The Pizza Party Read online

  “I don’t know about this,” Mom said, dragging her huge travel bags into the living room. “On top of looking after himself, now you want him to —”

  “His friends will be with him,” Dad said. “He’ll be fine.”

  “Fine for what?”

  “Do you feel calm and supported with this?” Mom asked Emily.

  “Hardly,” she said. “He doesn’t know anything about her feeding habits.”

  “Huh?”

  “Emily?” Dad asked. “Would you feel more calm and supported if I didn’t come to the hospital for your . . .”

  “For her serious operation?” Mom said. “You’re coming, Stan.” Mom zipped up her bag.

  “I guess it’s settled then,” he said.

  “It is,” she said.

  “It is?” I asked.

  Emily sighed and skulked off into the hallway toward her room.

  With both bags around her shoulders, Mom came up to me. “So we’ll be home before bedtime tomorrow. Tonight, Papa Pete will be here by eight.”

  “But you said nine.”

  “Fine.” One of the straps on her bags slid down her shoulder and hung on her elbow. Just as she was about to knock over a lamp with her bag, I helped her with the strap. “Make sure you finish your essay tonight.”

  “Of course.”

  “And no junk food.”

  “I wouldn’t dare,” I said.

  “And I left your dinner in the fridge.”

  “Here,” said Emily, who had reemerged silently from the hallway and put something in my hand. It was a plastic tub. It took me a second, but then I noticed that something was moving behind the clear plastic, inside the container. Make that everything — every single thing inside the container was moving, creeping, writhing, clicking.

  “Ahhh! What’s wrong with you people?” I cried. “What’s in this thing?”

  “Dinner,” Emily said. “Locusts and mealworms.”

  “Sounds delicious, Em, but I’m trying to cut back on mealworms.”

  “Ugh. If he’s not going to take this seriously, then honestly —”

  “Emily, I support your feelings,” Mom said. “And so does your brother. But we have to get moving or we’ll be late.”

  “But he —”

  “Don’t worry, love. Hank will do it.”

  “Fine.” She sighed and handed me a bulging folder.

  “Do what?” I said as they left, the door closing behind them. Then I looked more closely at the folder. It was labeled “Lizard Care and Feeding Schedule.”

  Wait! Had I just agreed to lizard-sit a walking handbag?

  The door suddenly opened a crack, just enough for my sister to slide her head through the opening. “If anything happens to Katherine, I’ll make your life a living nightmare.”

  I shook the plastic tub of locusts and mealworms. “Don’t worry, sis. It already is.”

  I was so frazzled by everything that had just happened that without realizing it I left the apartment still holding Katherine’s dinner. It wasn’t until I’d gone down in the elevator with Frankie and Ashley and we’d walked at least halfway to school that Frankie noticed the moving contents in my plastic tub.

  He shrieked so loudly. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “What’s wrong with me? These locusts are Emily’s. She’s the weird one.”

  “Sure, Hank, but why are you . . . ?” Exasperated, Ashley gestured at my container.

  “’Cause I’m lizard-sitting Katherine. Obviously!”

  “What I think we want to know is,” Frankie said, “why are you holding that horrific thing?”

  I shrugged. “You wanna hold it?”

  “I don’t think anyone should hold it.”

  “You probably should hold it,” Ashley told Frankie. “Hank isn’t always good at holding things.”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “And since it’s only a matter of time before he drops it,” Ashley went on, “those locusts in there will get out and wreak havoc on London.”

  “So basically, Frankie,” I said, “either you hold it, or I unleash Emily’s locusts and destroy the world.”

  Frankie stopped and put up his hands. “Let me repeat my question: Why are you holding Emily’s locusts?”

  “That’s not important right now,” I said.

  “It isn’t?”

  “No. What’s important is that Phase One of Operation Party Time is complete. Emily went to the hospital. And that means we have only ten more hours until Phase Two: Go Nuts at Uncle Hank’s Grand Pizza and Ice-Cream Gala!”

  “And Soiree!” Ashley cried. “Can’t wait.”

  “Too bad about taking care of Emily’s spooky lizard,” Frankie said.

  “It is what it is,” I said, shrugging. I looked at all those worms and clicking locusts writhing around in there. I didn’t want to take care of the lizard, and those creatures probably didn’t want to be Katherine’s dinner. “I guess you can’t always get what you want,” I said. “We want the apartment all to ourselves for our pizza and ice-cream party. But Emily wants creepy Katherine to be alive and nourished when she gets back from surgery. So you have to meet in the middle and fight it out. It’s a lot like trench warfare, really.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Frankie said.

  “You’re right, Frankie,” I said, without really hearing him because I was so inspired by my idea. “I think I’ll write my essay on that, how Emily and I are —”

  “You haven’t started?” Ashley said.

  “I finished it last night,” I said on autopilot. “Well, I started it last night. I mean, I almost started last night. In fact, I’ve been almost starting it for days. Check out this awesome lightning-bolt Z I came up with —” I zipped open my bag to get out my World War I folder. But as I did so, Emily’s Lizard Care and Feeding Schedule folder came spilling out instead, and since my brain is only interested in moving things that are right in front of my eyes, I grabbed for the falling folder, letting go of Emily’s box of horrors. . . .

  And just before that revolting tub was about to crash into the unforgiving pavement, Frankie dived to the ground and scooped it up with both hands, saving our fair city from certain ruin. “Phew!”

  “One-two-three-no-swapsies!” I called, and jumped up with a fist pump.

  “That’s so totally unfair,” Frankie said, and I could tell he was searching for a way to get out of it. But I also knew Frankie: one-two-three-no-swapsies was ironclad. He was an honorable friend, and to try to weasel out of no-swapsies was something not even a lizard would stoop to.

  “But what am I gonna do with this at school?” he asked, trying to find a place in his bag to stash it.

  “Tell Miss Adolf it’s your lunch,” I said.

  Frankie shot me a lifted eyebrow.

  “Seriously, that was my plan,” I said. “Emily is always saying how we should be eating insects for our protein. It’s more stainable for the environment.”

  “You mean sustainable,” Ashley said.

  “Yeah. It’s more sustainable than eating chickens and cows. Emily’s always talking about starting an insect protein business. She thinks she could make millions by breeding all these insects, grinding them into powder, then selling the powder to people who make sausages and hamburgers. She says it’s the future.”

  “Your sister has issues,” Frankie said, eyeing the plastic tub with disgust.

  “Tell me about it,” I said. “Maybe she’ll have those removed, too.”

  We crossed the street. Westbrook Academy was in sight. I could hear all the kids yelling from the playground.

  “I hope,” Ashley said, “that they let Emily bring home her tonsils so I can examine them.”

  From the pages of Emily Zipzer’s field notebook:

  April 10, 9:31 a.m.

  I’ve come to the hospital this morning for a tonsillectomy. I feel perfectly calm. My tonsils have been a nuisance ever since I can remember, always getting inflamed, elevating my body temperature, di
srupting my homework cycle. I have no idea why my tonsils attract so many germs. I wonder if, over the years, all of those extra germs have fused with me. Perhaps they’ve even given me greater cognitive powers. I wonder what not having them in my body will be like.

  I’ve requested to keep my extracted tonsils for further study. Nurse Adebayor and others are reviewing my request.

  I wanted to keep this field notebook primarily to document my experiences and to jot down any impressions I may have about the procedure and the health care system in general.

  But since last night, I haven’t had a calm moment to reflect on anything. The reason is simple: Mom and Dad. Their actions over the past twenty-four hours make me question whether parents should be allowed to take responsibility for a child without first passing a battery of psychological tests.

  My parents give me no rest. The mother is obsessed with some ridiculous paperback book she found at the bus terminal called Taking Your Child to the Hospital, and the father is totally consumed by a neurotic fear of anything medical.

  Both, however, project all their fears and anxieties onto me. They think they are trying to help me, but instead they are making me — I who am about to go under the knife — responsible for their emotional well-being. They try to tell me to “think happy thoughts,” and they try to have “little chats” with me in “clear and reassuring language,” and, rather than calming them, my stoic demeanor makes them even more insecure and hysterical about their parenting.

  Ugh!

  If only Katherine were here. She asks nothing of me, needs nothing more than locusts and a heat lamp, says nothing, feels nothing — a perfect companion!

  I was not allowed to bring her. For what reason, I have no idea. She is a perfectly clean reptile. Much cleaner than the father.

  It’s unfair. They let other animals come and provide support. Ah, but those must be service animals. Perhaps Katherine can be trained as a service animal. They let all sorts of filthy mammals become service animals these days. Why not a very clean and conscientious reptile?

  Oh, poor Katherine. She should be here with me, instead of at home with the brother — Hank. I fear the worst.

  10:57 a.m.

  Mom tried to explain how the “nice doctors” were going to give me “laughing gas” so I could “drift off into a lovely deep sleep.” I have no idea what she is talking about.

  Meanwhile, I have more important things to think about, as the medical staff will soon be coming in to administer my anesthetic. I am intrigued. I wonder how it will feel to be under the anesthetic. Will I have any awareness? Any concept of self? Of passing time?

  The parents seem very stressed about the situation. Surely knowledge would provide the greatest comfort, so I tried to reassure them: I informed them that the anesthetic will most likely be delivered through an intravenous cannula on the back of my hand.

  The father’s legs buckled, and he almost collapsed into the biohazard container.

  The final bell rang, the doors flew open, and a lot of kids around London became much happier. I certainly was. Tonight was going to be the best night of my life.

  But I still had lots to do to get ready.

  Frankie, Ashley, and I raced back home to our building. Frankie had taken good care of Emily’s plastic tub all day, keeping it hidden in his dark and warm bag — perfect breeding conditions. He gave it back to me as we got out of the elevator. They were going to finish up their projects before party time at six, and I had to do that as well, plus get the party preparations done. A pizza and ice-cream soiree doesn’t just happen on its own, you know.

  Since having the entire apartment all to myself is such a rare thing, I thought I’d revel in it a bit. As soon as I got home, I dropped all my stuff and lay down smack in the middle of the living room, spreading my arms and legs as wide as they’d go.

  But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t relax. I had too much to do. I kept hearing my brain making lists, and since that really stressed me out, every time I heard my brain making a list, I yawned and stretched out and flushed the list from my brain, trying to get myself nice and relaxed before starting on my duties.

  I knew I had to do between one and nine things. I had to feed Katherine, do my essay, and prepare for the party. But since those last two things were actually countless different things, I decided I’d get the one thing out of the way first. The thought of doing that thing really stressed me out, and it took me at least an hour of just lying there until I was ready.

  I grabbed the locust tub and Emily’s folder and creaked open the door to Emily’s room, half expecting to trigger a mustard-gas booby trap.

  No gas. Only the weird and sour smell of Emily’s room.

  The first thing I saw in Emily’s room was Katherine’s eyes. The creepy lizard was staring right at me. She — or was it an it? — was sitting motionless on Emily’s pillow, like she was waiting for me. I froze. The lizard flicked out its tongue and licked its own eyeball.

  “I bet you must be hungry for . . . locusts. Ew!”

  I looked down at the writhing tub. Then I looked back at the motionless lizard. How was I supposed to do this? Was I supposed to hand-feed that thing one of those writhing bugs? But how would I get one of them out without letting them all out? Was I supposed to actually touch one of those things? Could I use something — like Emily’s tweezers — to get the locusts out?

  The lizard licked its other eyeball.

  I consulted Emily’s bulging folder of instructions. Emily’s details were detailed . . . very detailed. They started with some in-depth background on the lizard. Her report began more than three-hundred million years ago, when the very first lizard emerged from a goopy pond and slithered onto land . . .

  “Sorry, Katherine,” I said, yawning. “You’re just not that interesting.”

  The lizard looked at me.

  “You’re gonna have to help yourself tonight,” I said, and set down the tub on the floor by the bed. “If you can open the box, they’re all yours.”

  I checked my phone. It was 4:30 p.m. Plenty of time before six to get the ice cream, drinks, and snacks, order the pizzas, and start my essay. I splashed some ice-cold water on my face, let out one of my getting-down-to-business shrieks, and while Ms. DeLillo was furiously knocking on her ceiling in the apartment below with her broomstick, I ordered the pizzas, telling the guy at Fidel’s to deliver them at 5:55 p.m. sharp.

  Then I grabbed our precious savings and jogged down to the corner store, where I bought so many buckets of ice cream, bottles of soda, and snacks that they had to get a cardboard box from the storeroom so I could carry it all.

  Back at the apartment at 5:10, I put away all the perishables and meltables, set out Mom’s second-best plates, spread out some board games, and, with forty minutes to go, went to my room to get a jump-start on my essay.

  I didn’t jump very far. I was so angry at Miss Adolf for making this ridiculous essay due the day after the best night ever that, although I had every intention of writing a few well-structured paragraphs about trench warfare, I wound up just making a silly drawing of her. She had the body of a Venus flytrap and plenty of beauty spots on her semi-human face, and lightning was threatening to strike from the storm clouds above.

  I had just put my last beauty spot on her nose when I looked up. It was 5:50. I clapped my hands and got up to change into my party finest. I put on the black blazer I’d worn to my great-great-uncle’s funeral last winter. I found some string and tied it around my antique Casio calculator watch and stuck it in my pocket. There. Pocket watch, check! Then I went into the living room, tuned the radio to some station playing very sophisticated bossa nova music, and poured myself a soda with ice. For the last few minutes, I lounged around with my drink, reveled in the classy, relaxed vibe, and waited for the pizza man.

  Frankie arrived first, at exactly 6:01. I swung out my watch from my pocket, glanced at it, and turned my attention to my friend.

  He had on a black top hat and whit
e gloves.

  “Welcome, good sir,” I said. “May I trouble you for the password?”

  Frankie pulled out something on a chain from his blazer and put it up to his eye. It was a monocle! “Cheerio,” he said.

  “Very good, sir. Won’t you come in?”

  “Charming, charming,” Frankie said, like he couldn’t be more bored, looking around through his monocle as he strode in. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

  “Allow me to take your hat, my good man.”

  “Certainly.”

  While Frankie breathed on his monocle and cleaned it on his sleeve, I flung his top hat into the corner, spinning it with a flick of my wrist.

  “Ah, and there’s Ashley,” I said. An incredibly tall girl was standing in my doorway. Ashley was wearing heels! In her evening dress and heels, she was even taller than my dad, and with the feather sticking out from her complicated hat, she almost had to hunch to get in the doorway.

  “Cheerio,” she said.

  “Simply delightful,” I said as I helped her out of her gloves.

  She opened up her little clutch handbag and pulled out a large metal bottle. “A little something for tonight’s festivities,” she said and gave it to me. “It’s the finest whipped cream in all of Her Majesty’s kingdom.”

  “Splendid!” I said. “Won’t you both sit down for some refreshments?”

  “We’d be delighted,” Frankie said.

  While they found seats on the sofa, I poured them sodas. “I’m so glad you could make it to my little impromptu gathering. I must apologize that the place is in such a state. The servants have just been dreadful lately.” I came around the sofa and handed out the drinks. “Cheers then.”

  We clinked and sipped.

  “So tell me, Frankie,” I started, “how’ve you been getting on with your studies?”

  “Splendidly, Hank.”

  “And you, Ashley?” I said. “I hear tell that yours are going quite well, too.”

  “Oh, I’ve nothing to complain about,” Ashley said. She kicked off her heels, twirled them around on her fingers, and let them fly into the corner with Frankie’s top hat. “Should we crack open that bottle of whipped cream, then?”