The Night I Flunked My Field Trip #5 Read Online Free

in his old photo album.
    â€œI’ll go ask Nick the Tick what the phone number is at his dad’s bowling alley,” said Ashley.
    Nick McKelty’s father owns the bowling alley on 86th Street where Papa Pete bowls. That’s why it’s called McKelty’s Roll ’N Bowl.
    â€œForget that creep,” Frankie said. “We’ll find the number ourselves. Mrs. Crock, can we borrow your phone book?”
    â€œCertainly, dear,” she said, smiling. Her teeth were as white as those little baby marshmallows that you float in your hot chocolate.
    Mrs. Crock got the phone book from her drawer and handed it to me. I flipped it open to the M’s and looked at the page. It seemed to me like there were a million little grey letters swimming around on that page like tadpoles in a pond. I could feel my eyes crossing.
    In case I haven’t mentioned it, I’m not too good at spelling. You might even say I stink at spelling. Ditto for reading. Double ditto for alphabetizing. Put all that together, and what you get is that looking up a name in the phone book is not my idea of a good time. And don’t even talk to me about dictionaries. How can you look up a word that you don’t know how to spell in the first place, or even know how to sound out? I’m still waiting for someone to explain that to me.
    Frankie has known me my whole life, so he knew that if I looked up the phone number, we could have been there until next Easter, or maybe even summer.
    â€œMind if I have a look, Zip?” he said, taking the phone book out of my hands. He flipped through the pages and found the number easily. Ashley dialed it, and handed the phone to me. We’re a good team, the three of us.
    â€œMcKelty’s Roll ’N Bowl,” answered Mr. McKelty in a friendly voice. I wondered how such a nice man could produce such a jerky kid.
    â€œHello, Mr. McKelty. This is Hank Zipzer,” I said. “Is my grandfather there?”
    â€œIs he here?” he shouted. “Son, he just bowled four strikes in a row. He’s here and he’s hot. Hang on, and I’ll try to pry him off the lane.”
    I could hear all the bowling alley sounds through the phone as I waited for Papa Pete to pick up. The balls rolling down the oiled wooden lanes, the pins clattering as they fell over, Fern the waitress calling out orders in the coffee shop. That Fern, she makes an excellent root-beer float. If you’re ever in the neighborhood, check it out.
    â€œHankie, my boy. What’d you forget?” It was the first thing Papa Pete said when he picked up the phone, before he even said hello.
    â€œHow’d you know?” I asked him.
    â€œGrandfathers know these things,” he said. “It’s our job.”
    Wow, he was amazing.
    â€œI left my permission slip for tonight’s field trip under the Chinese vase,” I said. “They won’t let me go unless I turn it in.”
    â€œWhen do you need it?”
    â€œTen minutes ago.”
    â€œTen minutes ago, it is,” said Papa Pete. “I’ll jog over to your apartment lickety-split and be at school in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Meet me in the lobby by the trophy case.”
    â€œPapa Pete, I’m sorry you have to leave,” I said. “I hear you’re on a hot streak.”
    â€œHot, schmot,” said Papa Pete. “Bowling’s a game. You’re my grandson. Be right there, Hankie.”
    Click. Before he even said good-bye, he was gone.
    Do I have the best grandfather in the world? Let me answer that for you.
    Yes I do.

CHAPTER 6
    FRANKIE AND ASHLEY WENT BACK to our classroom to tell Ms. Adolf that I would be a few minutes late getting back to class. I waited by the trophy case for Papa Pete.
    The walls all around the lobby were covered with kindergarten art. I guess you’d call it art. There were about fifty pieces of colored paper taped to the wall, each one with a green leaf