Jack's New Power (6 page)

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Authors: Jack Gantos

BOOK: Jack's New Power
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“May I see your foot?” the doctor asked.
I pulled off my shoe, then my sock. He unwrapped the gauze bandage. “It doesn't hurt so much anymore,” I said.
He poked at it. “It looks a bit angry,” he replied. “How clean were the pliers?”
“I found them on the street,” I said. “They were a little rusty.” I turned to Mom. She was staring at me in disbelief.
“Well, that would explain it. What you need are antibiotics for the infection and Gentian Violet for the boils.”
In a minute the nurse arrived with a big purple bottle. “Please remove all of your clothing,” she said. She unscrewed the cap and poured the medicine into a shallow bowl. Then she put on a pair of rubber gloves and dipped balls of cotton into the medicine.
I took off my clothes and watched as she painted me purple from head to toe. Mom stood to one side and smiled.
 
Betsy and Pete ganged up on me. Every chance they had, they made fun of me. Two days later, Mom had to reapply a fresh coat of purple paint. When I slinked out onto the breakfast porch Dad took pity on me.
“You've got a choice, purple boy,” he said and rubbed the top of my head. “Either we can go to the kennel and get a dog, or I can take you to the carnival.”
That was an easy decision. “Carnival,” I replied.
“Good choice,” Betsy mumbled. “There's no reason to scare
man's best friend
to death.”
“Give him a break,” Dad said. “It's not easy being purple.”
“It's not easy being seen with him either,” she replied.
“I'll be ready in a few minutes,” I said. I retreated to my bedroom. Earlier I had carved a foot-shaped pad of foam rubber out of my bed pillow. I taped it into my sneaker and tried it on. When I walked a little on the side of my foot, it didn't hurt at all. Okay, I said to myself. I'm making a comeback. Maybe I'll find a friend at the carnival.
At the carnival we played some skill games. We threw hoops over bottles and shot at ducks and tested our strength. I didn't win anything.
“Too bad they don't have a chicken-chasing contest,” Betsy said when Dad stepped away to speak with a man who was working with him on the hotel renovation. “You might win a stuffed wart.”
I glared at her.
Just then a booming voice came out of the overhead loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, come into the Egyptian tent and see one of the seven wonders of the natural world. Come see and hear the incredible life of the Alligator Lady. She walks! She talks! She crawls on her belly like a slime-y rep-i-tile!”
“Let's go there,” I said.
“I have a better idea,” Betsy said. “Let's put a tent around you … ‘He's poxed! He's purple! He chases headless chickens like the purple freak he is!'”
“Come on, Pete,” I said. “Let's play some games.”
“Forget it,” he replied and wrinkled up his face at me. He was definitely out of my control. Betsy had won him over.
“You'll be sorry you betrayed me,” I said. “Betsy will turn you into a priss.”
“Come on,” Betsy said and grabbed Pete's arm. “Let's go look at the baby goats. They're so
cute.”
“See what I mean,” I said.
I waited until they were out of sight. Then I went to the baseball throw. The man running the booth eyed me suspiciously. I bet he wanted me to wear gloves. For some stupid reason I had tears in my eyes, and when I threw at the bottles, I couldn't hit a thing. The first two balls missed by a mile. I threw the third so wide of the mark I hit the operator's coffee cup. It flew off the table and smashed against a chair leg.
“Hey!” he said. “You're going to have to pay for that.”
“You'll have to touch me first,” I shot back, then turned and ran. Being disgusting was good for something. I dodged a bunch of people as I cut down the path past the
game booths. Everywhere, there were painted signs and posters of silly clowns and goony animals with crossed eyes and crazy costumes. I must have looked like one of them that came to life. A kind of diseased Pinocchio, I thought. I kept running and people kept stepping out of my way. I passed the bumper cars, the Ferris wheel, the spinning teacups, the centrifugal force machine. I felt like I could run forever. My foot didn't hurt at all. I wanted to run home. I just didn't know the way.
When I slowed down I didn't see anyone from my family. I spotted the Alligator Lady tent and walked over to get a closer look. They charged a dollar, so I paid up and went in. It was dark and I didn't seem so purple. Egyptian flute music was playing from a tinny speaker. There was a little stage with a grassy curtain and papier-mâché palm trees. In front of the stage, men were lined up about three deep. It was hot and smelly under the tent, like a swamp. A barker in a dirty white suit and pith helmet was explaining that the Alligator Lady was netted by Egyptian fishermen on the Nile. “She's the cousin of mermaids … She is over a thousand years old and has seen her husband killed by Napoleon's troops and turned into riding boots.”
The music speeded up. The curtain lifted and a large woman in a reptile suit crawled out. I could see where the zipper had split down the side of her costume. She must have gained a little weight. A long alligator mask was strapped to her face with thick green elastic straps. They tried to disguise the phony suit by sticking a lot of slimy leaves and pond scum all over her.
She crawled across the stage on her belly like someone
crawling under her bed. She peered up at the circus barker and hissed.
“She's a fake,” a man said.
No kidding, I thought.
At first I felt cheated when I saw she was a fake, but then I didn't mind. I really felt sorry for whoever was in that costume. I should be her friend, I thought. I could run away and join the circus and live with the freaks and they would accept me as the purple boy and be my friends.
“You can ask her questions,” the man in the white suit said. “She can predict the future.”
“When do I get my dollar back?” asked a wise guy.
The Alligator Lady cocked her head and turned to glare at the man. “Listen,” she said in an irritated tone. “I'm hot and sweaty and this is the only job I could get, so give me a break.”
Everyone took a step back.
“Hey honey, don't bite,” the wise guy said.
The man in the white suit waved his cane over his head. “She is not feeling well today,” he said. “Her malaria is acting up.”
I wasn't feeling well either. Suddenly I thought I might vomit. I didn't want to throw up and steal the show. I turned and went back outside. The light was so bright my head hurt. Maybe I have a headache, I thought, though I wasn't sure what a headache was supposed to feel like. In the movies, when people had headaches, they went to bed or fainted. When Mom had one, she seemed grouchy. When Betsy had one, she didn't want to do anything but pout.
My eyes hurt. Maybe I don't have a headache, I thought. Maybe I really am sick. Maybe I have a deadly disease and no one has the guts to tell me. Maybe Dad brought me to the carnival for one last good time before I croak.
“Hey, purple chicken eater,” Pete said, sneaking up behind me. “Where've you been?”
“None of your business, Betsy's pet,” I replied.
He stuck out his tongue. “Look what I won.” He held up a stuffed red devil.
“I bet Dad won that for you,” I said.
“Betsy did.” He frowned. “What's wrong?”
“Headache,” I said and shielded my eyes from the sun. “I need to lie down.”
 
That night my foot felt better. It was still sore if I stepped hard on the wart hole, but if I wanted to make friends before Betsy, I had to get going. She was already starting to plant flowers in the front yard, and it wouldn't take long before a neighbor stopped by to introduce herself. Betsy'd pounce on her like a cat. I'd never hear the end of her calling me a “friendless purple freak.”
I got my diary and map and opened my French doors. In the darkness no one could tell I was purple. I removed a kitchen match from my pocket and stooped down to scratch it across the asphalt. It snapped to life. I shielded the flame behind my diary and walked a little ways until I came to a driveway. My match went out and I stood still until my eyes adjusted to the dark. When I looked around, I saw the faint outline of a white mailbox. I leaned toward it and struck another match. NAIME was painted in big red
block letters. It was the Arabs' house. I dropped down to my knees, opened my diary, and wrote NAIME on my street map. One down, I thought. I jogged for a little bit, until I thought I must be close to another mailbox. I stooped down and struck another match. There it was. HUNT. I wrote that down on my map. The next house was easy because their porch light was on. GRANTHAM. Then there was a lot of darkness. I jogged for a little distance and lit another match. Nothing. I jogged some more. The road curved to my right and I kept jogging. It felt good to run a bit. I wanted to get my health back.
I stopped and lit another match. I found a driveway, or was it a road that took a left turn? I couldn't tell. I didn't see a mailbox, so I jogged a little ways farther. I lit another match and found I was standing next to a bicycle that was propped against the front porch stairs of a big house. I dropped the match and stepped on it as I crept back out of the driveway before someone threw a net over me. I crossed the street and checked for mailboxes on the other side of the road. I lit a match and just then heard footsteps.
“Hey!” a boy hollered. “Hey!”
I threw the match down and started to run. I figured I was going in the right direction.
“Hey!” he said. “Stop.”
I picked up my pace.
He picked up his pace.
I turned it on. My foot throbbed, but I wanted to get home. I didn't want someone to catch me snooping around. They might think I was a burglar and I'd get a bad reputation and never make a friend.
“Hey,” he shouted. He was gaining on me. “Slow down.”
I speeded up. If my foot wasn't so tender I could take off and leave him in the dark.
He speeded up.
I turned it on even more.
The steps kept coming. They were right behind me.
“Hey. Hey, you.” He reached out and tapped me on the back.
I kept running.
“Hey,” he said. “Slow down.”
I was doing that anyway. My lungs felt like they were being ripped out of my chest. My feet slapped at the tar as I slowed down. My foot throbbed.
He slowed down, too.
I put my hands on my hips and walked in a wide circle. He did the same.
“Are you new?” he asked between breaths.
“Yes,” I huffed. Even though it was dark I covered my purple face with my hands and diary. I stared out at him. He was only a slightly darker shadow against the night.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
I paused. The houses didn't have street numbers, just names. Dad had painted HENRY on a piece of wood and wired it to the front gate.
“Henry,” I replied.
“So, you're the new kid,” he said. “I heard a new American family had moved in.”
“Yep,” I said. “That's us.”
He must have stuck out his hand to shake mine, but because it was so dark, he kind of poked me in the stomach.
I jumped back.
“Sorry,” he said. “My name is Shiva.”
“Jack,” I replied, thinking that Shiva was an odd name for someone with an English accent. I stuck out my hand and searched for his as if I was reaching for a doorknob in the dark.
“Do you want to join our track club?” he asked.
I did, but I said, “Not just yet. I need to practice some more.” No club would have me until I got rid of this purple stuff first.
“Well, I'll pass by sometime and we can run,” he said.
“I only run at night,” I said. “It's cooler.”
“Me too,” he said. “But presently I must return home.”
“Okay,” I said. “I'll see you tomorrow night.”
“Yes,” he replied, “and I will look into what you need to join the club.” Then I heard his footsteps running off behind me.
I went directly home. My heart was pounding. I had a friend hooked, but could I reel him in? Or would I lose him once he saw me in the light of day? But for now I didn't have to worry. We could run at night.
 
The next morning, after breakfast, Betsy was back out in the front yard planting marigolds. She had a pitcher of iced tea and two extra glasses. She was waiting for anyone her age to walk by so she could offer them a drink. She was going to beat me at making new friends. Since it was daytime, I figured my strategy was to keep her from getting a friend, instead of me finding one.

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