Free A Brand-New Me! by Henry Winkler Page B

was watching TV with Emily, some show about the Great Flu Epidemic of 1911. Boy, that’s what I call a happy hour. My mom was putting Harry to bed in MY room, which as far as I can see, is how he spends ninety percent of his time. The other ten percent is spent eating, burping, and pooping. And let me tell you, I am completely aware of his poop time. My room has become the Kingdom of Poopdom.
    â€œMeet me on the terrace in two minutes,” Papa Pete said to me. “You and I have a hot date with a pickle.”
    I pushed open the door in the living room that leads out to the terrace. The stars were out, and if I looked one way, I could see the Hudson River. If I looked the other way, I saw the Museum of Natural History. There were lights on in all the apartments, as far as my eyes could see. All those people at home, relaxing and enjoying the evening. I wondered if there was anyone in any of those apartments who was as nervous as I was at that very moment.
    Papa Pete tapped me on the shoulder and I jumped about fifty feet in the air.
    â€œWow,” Papa Pete said. “Somebody’s edgy. Relax, Hankie. It’s just me bringing your pickle.”
    He reached into a plastic bag, and took out two thick cucumber-shaped pickles, handed one to me, and took the other one for himself.
    â€œThese are new pickles,” Papa Pete said. “Nice and crunchy.”
    In case you’re not a pickle expert like Papa Pete and I are, let me explain that new pickles are taken out of the pickling juice and spices before they’re totally done. That makes them taste sort of like a cucumber, but with a tang. Put one of those babies with a corned beef sandwich, and you are in delicatessen heaven.
    We each pulled up a chair and took a bite of our pickles. There was a lot of crunching going on. Finally, Papa Pete turned to me and said, “So, Hankie, big day tomorrow, huh?”
    â€œFunny you should bring that up,” I said to him. “I was thinking of making it a medium day and calling the school and telling them that I can’t make the audition.”
    â€œReally? And what would keep you from showing up at such an important event in your life?”
    â€œWell, Papa Pete, I have a lot to do. For one, I promised Mom that I would organize my closet, and she’s really counting on me to do that. I have to set a good example for Baby Harry. Which reminds me, I also have to teach Baby Harry to play toe basketball, and there’s no time like tomorrow to begin. You can’t start too early with these kids.”
    â€œAhhh,” Papa Pete said. “I think I’m hearing someone who’s very nervous.”
    â€œI’m not nervous,” I protested. “Really. It’s just that I have a lot of stuff to get done and that audition doesn’t fit in with my schedule. So I’ll do it another time. Like next year. Or the year after. Or the year after that.”
    Papa Pete took another bite of his pickle and just sat there enjoying the taste before he said anything else. Then he put his big hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
    â€œHankie,” he said. “You don’t need me to lecture you, but just take a moment and look deep down inside, way into your guts.”
    â€œI’m doing it, Papa Pete. And all I’m seeing is chewed pickle.”
    Papa Pete laughed. I love it when he laughs because it starts at his toes and by the time it comes out of his mouth, it’s really loud and joyous.
    â€œI think along with that pickle you’d see a boy who wants something very badly and has a really good chance at getting it, but is too afraid to try. You have your future in your hands, Hankie, but you have to take action to make it happen.”
    â€œBut how do you know I’m any good? Maybe Dad is right! Maybe we Zipzers don’t do this performance thing!”
    â€œI say this not because you are my grandson, but because I have observed you for a long