Authors: Jack Gantos
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On Monday, I waited until after school to give my note to Mrs. Marshall. “Are you moving up to Cocoa Beach?” she asked after carefully examining my mother’s handwriting.
“Yes,” I replied. “My dad has a new job.”
“I have a sister who teaches up there,” she said.
“I’d be pleased to meet her,” I muttered, thinking the opposite.
“I’ll send her a letter telling her to expect you in the fall,” she stated.
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied. She had me trapped.
“And one more thing. Don’t bring that diary into her classroom. You might spread a disease with all the dead things you keep in it.”
I smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”
When I got home, Mom was resting across the couch with her feet propped up on pillows.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She whistled. “It’s just hot out, and I’m feeling a little dreamy over Cocoa Beach. We’re definitely going to get central air-conditioning in the new house.” She looked around the room as though she was weighing in her mind what possessions should be thrown away and what things we would keep for the future. She looked at the terrazzo floor. “And we’re getting wall-to-wall carpeting. And a dishwasher, and a washer and dryer that are in the house, and a nursery room for the baby.”
Everyone was thinking about the future. It was the latest craze.
“Hey,” she said, “you’d better stick around the house. Your dad’s getting off work early and might need help packing the car.”
“I’ll be in the back yard,” I said and stood up to run.
“After you put on your play clothes.”
Having more money isn’t going to change everything, I thought. Pete was in my bedroom looking over the golf map. “You ready to practice?” I asked.
“Ready whenever you are,” he said. “I’ll meet you out back.”
We hadn’t been practicing long when Dad drove up the driveway in a new Cadillac the color of tomato soup. “Now, don’t get worked up,” he explained to Mom when he saw her face. “It’s a rental.”
“Does it have a tape player?” Betsy asked. Music was becoming her entire life.
“Yep,” he said cheerfully, “and you can use it.”
That caught her by surprise. Usually, she had to argue with him if she wanted the radio on her station. “Don’t trick me,” she warned, “or I’ll make you give me driving lessons.”
“I hope you took out enough insurance on this,” Mom said.
“You better believe it.” He whistled. “These things cost a fortune.”
“I have an idea,” Mom announced. “Let’s get a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. It’s too hot to cook.”
I agreed. It was my week to wash the dishes, and every night Betsy had been burning the pots. I’d had to use a meat mallet to beat the blackened lima-bean crust off the soup pot.
“And we can eat in the car with the air conditioner on,” she added.
“All aboard,” called Dad. We jumped in and he backed out of the driveway, swung around in the street, and roared down the road. It felt so good to be sitting on the plush leather seats of the Cadillac, with the cold air blowing over my face and hair. I wished everyone in the neighborhood was standing by the side of the road when we passed. I’d wave to them as if I were the Pope, and they’d wave back, thinking: There goes the luckiest kid in the world.
After dinner, we stopped at a bookstore. Mom wanted to buy some magazines to get ideas on how to decorate the new house.
“Everyone gets to pick out a book,” Dad instructed.
We had left the house so quickly that I hadn’t put my shoes on. “I don’t think they’ll let me in,” I said to him.
“Nonsense. Those rules are for people who aren’t buying. We’re paying customers, son. You can do as you please.”
I’m living in a whole new world, I thought. Things are changing so quickly. Last week, Dad would have said, “Rules are rules. You’ll have to wait in the car.”
In the morning, we made the four-hour drive up route Al A to Cocoa Beach. Normally, we left for every trip while it was still dark, and we always packed food at home. But not this time. When we arrived in Cocoa Beach, it looked like every other Florida boom town. Everything was new, except for a few ancient Spanish-style buildings that were crumbling and furry with black mildew. Most of the other cars had license plates from different states. It was as if all the families with the same dream had ended up in the same town. “A lot of jobs opening up here,” Dad said. “A lot of money to be made.”
We ate lunch at Denny’s, and Mom called the real-estate agent from a pay phone.
“Let’s go,” she said gleefully when she returned. “It’s house-hunting time.”
We met the first agent on John Glenn Way. It was a new housing development. The streets were named after the astronauts, and the avenues had names like Blastoff and Orbit. It was weird, but I liked it. I was hoping that the houses might be shaped like rockets and space stations, but they were pretty ordinary, except that they were new.
The agent walked us through each room of one house and explained all the features.
“We need five bedrooms,” Mom informed her. “I don’t want the kids to have to share rooms.”
Pete shot me a happy look. I gave him the thumbs-up. If anyone would have to share a room, it would be me and Pete.
“Then I’ll show you the deluxe model,” the agent said with a smile.
We marched across the street. Deluxe did mean the best. There was a screened-in swimming pool and patio, with a small guest room separate from the main house. The kitchen was huge and had every appliance built in and up to date. There were five big bedrooms, two living rooms, and a formal dining room for entertaining. I overheard Mom say to Betsy that she’d need a maid to keep the house clean.
What kind of job did Dad get, I wondered. Maybe he will be building some secret rocket hangars for the space program. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t told us what he is really going to be doing.
We looked at a few more houses. One was on Shepard Place, and the other on Lunar Park. But after we saw the deluxe model, everything else looked too small.
It was getting late in the day. “Should we start back?” Mom asked.
“Let’s drive by your new office,” Betsy suggested.
“It’s too far out of the way,” Dad replied. “Why don’t we stay at a motel? We can all take a swim and get some hamburgers and rest up for the drive home tomorrow.”
Someone had switched our old dad with this new dad. A few months ago, he drove for thirty hours straight to Pennsylvania without a nap. Now he needed a full night’s sleep to drive four hours. I wondered if I might get a bigger allowance.
The next morning, we were back home before noon. Dad dropped us off and drove the Cadillac to the rental office. He returned with his work truck full of empty liquor boxes. We stacked them up in the living room.
“I don’t want you packing up all your clothes just yet,” Mom instructed. “I do want you to pack everything you won’t need in the next two weeks. That’s when we move.”
“We’ll miss the last week of school,” Betsy said sneakily.
“That’s your bonus for helping me out,” Mom replied. “Now get a wiggle-on.”
I knew we wouldn’t be packing unless we were really leaving. I was sorting through my closet when Betsy knocked on my door.
“What do you think is going on?” she whispered.
“My guess is that he has a great top-secret job with the government. Just like he said.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know,” she said suspiciously. “Something smells rotten to me.”
“But Mom seems to think it’s okay.”
“Mom is the one who got me worried. She doesn’t know where the money is coming from, and Dad won’t give her a straight answer.”
“Well, ask him yourself,” I suggested.
“I did. And he won’t give me a straight answer, either.”
I wanted everything to be as Dad said it was. It frightened me to think that he didn’t have a great new job and that we weren’t going to have a deluxe new house and a new car and new lives. “I think it’s all okay,” I said hopefully. “Dad wouldn’t do something like this if he didn’t think it was real.”
“Oh, grow up,” she groaned. “Why is he making such a mystery out of this?” She left with a sneer.
I don’t know, I thought. Maybe he’s been sworn to secrecy by the government.
On Saturday morning, Dad drove up to Cocoa Beach to check on his new job. Mom let Pete and me camp out in the back yard. Once we’d pitched his tent, we gathered up our equipment and made our final golf-tournament plans. With Dad out of the way, we didn’t have to worry about him checking up on us. At midnight, we were ready.
The first hole was a par eight from our front yard, across and down the street, along the side of the Rooks’ house. “I’ll dig a hole and put the can in the back corner of their lawn.”
“I’ll put one in the Gibbonses’ side yard,” Pete said. “Par five.”
We marked the planned hole locations on our maps. “Let’s go,” I whispered. We picked up our grocery bags of supplies and took off. The night was very quiet. A half-moon lit up the neighborhood, but we wore dark clothes and knew how to be sneaky from playing army games. I dashed across Gary’s yard and with my spade dug a hole and inserted the can. I met Pete in the Gibbonses’ yard. We continued on to the Peabos’. Pete crisscrossed over to the Irwins’ and the Metrics’. I did the Diehls’ and the “crazies,” and we met at the Pagodas’, then buried the last can in front of our tent. “Did you have any trouble?” I asked.
“None,” he said. “Everybody’s asleep.”
“Then let the games begin,” I whispered.
I teed off. My ball hopped across the Veluccis’ front lawn and stopped by the street. Pete had been practicing. He lofted his ball over mine and onto a neutral front lawn.
As I was about to play my second shot, we saw car lights heading our way. “Hit the dirt,” I said.
We ducked down. The car turned and made for our street, then turned again at our corner. The passenger door swung open and a man fell out, rolled across the road, and stopped in front of where we were lying on the grass. The car kept going.
“It’s Mr. Peabo,” Pete whispered.
I reached out and shook his arm. He groaned. “Mr. Peabo,” I said. “Mr. Peabo, speak to me.”
He groaned some more. The car stopped and began to back up. Mrs. Peabo was driving. “Run,” I cried. “She’s lost it!” We jumped up and retreated behind a hedge.
“Lloyd,” Mrs. Peabo said angrily as she got out of the car. “Get up! You’re drunk.”
He worked himself up onto his hands and knees. She opened his door and began to push him from behind. “Now move it,” she growled, “before the whole world sees you.” Then she kicked him in the butt. “You’re nothing but a worthless drunk,” she said and pushed him again. Slowly, like a sloth, he crawled forward and folded himself into the car. She slammed the door, then got into her side and drove up the street and into their driveway.
“Wow,” Pete said. “He was drunk.”
“Pickled.” I whistled.
“Should we do something?” he asked.
“Let’s just leave it alone,” I said. “That’s the beauty of moving. You don’t have to get involved. Just pull up your tent stakes and move away like the nomads.”
We continued the game. Pete scored a five on the first hole, and I scored a twelve. He beat me by a stroke on the Gibbonses’ hole. We decided to skip the Peabos’ house because Mr. Peabo was still stuck in his car and moaning. Pete beat me on the Irwins’ and the Metrics’. I beat him on the Diehls’. We tied on the “crazies.” From there, we had to fire a shot over the canal and into the Pagodas’ back yard. It was about fifty feet across. I hit mine as hard as I could. It passed over the canal and landed out of sight. Pete topped his ball and it hit with a splash.
“Don’t wake up the alligators,” I cautioned.
We each carried a spare ball. His second shot reached the bank and bounced back into the water.
“Hand me your extra ball,” he said.
“If this one goes in the water, you lose,” I said, “and I get the big trophy.” But he hit it squarely and it hopped across their side lawn. We crouched down and walked along the bank of the canal.
I knew there was no way I could beat Pete. While I’d been busy packing boxes, he’d been quietly practicing behind my back. I’d figured I could beat him at everything, but I was wrong. He was beginning to grow up.
We made our way around the end of the canal, then back down to the Pagodas’. We searched for the tennis balls but couldn’t find them. “I’m going to turn on the flashlight,” I whispered and pressed the button.
“Hey! What are you thieves doing sneaking around my yard?” hollered a voice from up in the trees.
I jumped back and froze. Pete turned and ran.
“Hey, come back here,” the voice angrily demanded. It was Gary Pagoda. He was sitting in our tree fort, smoking a cigarette. “If you run, I’ll make it worse on you,” he threatened and threw a tennis ball at my head. He missed.
I didn’t know what he’d do if he caught us. I didn’t know what he had been taught in prison. I began to back away.
“You stay put,” he ordered and jumped out of the tree. A cloud of gray smoke popped out of his mouth when he hit the ground. I took off. Pete was already out of sight.
“I said get back here!” he barked and threw the other ball at me. He missed again.
I didn’t slow down as I jumped the hedge.
“I may not get my hands on you this second,” he threatened, “but don’t turn your back on me. I got a big knife and I’ll get you when you’re not lookin’.”
I dove through the front entrance of the tent. Pete was panting. “We … can’t … stay out here,” I gasped. “He’s gonna slit our throats in our sleep.”
“Let’s get inside,” Pete said. “You first.”
I threw myself out of the tent and crawled on all fours to the back door. Pete followed me, running with the big trophy held over his shoulder like a baseball bat. I yanked open the sliding glass door and let Pete in, then slammed it shut and locked it behind me. “Lock the front door,” I ordered.
“Agghhhh!” he shouted and dropped the trophy. The little golfer broke off and skipped across the floor. “Gary stole a car and is coming up the driveway!” I spun around.
“What’s that racket?” Mom called out from her bedroom.
The car door slammed. Somebody walked up to the door and turned the knob. “Don’t you dare come in,” I shouted. “I’ll call the police.” I turned to Pete. “Dial 911,” I ordered.