The Colossal Camera Calamity (4 page)

At that moment, Dr Mehat poked her head out of the interview room and called my name.

Oh, gentle reader of the future, have you ever wanted to just disappear into the floor? I did. And so I fell to the floor, and tried to hide under the bench.

Dr Mehat called my name louder.

Dad, meanwhile, was still talking to the mother. “No, love, no one is calling Emily Zipzer.” He then made up a ridiculous story about being in a pet shop to pick up some lizard food and some parrot shouting, “Am I a hipster?”

Yes, he actually said that. I wonder if it is possible that I’m adopted.

Dr Mehat overheard this entire confabulation. She looked very confused, so I told her that Dad was an actor. “He’s working on a new role. Perhaps you saw him in his latest commercial. For a product claiming to cure athlete’s foot.” She had not, but she did agree to reschedule our appointment for a later time.

“It’s good to know how easily you can be bought,” Ashley said to Frankie as we headed down the hall to our next lesson. “All it takes is a little pudding, huh?”

“Mmm,” Frankie said.

“That’s all you have to say?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Hey, look,” hollered a kid from the year above. He pointed at Frankie.

The girl with him giggled. “It’s the purple pudding monster!” she said.

Frankie was so busy with his cake that he didn’t even hear them.

“In exchange for something sweet,’ Ashley said, “you’ll wear clothes with blackcurrant stains and let people laugh and point at you?”

Frankie took another tiny little bite of my mum’s extra special, chocolate-chocolate sugar treat, so he could savour every last moment of it. “If we do a permanent swap, can I get one of these every day?” he asked me, ignoring Ashley.

My mum’s pastries are ridiculously good. When we were really little, Frankie and I would share our lunches. I would give Frankie half of my pastry – the bigger half – and he’d give me half of his strawberry milk. We stopped trading lunches a while back, but every now and then I give him a bit of pastry, when I’m feeling especially nice, or I want something.

“Hey, Hank,” Ashley said suddenly. “Isn’t that your dad?”

I followed her finger, and my heart travelled up to my throat. The man in the poorly fitted jumper talking into a mobile phone was definitely my dad. But why was he here? Had I done something wrong? And why was he wearing his ridiculous “lucky” jumper?

“He can’t see me in these clothes!” I cried, in a white-hot panic.

I spun around and would have darted behind a row of lockers, had I not run sweater-first into Frankie. Our collision made a strange sound – like a bowling ball squelching into a mud pit.

“My pudding!” Frankie said. He began to scrape up the pudding. He even put a bit of it in his mouth.

“Frankie!” Ashley cried. “Think of the germs.”

“Three-second rule!” Frankie said. He put another handful in his mouth. “It’s still good.”

Ashley rolled her eyes. “You are going to get so sick.”

Frankie ignored her. He was still trying to pick the pudding up off the floor. “Where’s the rest of it?” he asked, panic in his voice.

“On my sweater,” I said.

“On
my
sweater,” he said, looking up at me. “Now you’re wearing my jumper
and
my pudding. You owe me a new jumper and a new pastry.”

“Why’d you freak out like that at seeing your dad?” Ashley asked me.

“Dad can’t see me in this uniform. It’s the third one I’ve ruined this term.”

“And that one isn’t even yours,” Frankie grumbled.

I surveyed the damage to my new sweater (or if you like, Frankie’s old sweater). It was toast. And so were my tie and my collar. I was a chocolate-y mess. A fraction of a second had yet again ruined me for ever.

Ten seconds ago, the plan had been perfect. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t quite worked out how I was going to convince the photographer to take my photo again. I had a rough idea involving my identical twin, and I was confident I could convince him. The important thing was that I had a clean uniform. And then my dad had turned up to prowl the school halls and ruined everything!

He must have been there because of Emily’s science thingy. They were acting all buddy-buddy at breakfast. I bet she secretly asked him to come for the interview and not tell Mum. I bet she took a perfect picture today too. And I bet this summer she’ll be heading towards scientific excellence – probably preparing to be the first kid on Mars – while I hang around at home in Frankie’s stained jumper…

“… still don’t get it,” Ashley was saying. “Everyone’s uniform looks the same. How would he know it was Frankie’s?”

I snapped back to the present. “Oh, I guess he wouldn’t. You’re pretty smart, Ashley.”

“Well, thank you!”

I looked Ashley up and down, and put my hand on my chin. “And you look very smart today, I must say. You always look smart. But you look especially smart today. New shampoo?”

“This is getting weird.”

“Yes, you really do look smart in that jumper and that tie and that—”

“Don’t
even
think about it. I’m not giving you my uniform.”

“I just need the top half. You can keep the skirt.”

“Uh, I think I’m keeping all of it. Hello? Height difference.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, my eyes level with her chin. “You’re smart, Ashley. You know that?”

“Not going to happen, Hank. You’ll just have to stay in Frankie’s pudding-coated jumper or go back to lost property and get that tiny jumper.”

“You know, super-tight sweaters are in,” Frankie said.

“They were actually in … last year,” I said.

“Really?”

“No.” I sighed. “What am I going to do? Even if I can convince the photographer to snap me again, I won’t have a clean jumper. And right now I look like the Pudding Monster.”

Frankie patted my shoulder. “Face it, Hank. This perfect-photo thing is just not happening this year, dude. You’re going to have to deal with having a unique picture.” He crossed his eyes to punctuate his point.

I groaned.

Right then, Karen, the prettiest girl in school and who I’ve had a hopeless crush on for years now, came walking by. She was with Jack James, a big square-jawed athlete with steely blue eyes and never a hair out of place. Bet he never ruins his school photos – he probably looks brilliant in all of them.

“Hey, nice haircut!” Karen called out and giggled.

I just stood there, hoping the floor would open and swallow me up.

“Looks like your mate with the haircut needs a bib,” Jack said to Karen, who giggled some more. Then she stopped giggling and started blushing when he put his arm around her.

That was when I decided enough was enough. This year I was going to own my school photo. It was time for the Zipzer man!

“I am not giving up,” I said resolutely. “This year is my year cos I’m going to run home and get my spare uniform.”

“There’s no time,” Ashley said. “It’s already twenty to two. Classes start again in ten minutes.”

“There’s plenty of time,” I said. And I started off towards the exit.

“But the photographer’s leaving at three!” Ashley called after me. “Hank! Wait! What will I tell Miss Adolf?”

“I had a fashion emergency!”

I broke into a run once I had safely passed by Mr Love’s office. He seemed to be playing dress-up in there. He was standing in front of the mirror with one hand tucked in his vest and a three-cornered hat on his head.

He reminded me of a crazy man I met in the park last summer. He’d had his hand in his vest and a hat like that too. He’d called himself Napoleon.

I should mention that Mr Love had also been having a full-on conversation with his image in the mirror.

“Hey!” Frankie yelled. “Come back with my pudding!”

Evaluator: Dr Meera Mehat, PhD, MD
Evaluee: Emily Zipzer

Evaluator’s Notes:

Having reviewed Miss Emily Zipzer’s sterling written application, I was very much looking forward to chatting with this promising young lady. I considered her the strongest candidate. However, I was unable to meet with Miss Zipzer at the appointed time, as her father, Stan Zipzer, was engaged in a mobile phone call. (Minus 5 points.)

What follows is a full transcript of my interview with Emily Zipzer and her father.

DR MEHAT: Shall we continue?

STAN ZIPZER: You bet. Fire away, doc! Oh, boy. I mean, Dr Mehat… Er, I mean, Your Grace. Or would you prefer Your Honour? Herr Doktor? Sorry, I sometimes slip into German. Those things happen when you’re fluent in half a dozen languages.

DR MEHAT: Meera will be fine.

STAN ZIPZER: Brilliant! Call me Stan. It’s nice dropping formalities, eh? I think you and me,
Meera
,
get
each other. You might even say we have a real convalescent bond.

NOTE: It is this evaluator’s opinion that Mr Zipzer was referring to a “covalent” bond.

EMILY ZIPZER: Take a breath, Dad.

STAN ZIPZER: Of course I’m breathing, Em. I would keel over if I wasn’t, right, Meera, scientifically speaking, of course, Your Grace? Is there a window or something we can open in here? Bit stuffy, no? Bit hot too. Anyone else hot, or is it just me?

DR MEHAT: I’m adequately comfortable.

STAN ZIPZER: Think I’ll take off this sweater…

EMILY ZIPZER: I’m sorry about my father, Dr Mehat. He’s nervous cos he … just got a call from the hospital. About … my mum.

DR MEHAT: Oh, my.

EMILY ZIPZER: She runs a small business – a deli – and she lost most of her arm, from below the mid-humerus, in the salami-mincing machine.

STAN ZIPZER: Yes, we couldn’t believe it when that happened.

EMILY ZIPZER: That’s why it’s so crucial that I’m accepted into your esteemed “Leg-Up Future Achievers” summer course. I want to give Mummy something to smile about again. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to cry. It’s just all … so terrible…

DR MEHAT: I understand. Do you feel up to a few questions?

EMILY ZIPZER: I think so, Meera.

As I ran, I tried to do the maths. I could run from the flat to school in twelve minutes, easy, which meant that once I got home, I’d have twenty minutes to get dressed, redo my hair and floss my teeth, then another twelve to fifteen minutes to run back. If I added in a couple minutes for exhaustion, I’d get back to school at approximately… Well, I’d get back to school with a little time to spare. It’s hard to add minutes and hours together. Try it.

I was on track to make it home in eleven minutes – a new world record, although not a Martian one. As I rounded the corner of my street, I got the Zipzer sense that all was not right in the world. I slowed down. I checked my shoelaces. I checked my fly. All good there. But that was the only good thing about these trousers, because these were not my trousers.

And that meant the keys in my pocket were not my keys. That was not my gorgeous face smiling up at me from my school ID card.

I really started to dislike Frankie’s face at that particular moment.

Exhausted and frustrated, I sank down onto the pavement. A woman walked by and dropped a quid on the ground in front of me. I bought a bottle of water from the corner shop with it and a chocolate bar with a quid from Frankie’s wallet. Now I owed Frankie one jumper, one pound and one pudding from Mum’s deli.

Of course – the deli!

I could find Papa Pete and get the spare keys off him.

The deli was a six-minute sprint from the flat. I still had time. I still had a little life in me.

I ran through puddles. I ran through traffic. I ran like the fastest man on Mars. I ran until my side was burning and I nearly threw up the chocolate bar. I only stopped once, to check through a bin, in case some kid had decided to chuck his uniform in it on his way home from school yesterday.

When I got to the deli, I saw Papa Pete through the window. He was clearing tables. Mum was nowhere to be seen. That was good. Papa Pete would be cool about the ruined school photo, the trashed uniform and the lost keys. My mum? Not so much.

I got down low and pressed my hands and face up against the window, trying to send a telepathic message for him to look over at me. Even though I couldn’t see Mum, I decided it was too risky to go inside without knowing exactly where she was. I didn’t want her to appear at the wrong moment.

A man with a very obvious toupée looked at me. Since my hair was all messed up, and my face was dirty, and my hands, shirt and tie were smeared with chocolate, the guy must have thought I was Oliver Twist, begging for scraps. He shook me off with a snooty sniff and flipped open his newspaper.

I smushed myself up against the glass and tapped as loudly as I dared until I finally got Papa Pete’s attention. Then I gestured for him to come outside. But Papa Pete gestured for me to come inside. I gestured for him to come outside. Like my regular vocabulary, my gesture vocabulary is not very extensive. Then a woman with a tray stepped between him and me.

Mum!

I dropped to my knees before she saw me. She started talking to Papa Pete, so I pressed my ear against the glass. I could al
most
hear what they were saying.

“What are moo doing?” I heard her ask Papa Pete, though I doubted she said “moo.”

I could not let Mum know I was here. I waved frantically at Papa Pete in a gesture that had to mean “Don’t tell her I’m here.”

Papa Pete froze, mid wave. Then he flexed his muscles. “Wiping down tables can be flossing,” I sort of heard him say. “Got a cramp in my farm.”

“Really?” Mum said, “because it looked like you were waving to Shank through the clindow.”

I looked about to determine who this Shank character was, and what in the world a “clindow” was and found myself staring right into Mum’s eyes.

I waved hello!

She crooked her index finger at me, gesturing “come here.” That is the worst gesture in the world.