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Authors: Jack Gantos

BOOK: Jack Adrift
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Even before we arrived at the camp I knew it wasn't going to work out very well. First, I was exhausted. I hadn't been sleeping well because I was still so upset about Elliott's dying. I'd lie in bed all night, tossing and turning. At school I kept falling asleep with my head on my desk. When Miss Noelle asked what was wrong I
told her I had too much on my mind. She suggested I drink a glass of warm milk before lights out. I looked at her sadly. She didn't understand the private torments of a man. At home I was snappish with Pete and grumpy around Mom. Betsy and I were bickering with each other all day. So I figured that putting on a Naval Cadet uniform and hanging around with a bunch of happy little kids was just going to make me feel worse, and I was right.
On the first night at camp, after a long day of learning how to tie knots, read naval signal flags, and practice Morse code in a dark room with flashlights, we had a cookout. I sat by the bonfire and stuck marshmallows on a stick, set them on fire, then flicked them at the boys. It was like the Roman warship battle scene in
Ben-Hur
when they use catapults to hurl flaming balls of tar at each other's ships. I said to myself, “This is really dangerous,” but then another part of me said, “Yeah, but it has something to do with being in the Navy.” One flaming sticky ball landed on a kid's hat and set it on fire. Another kid poured a canteen of water on it while I laughed my head off. This should have been a warning that I was getting out of hand, but I was too far gone. All that brooding had made me weak.
The next day I was worse. I hadn't slept a wink and was glaring at anyone who laughed. Dad thought it would be a good idea for me to keep busy, so he gave
me a job. He lined up all the young boys and had me inspect their heads for lice. If I found any I was supposed to call him. He also gave me a set of electric hair clippers and asked me to trim the cadets around their ears and cut off any hair that touched their collars. But once he drifted off, I told the boys that if I found lice I would have to shave their heads.
The first kid who stepped up had a bowl-shaped haircut. I looked down at his blond hair. “Lice!” I declared. He looked up at me, horrified. “There is only one thing to do to stop this epidemic,” I declared. I took the clippers and in about a minute had buzzed all his hair off.
“That's better,” I concluded. “Now beat it!”
He ran his hand over his bald head. “You cut my hair off,” he said angrily.
“What are you going to do about it?” I asked.
He raised his fist and looked like he was going to jump at me.
“I'll clip your lips off,” I said, and waved the clippers around his face.
The kid backed away. “Don't,” he said, suddenly frightened. He held his hands in front of his mouth.
Somehow, this only made me angrier. “Move it,” I shouted, “or I'll clip your ears off, too.” He turned and ran.
“You better run,” I hollered. When I turned around,
all the other kids were fleeing in the opposite direction. Only Pete was left.
“That wasn't very nice,” he said.
I raised my fist at him. “You want your other tooth knocked out?” I asked. “Just keep mouthing off to me and you'll be the youngest kid on the planet to wear dentures.”
“Bully,” he said right back. “You've become a bully but you don't scare me.” I stood there with the clippers in my hand as he walked away. I had never been called a bully before, not even by Pete, and I didn't like it. He was right. I
had
been a bully and now I was ashamed of myself, which just seemed to pile on to all the things I was brooding about and not grinding down into
nothingness.
I dropped the clippers in the dirt and shuffled over to the chicken-wire fence that surrounded the compound. I looked across at the ocean. The waves churned up the shore, grinding the small grains of sand into even smaller grains. I wondered if they ever got ground down into nothingness, or just got smaller and smaller but never really went away. I attempted to climb the fence, but I couldn't get a toehold in the tight pattern. When I tried to pull myself up, the wire cut into my fingers. I slumped back down. I felt lousy and I didn't know what to do about it.
That night I was tossing and turning in bed as usual.
I couldn't take it anymore. I remembered Dad's advice about taking a walk on the beach. It had helped before when I was angry with Julian's mom. Maybe it would help again.
But there was no way out of the camp. The compound fence was sealed with a locked gate. Little cadets with flashlights and whistles had guard duty, so it was difficult to sneak out. But I thought I had a way. The Dumpsters behind the kitchen were next to the fence. I figured I could climb up one and jump over.
I put on some jeans and a dark T-shirt and sneakers. I tiptoed out of the cabin and away from the security lights. I stood in the shadow of a tree. I looked left and right. The little cadets marched back and forth, patrolling the camp perimeter. I dashed over to another tree. Then another. I could see the mess hall across the square of grass we used for roll call. I checked for guards, then made a dash for a dark corner. But one of the cadets spotted me.
“Halt!” he shouted. “Who goes there?”
I ran around to the back of the building as he blew his emergency whistle. I could hear other whistles. Adult voices shouted out orders. I scampered up on top of the slippery Dumpster. I was a few steps from getting away, but suddenly froze. Directly between me and the fence was a giant raccoon. It had found some uneaten food and was now guarding it with its life. “Shoo!” I
hissed. “Beat it!” I waved my arms back and forth. I stomped down on the top of the Dumpster. The raccoon stared at me and rose on its hind legs. It growled. In the light I could see its mouth full of sharp white teeth. In the background I could hear the cadets gathering with the officers.
“He went thataway,” a kid hollered. “Behind the kitchen.”
The raccoon dropped down and began to inch forward. Behind me, the footsteps were getting closer. There was nothing left to do. I jumped into the Dumpster and quickly tried to cover myself with bags of garbage.
In a moment I was surrounded. Then I got a lucky break. “It's only a raccoon,” Dad said. “See—on top of the Dumpster.”
“It was a big kid,” some cadet said. “I'm sure of it.”
But there was also another raccoon. Suddenly I felt something move against my leg and I yelped.
“That's no raccoon,” Dad said. “Whoever you are, come on out,” he ordered.
I pushed a bag of garbage out of my way. About a dozen flashlights shone on my face. “Look,” shouted a kid. “It's the bully.”
I scrambled up on top of the bags of garbage and when Dad saw me he hung his head for a moment. Not only was I a bully—something we both hated—but I
had also embarrassed him. I was going to have a lot more to brood about.
“Okay,” Dad snapped, handing out orders. “The party's over. Everyone back to your posts, or bunks.”
“What are you going to do with him?” some kid asked.
Dad didn't answer. “I'll take care of this,” he said to the other officers.
After everyone drifted away he turned off his flashlight. “What stupid nonsense were you up to?” he asked.
“I was going to the beach to practice being a man,” I said.
“You need some practice,” Dad said. “A real man wouldn't end up cornered by a raccoon.”
“He was going to bite me,” I said.
“I'm ready to do worse to you,” he replied. “Now why were you going AWOL?”
“You know,” I said. “What you taught me. Brooding with a reason. I was thinking about Elliott and stuff and I was going to walk around the beach and grind it all down to nothingness.”
I could tell he didn't want to agree with me, especially after I had embarrassed him in front of everyone. But I also knew he was pleased that I had listened to him.
“I thought we talked through all that Elliott stuff,” he said. “I thought you had already ground it down to nothing.”
“I guess I still had a little left over,” I said. “And now I think I'm becoming a bully.”
“Yeah. Pete told me you gave that kid a baldy. Well, maybe we need to add that to our list to talk about,” he said.
“But you said that's what Mom does,” I said. “Talk, talk, talk.”
“Here's a little secret between us,” he said. “I don't always like to admit it but your mom is right at least half the time, so let's take a page out of her book and talk about the stuff that's bothering you.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Right after I give
you
a baldy, you can start by apologizing to the kids. Then once you mop that up we'll work on Elliott, and it's my guess your bully problem will disappear on its own.”
“Thanks for talking about this,” I said, “but do I have to get a baldy?”
He rubbed his hand across his chin while he reconsidered. “Your mom would court-martial me if you came home looking like a cue ball.”
I smiled up at him. I knew I was off the hook.
“Now, go take a shower!” he barked. “You smell! Then go straight to sleep! No brooding! And that's an order!”
“Yes, sir!” I snapped back. I felt better already.
I
was staring at her again. Miss Noelle. I had my elbows propped up on my desk and my head in my hands and I was quietly murmuring everything she said with my lips just parted like a ventriloquist. When she would stop and cock her head to one side, trying to catch who was making the tiny buzzing sounds, I would stop. She'd start. I'd start. She'd talk quickly. I'd buzz quickly. She'd suddenly go slow. I'd go slow. It was as if I were in a very fast car, hugging the road, speeding along the straightaways, downshifting on the curves, leaning left and right, sticking with the road like glue as my senses entirely focused on imitating every contour of her ribbon of words. It was exhilarating. I imagined driving my silver-and-black convertible Porsche with Miss Noelle in the front seat. The wind whipped through our hair. The golden sun reflected off her tinted glasses. She snapped open her purse and pulled out a lipstick. I
kept the car steady as she slid the lipstick back and forth across her red lips. She had total confidence in my driving ability. Somehow, I had been a Le Mans race-car driver before I met her. I was skilled, and as I drove, with one black driving glove on the wheel and the other on the gearshift knob, I seamlessly slipped through the gears and steered through the pull of the hairpin turns. We were in the Swiss Alps, on a skiing trip. We were driving up from the south of France where we had just been to a film festival. My new movie was being praised. I was the star. Everyone in the entire
world
wanted to be with me. But I only wanted to be with Miss Noelle.
“Jack,” Miss Noelle said sharply, appearing suddenly in front of my desk. “Have you listened to a word I said about our Outer Banks science projects?”
“No, Miss Noelle,” I said in a practiced voice. “I was already thinking way ahead to our next assignment.”
She leaned down close to my ear. “I don't believe you. See me after class,” she said.
Automatically my lips buzzed,
“See me after class.”
“What?” she asked sharply.
“I look forward to seeing you after class,” I replied, smiling innocently.
She took a long deep breath then turned back to the class and continued to describe what nature the Wright brothers had first found when they arrived on Cape Hatteras in 1900. I tried to listen. I looked directly up at
her face. I watched her lips open and close. I heard the words float out of her mouth and then slowly I drifted back to thinking about our great life together driving up and down the mountain peaks of the Alps. I just couldn't help it.
At the end of the day I eagerly waited for everyone to leave the room. I pulled a chair up to the other side of her desk and stared at her. “I'm
seeing
you after class,” I said sweetly, “just as you asked. See, I was listening.”
She frowned. “You listen selectively,” she replied.
“I'm picky,” I explained.
“You're slipping,” she said, leaning forward with her elbows on her desk. “Instead of becoming more mature, you are going backward. You're acting like a baby.”
“No, I'm not,” I said. “A baby would cry. I'm smiling.”
“Believe me, you are acting like a baby,” she repeated. “You are spending too much time thinking about me, and not enough time thinking about what I'm trying to teach you.”
“No,” I said.
“What wildlife did the Wright brothers find on the Outer Banks?” she asked quickly. “What?”
“Mosquitoes?” I guessed. “Sand fleas?”
She shook her head in disgust. “You are becoming a love
pest
!” she hissed. “So I set up an appointment for you with the school psychologist.”
That chilled me. I had never talked to a psychologist
before. Dad always called them head shrinkers. He claimed that anyone who went to one was crazy before they saw one and had to be locked up in a padded cell after they saw one. “Do I have to?” I asked.
“Either that,” she said, “or I'll have Mrs. Nivlash transfer you to another class.”
That got me. “Okay,” I said, squirming in my chair. “Okay, I'll see the shrink.”
“Psychologist,” she said, correcting me.
“Psychologist,”
I buzzed.
 
Mrs. Rutland, the psychologist, shared a small office with the county health officer. They took turns doing pretty much the same thing. The health officer picked through the hair on my head, searching for lice and other vermin. Mrs. Rutland was going to stare into my head and pick through my brain looking for loose screws, stripped gears, and other signs of madness.
When I sat down I smiled at her and crossed my hands on my lap. She reminded me of my mother. She was neatly dressed, but not overdressed, her hair was done at home and not in a beauty parlor, and her hands were red, I imagined, from doing dishes. The first thing she said was, “If you lie to me, I cannot help you.”
“I won't lie,” I replied, as if she already had me wired up to a lie detector.
Then she asked me a few questions about myself and
my family before she cleared her throat and got to the point. “Miss Noelle says you seem to have an
infatuation
with her.”
“Yes,” I said, spitting out the answer as if my life depended on it.
“Can you stop having this infatuation?”
“No,” I snapped.
“Have you been fantasizing about her?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you know this is unhealthy?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Check,” she confirmed, making a large check mark in the air with her finger. “Do you mistake Miss Noelle for your mother?”
“No!” I said.
“Do you think she will give you better grades if you are nice to her?”
“I never thought of that,” I replied.
“Have you ever given her a gift?”
“No,” I said, thinking that flowers taken from a grave site did not count as a gift.
“You can relax,” she ordered. “There's nothing wrong with you.”
“Are you sure?” I thought if I was slightly off my rocker it would make me seem more sympathetic to Miss Noelle, as if she had to be more sensitive to my special needs.
“Believe me,” Mrs. Rutland said, jotting a few notes on a school health form. “Boys like you need a hobby. Something to keep your mind trained on other things besides Miss Noelle. I think a pet would help you.”
“I'd like a pet,” I said. “But my parents won't go for it. They said three kids and tadpoles is enough pets already.”
“You'll just have to try harder to convince them,” she persisted. “Tell them you need one in order to focus your
boy
energy in the proper direction.” She ripped the health form off the pad and handed it to me. “This is your pet prescription,” she explained. “Once you get a pet, have your parents sign the bottom of this form and return it to me.” She stood up.
“I still don't think they'll go for it,” I pleaded.
“You either get a pet,” she said directly, “or I'll send an official note home to your parents telling them I think you are immature for your age and need to be held back a year. And believe me, if you repeat fourth grade you will
not
have Miss Noelle.”
I tried to say something else, but she cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled out, “Next!” There was a line of other kids waiting and I guessed my five minutes of mental health were up, which was fine with me.
 
That night at the dining room table I decided not to tell everyone about my infatuation problem and pet prescription.
Instead I said, “I think if I had a pet it would help me become more mature.”
“Getting a brain transplant might help,” Betsy suggested.
“You could get a new brain but I'm still not having a pet in this house,” Mom said. “They are dirty—filthy, really—and carry diseases. Plus we don't have room for one.”
“But it will help me be more
mature
,” I said, sitting up properly in my seat and crossing my hands on my lap. But she wasn't listening to me.
“And another thing,” she said. “No matter what your father intends, he never helps out with a pet. It always ends up being my responsibility.”
She was right. When I was about five Dad came home with some kind of used hunting dog that had accidentally been shot and was now afraid of gunfire. He said it would make a great kid pet. It did. I pulled on its ears as if they were taffy. I rode it around the house. I made it eat bugs, and the dog never snapped at me. But Dad seldom took care of it. He didn't walk it, exercise it, pick up after it, feed it, or take it to the vet for shots, and finally after Mom had given him a few warnings she gave it to a family down the street.
I thought maybe Dad was still resentful of that and so I looked to him for help. “How 'bout it, Dad, can I get a pet?”
“I agree with your mother,” he said without a second thought. “We don't need a pet. It's one or the other—kids or pets—and we have decided to keep you three rather than turn you in for a litter of pups.” He smiled as Mom nodded approvingly.
“I can't believe you agree with Mom,” I said. “You two never agree on anything.”
“Well, we agree hand in glove on this issue,” he said. “No pets.”
“So that means you will have to go,” Betsy said, pointing at me. “I'll call the vet and see if she can find you a nice new home.”
“I wish she could find me a new home,” I said, so hurt that I meant it. If someone had asked if I wanted to roll the dice and maybe end up living with another family, I would have taken the chance. What did I have to lose? A house trailer that didn't fit us. A little swamp that smelled like a backed-up toilet. A tough older sister who patrolled the house like a hungry shark. A little brother who thought he was a genius but was really a nuisance. And parents who spent more time telling me what I couldn't do than what I could do. I was ready to let the vet give me my shots and put my photo on her GOOD HOMES NEEDED bulletin board.

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