Barfing in the Backseat (3 page)

I pivoted on my left foot and tried to take off on my right. Or maybe it was the other way around. The point is, I took off as fast as a bunny going after a carrot.

“Not so fast, young man,” Ms. Adolf boomed. I stopped in my tracks, but I didn’t turn around. I was hoping that if I didn’t look at her, she wouldn’t see me.

Good try, but it didn’t work.

“Henry, I have prepared a special packet for you, to make your winter break a productive and stimulating one.” There are some words that make you feel good all over. Like
home run
or
pizza
. Then there are other words that strike fear in your heart. Like
packet
. I have
never
received a packet that contains anything I would want.

“Inside this packet, Henry, you will find a multitude of very challenging practice exercises in subjects ranging from mathematics to spelling to reading comprehension. All have been designed to help you in specific areas where you need help,” Ms. Adolf said. “I know you’ll want to thank me for designing this packet especially for you, but there is no need.
Consider it my holiday gift to you.” She stuffed the papers inside a manila envelope and handed it to me.

This woman had officially gone over the edge. Thank her? Thank goodness I really didn’t have to thank her, because “thank you” was the farthest thing from the tip of my tongue. The things that were on the tip of my tongue sounded a little something like:

Are you totally nuts?

What other kind of gifts do you give—shoes with hundreds of sharp nails glued inside them?

Did you take a special teaching course in how to torture innocent kids?

Instead, I said, “Ms. Adolf, either I just had a really bad daydream, or
you’ve
just said you’re giving me a lot of pages of homework to do on our vacation.”

“An hour a day is all it will take, Henry,” she said. “That leaves you twenty-three hours for your other amusements.”

“But we’re going on a
road
trip. With lizards and roller coasters in a minivan stuffed with snacks.”

This wasn’t my best argument ever, and I knew I was making no sense to her as soon as she said, “That will be all, Henry.”

She put on her gray glasses, picked up her gray pen, and began to write gray numbers in her gray roll book. The conversation was obviously over.

This time, the walk to the door was completely different than the first time. I felt like I was walking fifteen miles through sticky tar. When I got out into the hallway, Frankie and Ashley were waiting for me.

“So it wasn’t so bad, right, dude?” Frankie said.

“No, Frankie. It wasn’t so bad. It was the worst thing to ever happen at PS 87.”

“Hank, what are you talking about?” Ashley asked.

“I have two words for you,” I said, almost in a whisper. “Homework packet.”

“She didn’t,” Frankie said.

“She did.”

“How big?” Ashley asked.

“Nine hundred pages,” I said. “And that’s just the instructions.”

Frankie and Ashley were completely silent. There was really nothing to say except…well…no…there was nothing left to say.

W
HEN I GOT HOME
from school, I went into my bedroom and noticed that my mom had laid out stacks of clothes on my bed so I could choose what to take on the trip. She had also taken out my special rolly-wheels suitcase with the Mets stickers all over the front.

I closed the door to my room and opened my backpack. I took out the homework packet and put it deep in the bottom of my suitcase. The last thing I wanted was for my dad to see it. It was bad enough I had to do it. I certainly didn’t want him making up one of his famous schedules. He loves to do complicated schedules where he writes down how long I should spend on homework assignments. He would be in schedule heaven if he saw that packet.

I piled my underwear on top of it.

Okay, homework packet. Yes, I’m talking to
you. If you want to come along, then you can sit there under my underpants. See how you like that.

Later that night, my grandfather, Papa Pete, came to dinner to say “bon voyage,” which he explained to me means “have a good trip” in French.

“Why do you have to say that in French?” I asked him.

“Why not?” he answered.

I couldn’t argue with that. Besides, I’m glad to see Papa Pete, no matter what language he’s speaking. He’s just that much fun.

Frankie came for dinner, too, so my dad could go over the rules of the trip. As we all sat at the table pushing around my mom’s Tofurkey Scramble Surprise and other unidentified green and brown foods, my dad ticked off about 112 rules for the trip. The one thing they had in common was that they all started with the word NO.

“No fighting in the car,” he said. “No tickling in the car. No asking, ‘When are we going to get there?’ No whining. No loud music. No trying to recite the alphabet while burping. No passing
gas unless it’s a matter of life and death.”

“You know, Stan,” Papa Pete said, trying to get my dad to change the subject, “I’d like to tell the youngsters a little story. Kids, did I ever tell you that I once took a road trip to Maine with my parents, and my father did something I’ll never forget? He let each of us choose one place where we could stop along the way.”

“What did you choose, Papa Pete?” I asked him.

“A pickle factory outside of Boston,” Papa Pete said. “It smelled like garlic and dill and vinegar all rolled into one.”

“Eww,” said Emily. “How gross.”

“It wasn’t gross at all, my darling girl,” Papa Pete said. “It’s the way I hope heaven smells.”

Papa Pete and I both love pickles, especially the really sour ones with lots of garlic. We have a pickle snack when we’re discussing important subjects.

“I think we should give Dad’s idea a whirl, Stanley,” my mom said. “Each of us could pick one place to stop along the way.”

“Maybe there’s a bookstore that specializes in dictionaries,” my dad said, taking Papa Pete’s
good idea and making it horrible.

“Or an organic vegetable farm where we could taste all the young broccoli and Brussels sprouts,” my mom chimed in.

“Or an iguana farm where Katherine could visit her relatives,” Emily added.

I looked over to Papa Pete for help. What kind of family did I have, anyway? Did anyone in the Zipzer clan know the meaning of fun? Or were they just going to sit there and keep listing the worst places you could possibly go on a road trip?

THE SEVEN WORST PLACES
TO VISIT ON A ROAD TRIP

P
APA
P
ETE’S IDEA
caught on right away, and we all became really excited about picking our own place to stop along the way.

My dad got out a whole bunch of maps he had been collecting for the trip and spread them out on the table. We went through them, calling out names of cities and places of special interest, with my dad running back and forth to the computer to look up what we found. Fortunately for all of us, he didn’t find any dictionary stores along the route, so he picked the Library of Congress in Washington, D.C. as his choice.

Emily picked the Science Museum of Virginia in Richmond, which we were going to pass right through. Wouldn’t you know that little Miss Einstein would pick that for sure.

Frankie, sports fan that he is, picked the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill as
his place, so he could visit the basketball court where Michael Jordan played college basket-ball.

My choice, of course, was the roller coaster park.

Leave it to my mom to locate an organic honey farm in Virginia where they give tours of their beehives to crazy health nuts like her.

“Did you know that bee pollen is one of nature’s most complete foods?” she said after my dad read the description on the Internet of the Buzz Haven Honey Farm and Snooze Inn. “We owe it to ourselves to pay a visit to a bee farm, especially since honey contains so many necessary proteins, vitamins, minerals, and beneficial fatty acids.”

“Vitamins, schmitamins,” Papa Pete said. “Pollen, schmollen. Give me a good dill pickle any day. One with a real garlic
va-voom
.”

When my dad read that you could stay overnight at the Buzz Haven Honey Farm and Snooze Inn, my mom made him call right then and there to make a reservation.

“Stan,” Papa Pete said as my mom brought out dessert. “I have another suggestion to make,
if you don’t mind my butting in.”

“Butt away, Papa Pete,” I said, answering for my dad, who was dishing out the Rice Dream Supreme, which my mom actually believes she can pass off to us as ice cream.

“Well,” Papa Pete began. “I happen to have read in
Fun Trips for Active Seniors
magazine that there is a stand in Philadelphia called Pat’s that sells the best Philly cheesesteak on the planet.”

“Way to butt in, Papa Pete!” I yelled. “That can be the family choice.”

“Like Mom is really going to eat grilled meat and Cheez Whiz,” Emily said, killing the fun as only she can.

“I’m sure I can put something healthy to-gether,” my mom answered. “I’ll just order a cheesesteak without the meat. Or the cheese. Or the bread. I could always have a nice glass of water and a side of onions.”

“Randi, I don’t know how you got to be my daughter,” Papa Pete said, wiping some Rice Dream Supreme off the tip of his bushy mustache. “The only way I eat grilled onions is when they’re smothering a Polish hot dog.”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind giving a Philly cheesesteak a try,” Frankie said.

“So it’s settled, then,” my mom said. “Everyone has their choice, and the
family
choice will be Pat’s.”

I was getting to like this road trip more and more. It sounded like it was going to be a total blast. I looked down at the brown, melting lump of I-don’t-know-what in my bowl, and even
it
started to look delicious. In my mind, I could see a roller coaster car climbing up one side of the scoop, barely making it to the top, then barreling down the other side. Rice Dream Supreme never looked so good.

“There’s one more thing,” my dad said, putting down his spoon and clearing his throat. Uh-oh. He had that look in his eye. The look that says, “Warning! You will find no fun living inside me.”