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Authors: Jack Gantos

BOOK: Jack's New Power
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I ran back inside my bedroom and got my medicine. I put on a white T-shirt and wrote BETSY'S BROTHER in Gentian Violet across the front. Then I dabbed more on my
face. I went out to the front porch and took a seat next to her table with the iced tea. She was working with her face to the street, so she didn't see me. She could plant marigolds all day and no one would stop to talk once they saw me sitting up there like a purple freak. They certainly wouldn't want any iced tea if they thought I'd drunk out of the same pitcher.
A car drove by. I stood up and pointed to my shirt. The driver smiled and waved to me. God, I thought, people here are so nice I can't scare them away.
A second car rolled down the road. Once again, I stood up and pointed to my shirt. The driver slowed down and turned into our driveway. Betsy straightened up and rubbed her hands together to shake off the garden soil. She figured she had nabbed a victim. I smiled a great big goony smile, crossed my eyes, and waved my hands over my head. I stuck out my tongue and pushed my finger halfway up my nose.
The back door opened and a boy about my age got out. He wore a bright green silk jacket down to his knees. It sparkled under the sun. On his head he wore a silk hat the shape of an upside-down rowboat. He waved to Betsy and asked her a question. She turned and I could tell that she was surprised to see me standing on the porch. Just the way her eyes narrowed and her fists clenched told me she was furious. Pete must have heard the car. He came running out. When he read my shirt he started to laugh.
The boy waved to me. I gave him a wave back and then it struck me that he was the kid I had talked to in the dark. And I was purple. The full sun was directly above us in the blue sky and I was bright purple. I glowed like a neon sign.
He walked up the front steps and stared at me for a moment. I wiped my hands on the back of my pants.
He stuck out his hand to shake, and I did.
“You are purple,” he said quietly. “Purple is a very distinguished color.”
His face was the color of clay pots. His hair was jet-black. His lips were pink. “You're …”
“From Pakistan,” he said, helping me out.
“This is my brother, Pete,” I said. “He's not purple, but we like him anyway.”
Shiva smiled. He opened his jacket and removed a pamphlet from the inside pocket. “I wanted to give you the information on the track club,” he said.
I took it from him and set it on the table with the iced tea. My hands were sweaty and I left purple fingerprints on the paper. “I think,” I said slowly, “that it would be best if I joined after I got over this purple problem.”
“Perhaps, yes,” he said. “I understand. Although it is a very nice shade of purple.”
I was certain he was the most polite person I had ever met, and I desperately wanted him to be my friend. “But we can still run at night,” I suggested. “My foot was hurting me, but it's gotten better.”
“Very good,” he said. “I will see you tonight. For now, I have to go.” He turned and nodded toward the car. His father waved at me. All of his teeth were gold. I waved back.
“Come by after sundown,” I said. “Knock on the French doors on the side of the house.” I pointed to where they were.
“Very good,” he replied, and nodded. He walked
quickly down the stairs. He said something polite to Betsy, then got back into his car.
As they backed out of the driveway Betsy marched toward me.
Pete tugged on my hand. “Can I run with you?”
“Forget it, traitor,” I replied. “You can stay home and plant marigolds with your new friend.”
Before Betsy could reach me I pulled the shirt up over my head. “I won't be needing this anymore,” I said to her.
As she tramped past, she grumbled, “You'll always be a freak to me.”
I threw my shirt into the front yard. “That's why I have friends,” I replied.
B
etsy pounded on my bedroom door and desperately rattled the knob back and forth. “Open up!” she hollered. “Unlock the door! Hurry!”
Something in her voice scared me. I dropped my book, leapt at the door, and turned the key. She pushed the door into my toe and I staggered back a step and bit my lip.
“Mom and Dad and the Pinks have been lost at sea,” she cried out. “The
Privateer
was caught in a storm and went down somewhere off of Saint Lucia.”
I froze. For a moment I didn't know if she was trying to trick me into dropping to my knees and crying out loud. She was still mad at me because I had taken the pins out of her door hinges, and the last time she slammed her door in my face, it fell off. I knew she must have been thinking of a way to get back at me. Seeing me drop to my knees in total despair was her idea of a good time.
“How do you know they're lost?”
“Mr. Steamer told me,” she replied. “He just called from the Aquatic Club. He heard it over the shortwave radio.”
“Have they drowned?” I asked. “They must have lifeboats.”
“Idiot,” Betsy said. “They were in a storm. If their sixty-foot yacht sank, then they won't survive on an eight-foot dinghy.” Then she burst into tears.
“Are you sure you're not kidding me?”
“I wouldn't joke about them dying!”
“I'm sorry,” I said as tears filled my eyes. “I don't mean to be such an idiot.”
“I'm not upset with
you
.” She sobbed. “You may not always be an idiot, but they'll always be dead. Now I have to tell Pete … and the baby.”
Just then the phone rang. Betsy dashed off to pick it up. I ran right behind her. “Yes?” she said gravely. Then she let out a great sigh of relief. “Oh, that's great. Thank God. When do you think they'll arrive? Okay. Thank you for calling.”
She hung up and turned to me. “They didn't sink,” she said and wiped her eyes on her shirt sleeve. “A British Navy cutter got their SOS and rescued them, and the yacht. They should make it to Bridgetown this evening.”
“That's great,” I said and slumped back against the wall.
We were quiet for a minute, until Betsy said, “Jack, I was wrong about a couple things. Mom and Dad aren't dead, and you will always be an idiot.”
She turned and went back into her room. Our one moment of getting along was over. I returned to writing in my diary. Dad had told me a lesson story about one of his
workers not paying attention to what he was doing when he poured hot tar down his own boot. The lesson was to pay attention to what you are doing at
all
times. I was adding it to the section under DAD HORROR STORIES.
 
Mom and Dad had joined the Barbados-to-Saint Lucia yacht race by being friends with the Pink family. They were so wealthy they didn't have to work. They just sailed around the Caribbean from island to island, visiting friends, attending parties, and joining fancy yacht races. Both Mom and Dad were fascinated with them. The Pinks were charming, clever, and fun to be around. And stinking, filthy rich.
What made them interesting to me was their daughter, Anne. She lived with them on the yacht. Her parents taught her all her school lessons and she got to do everything they did. And since they sailed around all day and lived in their bathing suits, I envied her. It was the perfect life.
I had memorized everything about her. She had red hair, freckles, blue eyes, pouty lips, and long arms and legs. Her favorite food was an avocado cut in half and filled with mustard vinaigrette. Her favorite book was
Island of the
Blue
Dolphins.
Her favorite color was periwinkle. I was madly in love with her, but it was a secret I kept to myself. Betsy had claimed Anne as her friend and I was outlawed from showing any interest in her. If Betsy found out I was in love she'd simply gang up with Dad and they'd tease me to death.
That evening we took a taxi to the harbor and waited by the Independence Bridge. Before long, the British cutter nosed around the jetty. A taut rope followed and then
the
Privateer
came into view. It was sitting low in the water. There was a big wooden patch on the port side of the white bow, and a pump on deck spewed out a constant stream of seawater. I figured the yacht was balanced between sinking and staying afloat. If the pump failed they'd go down like a rock.
Mr. Pink was at the wheel. Dad was on the bow with a coil of rope. Mom and Mrs. Pink stood in the cockpit and waved. Anne was standing on the reefed boom with one leg erect and the other propped against her knee, like a flamingo. She kept her balance with one arm around the mast and the other on a wire shroud. When she spotted Betsy, she blew her a kiss. If kisses could float on air I would have stepped in front of Betsy and cupped it between my hands as if it were a butterfly.
Once the yacht was close enough, Dad jumped off and tied the bow rope around the big iron cleat on the seawall. Mrs. Pink held Mom's arm and steadied her as she staggered off the boat and onto land. Mom looked green. Her legs were still wobbly from being on the sea, and she took dizzy steps like a drunk person. Then she dropped to her knees and we surrounded her.
She held us all off with an outstretched arm while she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. I thought she was going to be seasick and we anxiously stood by. She had always had a weak stomach. But she pulled herself together and raised her head. “Come here,” she said. “I thought I'd never see you all again.”
We rushed forward and hugged her.
“Oh, I prayed to God to bring me home safely,” she said thankfully, and took turns kissing us on the cheek.
“Where's the baby?” she asked suddenly and searched around like a frightened bird, as though the baby had fallen out of its nest and been stolen by cats. I spun around and stepped on her foot. She groaned and tipped over onto her hand.
“Sorry,” I said, and made a sorry face.
“Please be careful,” she begged. “I've had a rough time.”
“Eric's with the sitter,” Betsy replied, frowning at me. “He was sleeping when I left.”
Dad strolled over. He seemed haggard but had a satisfied look on his face, as if he had just conquered a huge fear.
“How was it?” I asked. I wanted to know all the scary details. I was hoping he had a couple gruesome stories to tell me.
“Man against the sea,” he said gruffly. “And man won.”
“I mean, how'd you get a hole in the boat?”
“We hit a floating coconut tree and it stove in the hull.”
“Oh.” I thought it might be more frightening. Maybe a giant bloodthirsty man-eating white shark had tried to bite them in two.
“I'd like to know who threw that coconut tree into the ocean,” he said angrily. “Absolutely irresponsible.”
I guessed that it was possible that some nut threw a tree into the ocean, hoping it would sink a boat. But it seemed more possible that it had just been washed off the shore by waves. “Could have been an accident,” I ventured.
“There's no room for accidents on the ocean, son,” he replied. “It's a serious world out there.”
Mr. Pink called him over to help fold the jib and he sprang into action.
By then Betsy was making a big fuss over Anne. I was jealous that she was getting the real story of what had happened. Dad had only told me his side of the story. I knew there must be some secret details that only Anne knew. I drifted over to her.
“Hi,” I said, and waved weakly.
Betsy glowered at me. “Don't you have something better to do than to snoop around us?”
“I guess so,” I replied. But I really didn't have anything better to do than to slouch about and act like a loser. Mom was fussing with Pete. Dad was doing manly things on the boat and I knew he would tell me to stay out of the way. Betsy had clearly claimed Anne as her own. I picked up a stalk of crushed sugarcane that was lying around from a cargo barge. I flicked it end over end into the water.
“Hey!” Dad shouted and pointed down at me. “That's how boating accidents happen.”
“Sorry,” I yelped and turned away from him. Anne and Betsy were staring at me. Betsy whispered something to Anne. They both nodded. Then Betsy said one word so loud everyone on the dock could hear: “ … immature!”
I leaned against the fender of a parked car as though someone had punched me in the belly. I hated that word.
 
At the house, Dad had built a shed the length of the back yard where he kept exotic wood imported from South America. It was expensive wood he used to panel fancy hotel rooms and he had to keep it dry and safe. The roof was made of rippled tin and the walls were made of thin wood strips that had space between them so fresh air could
flow to the planks and keep them from warping under the hot roof. It had become my second home.
Since the yacht wreck a week ago, Anne had been sharing a room with Betsy. And Betsy didn't want me around the house. Before she'd let Anne out of her room, she would come out first. She patrolled the halls like a prison guard. If I even stepped out of my bedroom, Betsy wanted to know what I was up to. She especially wanted to know why I was so “immature.” I couldn't even open the refrigerator and get a cold glass of water without her watching me. She suspected that I was spying on Anne. And she was right. I couldn't keep my eyes off of her. I'd sit in the living room casually reading a magazine, just waiting for her to walk by so I could raise my eyes from the pages and hope to catch her looking at me. Whenever I tried this trick it was mostly Betsy who walked by, and when my hopeful eyes met her drilling stare, she'd give me a look that was so menacing I just closed the magazine and shuffled up the hall while the word “immature” slapped me back and forth across the ears. But even from my room I could hear their laughter, so I retreated to the woodshed. If I was going to have a tortured heart, it was better to be alone.
I took my diary with me. First I made a list of all the things I should do to win her over. “Talk in complete sentences,” I wrote. “Floss your teeth. Always say please and thank you. Comb your hair.” Soon I got tired of thinking about me. I turned to a clean white page and wrote her name across the top. “Anne, Anne, Anne,” I moaned. I wrote it one hundred times.
Our cat, Celeste, meowed as she hopped up next to me
from her hiding place below. She stretched out her long thin paws and extended her sharp claws. When she pulled her claws back she scratched a row of lines across a smooth board of purpleheart wood. The lines matched the ones I had etched with the tines of my fork across the dining-room table's veneer.
I took my penknife out and wrote “Jack Loves Anne,” using the lines to measure the letters. After I had carved out all the little scraps of wood, I closed my eyes and ran my fingertips across each letter of her name. I leaned forward and smelled the purpleheart wood. The fragrance of it filled my head with a cloud of smoky sweetness, as when Marlene boiled sugarcane into molasses.
“This is what her skin must smell like,” I murmured to Celeste. I pressed my cheek against the smooth, slightly dusty board. I breathed deep, then rolled my head to one side and kissed the wood.
“Jack!” Pete yelled from his bedroom window. “Time for dinner.” I jerked my head up and ran my fingers through my hair. My heart pounded. Not from love, but from fear of being caught kissing a plank. If anyone, especially Betsy, or worse, Anne, had seen me, I would die. Love was not something I was prepared to share with the world. Love was a dark secret, like a ship lost undersea.
“Come on, Celeste,” I said and picked her up. We rubbed noses. Then she squirmed and leapt out of my arms.
 
It didn't take long for Dad to zero in on my secret love ship that was lost under the sea. He shined a spotlight on it immediately after the food was served.
“Do you have a crush on Anne?” he asked directly. “Because someone has been using my Old Spice deodorant. They rubbed a new stick down to a nub in less than a week.”

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