are to come meet the ghoul of all ghouls, the terror of all terrors, the zomb of all zombies . . .”

“Hey, who
is
this?” I couldn't tell if McKelty sounded annoyed or scared.

“Are you a scaredy-cat?” I went on, having fun with my own voice. “Is your blood running cold? Are your nervous zones sweating yet? Or will you show up?”

“Show up where?” McKelty asked. I had him! He was buying it!

“210 West 78th Street,” I said. “Apartment 10A. The home of your deepest fears.”

“Hey, I know that address. Is that you, Zipperbutt?”

“I live in Hank Zipzer's house,” I growled. “But I am not him. I am the ghost of Halloween past, the restless spirit, come to haunt the living and terrify the weak.”

“You don't scare me,” McKelty said, even though his voice sounded somewhat higher than usual.

“Then come and test your nerves,” I said. “We'll find out if you are the man you say you are.”

“I'll be there,” McKelty said. “I'm not afraid of you.”

I hung up.

“Yes,” I said, pumping my fists in the air.

I can honestly say that was the best phone call I have ever made. Even better than when I called my sister and told her I was an iguana psychiatrist and that her pet iguana, Katherine, was having a nervous breakdown and needed to be institutionalized. She let out a scream so loud, I almost went deaf. Man, that was fun.

I picked up the phone and dialed Frankie.

“Can you meet me in the lobby in five minutes? And pick up Ashley. We have important stuff to do.”

“Talk to me, Zip. What important stuff?”

“You're not going to believe the plan I just came up with. Trust me.”

Before Frankie could answer, I hung up the phone and ran back into the living room where Papa Pete was still sitting at the green desk, writing. It looked like he was working on some kind of a list.

“Papa Pete, you can't be writing now. We have haunted house stuff to do.”

“First of all, Hankie, I left a note for your father, telling him about the haunted house. He'll read it when he brings Emily home from her Girl Scout meeting.”

“Great thinking yet again, Papa Pete,” I said. It hadn't occurred to me that it was a good idea to let your parents know when you're turning their living room into the scariest place on earth.

“And second of all, I made you a list of all the instructions for the haunted house. Right here is everything you need to know.”