Authors: Jack Gantos
Heads or Tails
By Jack Gantos
Desire Lines
Joey Pigza Swallowed the Key
The Jack Henry Books
Jack on the Tracks: Four Seasons of Fifth Grade
Heads or Tails: Stories from the Sixth Grade
Jack’s New Power: Stories from a Caribbean Year
Jack’s Black Book
Copyright © 1994 by Jack Gantos
All rights reserved
Distributed in Canada by Douglas & McIntyre Ltd.
Printed in the United States of America
First edition, 1994
16 15 14 13 12
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Gantos, Jack.
Heads or tails: stories from the sixth grade / Jack Gantos. —
1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Jack’s diary helps him deal with his problems which include dog-eating alligators, a terror for an older sister, a younger brother who keep breaking parts of himself, and next-door neighbors who are really weird.
ISBN 0-374-32909-5
ISBN 978-0-374-32909-9
[1. Diaries—Fiction. 2. Family life—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction. 4. Humorous stories.] I. Title.
PZ7.G15334He 1994
[Fic]—dc20 93-43117
EAN: 978-0-374-32909-9
To my mother and father
I
CREPT UP ON my diary. Carefully, I undid the lock with the small key I kept on a string around my neck, then slowly opened it.
“Ughhhh,” I moaned. The pages were filled with squished spiders. I slammed it shut like a tiny coffin.
It wasn’t the spiders that scared me. I had pressed them into the book. It was all those blank pages. For
three years
I had been trying to fill them, but I could never think of anything interesting to write. It was as though my brain stopped working if I even thought of my diary.
This didn’t make sense. Usually, I was pretty good at imagining things. When I looked at the picture of the sailboat on my wall, in my mind I could see Dad racing the Flying Dutchman yacht of his dreams. When I read a good book, like
The Feathered Serpent,
the words filled my brain with people, smells, and sounds. But when I opened my diary, my mind went as blank as the paper. I felt like a moron.
It started the afternoon Mom came home from work and gave my older sister, Betsy, a diary. The year was stamped in gold on the flowery front cover. The hundreds of pages were made of thick, glossy paper. But what amazed me most was the lock. A strap from the back cover fit into a lock sewn onto the front cover, and there was a tiny key that only Betsy would be able to use.
“You can write anything that comes to your mind in this book,” Mom told her. “A diary is for keeping all your secrets, and nobody is allowed to read it but you.”
I looked up at my mother. “Where’s mine?” I asked.
“I’ll get you one when you’re old enough to have secrets,” she said.
“I do have secrets,” I shot back.
“Not
grownup
secrets,” she replied.
“I
want
a diary,” I shouted and stomped my foot as hard as I could.
Mom didn’t budge so I had to go all the way. I threw myself down on the floor and cried and bucked up and down. “I
want
a diary! I
want
a diary!”
“Don’t be such an immature little brat,” Betsy said and walked off to her bedroom, probably to start filling her diary with secrets. I howled even louder and kicked the floor with my heels.
“Okay, cut the theatrics,” Mom said. “I’ll get you a diary, but you must promise to write in it every day.”
I promised. But I did not keep my promise.
At first, I just wrote down what day it was and the weather. Then I started listing everything I ate. But when it came to writing about what I was doing or what I was thinking and feeling, I couldn’t seem to get it down. I could lie in bed and remember everything I had seen and said during the day, but when I opened the diary my thoughts vanished.
Still, I fought back and began to fill my diary with
stuff.
Each day, I searched for interesting things. I captured all kinds of bugs and squished them between the pages. I stapled in my baseball cards. I kept my stamp collection neatly arranged in rows. I used the diary as a photo album and mounted all my pictures inside. When I taped in my fortune-cookie fortunes, they looked like tiny telegrams from a foreign land. One of them read, “You Are Brave And Have Many Friends.” I didn’t believe it. I was covering over the empty white space of the pages in the same way I covered my eyes with my hands when I watched a monster movie.
It was no good. Even though the diary was filled with stuff, it was stuff someone else had thought up, someone else’s
stuff.
This evening was no different. Without writing much of anything, I locked the diary, grabbed a deck of cards and fled my bedroom. Betsy was sitting at the dining-room table playing a hand of solitaire. I sat down across from her and began to lay out my cards.
“Stop that,” she said sharply.
“What?” I said.
“Stop copying me,” she said. “Mom, tell him to stop copying me. He’s driving me crazy.”
“Leave your sister alone,” Mom said, “and come help me work on this jigsaw puzzle. I’m having trouble.”
Betsy slapped her cards down on the table. “Don’t let him help you, Mom,” she said. “Make him think of something to do on his own. Everything I do, he wants to do. Everything you do, he wants to do. He doesn’t have a brain in his head. He’s like some kind of dumb animal. Monkey see, monkey do.”
“That’s enough,” Mom said. But we knew Betsy was right. I couldn’t come up with any great ideas of my own. Nothing seemed interesting until I saw another person do it first. When Betsy started a shell collection, I started a shell collection. When she put
PEACE
posters on her bedroom wall, so did I. I wanted to be friends with all her friends. It seemed as if I could only do what she did first. I’ll never be the President, I thought, just the Vice President. I won’t be a gangster kingpin, just his stooge. I won’t be the sole survivor in any humongous disaster, just another victim along with all the other losers. Believe it or not, I hate feeling sorry for myself. It makes me feel like an idiot, which makes me feel even sorrier for myself.
“Why don’t you go fishing with your father,” Mom suggested.
Dad was in the back yard, fishing in the canal for mullet and reading his favorite magazine,
Popular Mechanics.
But a few days before, I had seen our left-side next-door neighbor, Mr. Velucci, feeding spoiled pork chops to the alligators in the canal and I didn’t want to go near that brown water. And I didn’t want to get into a dumb discussion with Dad on how to transform his truck into a cabin cruiser or the washing machine into a helicopter.
Popular Mechanics
gave him the strangest ideas.
“Dad and I have nothing in common,” I said, repeating a line I had heard Betsy say the previous week.
“Don’t you have any homework to do?” Mom asked.
I did. I was avoiding my math homework because I wasn’t sure of the assignment. My teacher terrorized me and I was afraid to ask her after school for an explanation. I didn’t know the other kids that well and I was afraid to ask them. They might call me
stupid.
And once you get that name you’re stuck with it for the rest of the year.
My teacher’s name was Mrs. Marshall and I thought she was more dense than I was.
She
certainly didn’t have an original thought in her head. Each day, after she took roll, she turned to us and announced, “All students take out your copybooks.” We reached under the seats of our desks for our black-and-white composition books. But we didn’t dare open them until she said so. She had threatened to mash our fingers between the pages if we disobeyed.
From a desk drawer she removed a pair of white cotton gloves and put them on. Next she got a fresh box of white chalk from her supply closet and loaded five new sticks into her wire chalk holder which drew five lines at a time. She pressed it against the chalkboard in front of the class and scratched a stack of lines from left to right. The screeching was so loud I thought my head would explode. Then she scratched more lines across the blackboards that ran along the entire right side of the room and across the back. Along the left side of the class, we had windows. But Mrs. Marshall wheeled two portable blackboards in front of the windows and our room became gloomy. She covered them with lines, too. I was surrounded by walls of blackboards, and from where I sat the gray lines of chalk looked like miles of barbed wire.
She removed a textbook from her desk and opened it to the page where we had left off the day before. She held the book in her left hand and raised a piece of chalk with her right. “Students, prepare to copy,” she ordered. We opened our copybooks and twenty-five ballpoint pens clicked into position. “Go,” she shouted and began to write. She copied onto the board exactly what was written in the book. If I only had known what the title of the book was, or who wrote it, I would have bought it so I could copy it at home. But she kept the book wrapped in a brown-paper cover.
“Egyptian history begins with the reign of King Menes,”
I scribbled.
She wrote like a sewing machine. Her handwriting looked even better than my mother’s. All the letters were perfectly formed and they all slanted to the right at exactly the same angle. My handwriting was a mess. I wrote mostly straight up and down. My letters were always squashed together or too large and loopy. But, worst of all, I was slow. Every day I tried to keep up with Mrs. Marshall, but when she finished filling up the front blackboard I was only halfway down. She made us keep our desks clustered together in the center of the room so she had space to use the boards. When she finished the front, she hollered, “Shift!” and we scooted our desks a quarter turn to the right and faced the long side blackboard. Because I hadn’t finished the front, I left a section of my copybook blank and began with the new board. I figured that maybe I could get caught up later. “Shift!” she hollered when she finished the side board and moved to the back, and again we scooted our desks to the right. When I looked around, it seemed that all the other kids were keeping up with her. Then she began on the portable blackboards.
“Shift!” she commanded. We did, and once again I left extra space in my copybook as I leaped ahead of myself, trying to keep up. But I was still scribbling away when she finished the portable blackboards. She put down her book and chalk and quickly began to erase her writing as I desperately scrambled to fill the blank spots in my book. When all the boards were erased, she said, “Everyone put down your pens and stretch out your fingers and hands.” As the class stretched, a team of honor students jumped into action. They wet sponges in the back sink, then madly washed the chalkboards. The room was so hot the water evaporated in a flash, and once again we were ready to go.
“Okay,” she announced after drawing fresh lines. “Everyone pick up your pens and let’s begin.” She changed books and we began to copy a chapter on earth science.
All day long we copied chapters from her books, but I never remembered a thing I wrote. I was too frazzled with trying to keep up. At the end of the day she had overlapped me a dozen times. I felt even more tortured each Friday, when we turned in our copybooks. She passed them out to us on Monday and each time I read the same comments: “Write more neatly and quickly. Don’t daydream. Keep your mind on your work.” What mind, I asked myself. I didn’t have a thought of my own.
Betsy scooped up her playing cards. “You can play cards,” she said. “I’ll do some homework.” She got up and went to her bedroom.
I picked my cards up, too, and ran to my bedroom. I grabbed my book bag and dashed back to the dining-room table before Betsy had returned. I took out a clean sheet of paper and a book.
When Betsy returned she slapped her books down on the table. “Copycat,” she sneered. She spread her homework out while I copied a page from my history book. After a while I peeked up at her to see what she was doing. She was writing a letter to a friend. It occurred to me that I should be writing a letter to a friend. Then I noticed that she was writing differently than usual. Her handwriting slanted to the left instead of to the right. I thought it was a neat idea and so I started to do it, too. I was peeking up at her again to see if I was missing out on some new trick when she saw me.
“You’re copying my new handwriting,” she said. “I caught you.”
“I am not,” I cried. She snapped up my paper before I could grab her hand. “Give it back,” I hollered. “I’ll call Mom.”
“Call her,” Betsy said calmly, “so I can show her what a moron you are. Not only are you copying my handwriting but you are copying your homework word for word out of the book. A trained monkey could do what you do.”
“Leave me alone,” I said.
“Gladly.” She sighed and gathered up her books. “If you try to follow me into my room, I’ll knock you cold and sell you to a zoo.”
I didn’t care what she said. I was excited with the new handwriting style. It seemed to work really well for me. My letters were clear and I thought I was writing faster. I couldn’t wait to try it out in class.
The next morning I got up early and started to get dressed. Everyone at school was wearing blue jeans and T-shirts. But Mom had other ideas. At the beginning of the school year she took me to Sears and bought five new pairs of slacks, five matching shirts, five pairs of matching socks, and a pair of brown lace-up shoes. Then she organized my closet so that on Monday I wore the green slacks and green-and-yellow plaid shirt with green socks. On Tuesday, I wore the brown slacks with the brown-and-white stripes and brown socks. This was Friday, so I put on my blue slacks and the blue-and-white checkered shirt with dark blue socks. Getting dressed was like being on an assembly line. I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to pick out my own clothes. Mom said it had nothing to do with being old enough. “When you
can pay
for them,” she said, “you can wear whatever you want. You can go to class dressed in a clown suit.”
Today I’m going to have an idea of my own, I promised myself as I rode my bike to school. I’m not going to copy Betsy. I’m going to do exactly what I want to do, no matter what anyone thinks of me. I can either be a copycat for the rest of my life or I can be a one-of-a-kind.
I passed the drive-in theater at the end of our street. They showed only old movies and
The Sound of Music
was still playing. It was playing when we moved into the neighborhood, and that was four months ago. On some nights when the wind was blowing just right, I could hear the music through my bedroom window. Because of that movie, I caught myself singing, “… The hills are alive …” about a million times a day. I heard it in my brain when I was sitting in class. I heard it when I was playing kickball. I heard it when I was eating breakfast. I hated that movie. Maybe that’s why I don’t have an original thought in my head, I guessed. I’m being brainwashed by that movie all night long.