Heads or Tails Read Free Page B

time we moved to a new town he always hung around the local airports and made friends with the pilots and mechanics.
    “I better get going,” he said. “Johnny’s waiting for me to repaint the stars on his De Havilland biplane. The other guys are down there already, polishing up the body. Some Hollywood types are going to film him doing stunts for a movie.”
    He got into his pickup truck and drove off. I wished I could have gone with him. I’d love to get a ride in that biplane. But I was left behind to slave my butt off so Mom wouldn’t complain so much about him ducking out.
    I decided if I was going to have to work hard so was my little brother, Pete, but I knew I would have to bribe him first. He had just started first grade and the only chore he had was to keep his room tidy. Big deal! I was in sixth grade and old enough to do adult work for peanuts. My allowance was two dollars a week, and no tips.
    Pete was in his bedroom playing with a plastic army jeep. It was his favorite toy. Each time he steered it over a little bridge, one of the tires pressed a hidden button that made the bridge explode.
    “Don’t you ever get tired of doing the same thing over and over?” I asked. “You’re like a robot.”
    “Watch,” he said and ran the jeep over the bridge. “Boom!” he shouted as the bridge tumbled and he threw the jeep into the air. It bounced off the ceiling and came straight down on his head.
    “Ow,” he whined. “That hurt.”
    “No kidding. Now let’s get something to eat. Then we can play with my Zero.” I yanked him up by his arm.
    “Yay!” he shouted. He ran past me and danced down the hall toward the kitchen, forgetting all about his head.
    For my birthday, Dad had given me a Japanese Zero that was powered by a small gasoline engine. I stunk at making it fly by myself. It took Pete and me to make it work. First I had to start the engine, then hand the plane to Pete, who held it by the fuselage while I dashed back to the string controls. “Now,” I’d yell, and he’d run with the plane held over his head. When the guide strings were taut, I’d shout, “Let her fly!” He’d pitch it forward and the plane would climb as it curved around me. But I wasn’t very good with the guide strings that worked the air flaps, and usually before the Zero made a complete circle, it nosedived into the sand. “Boom!” Pete would shout, and then he’d fall to his knees, laughing.
    When I got to the kitchen Pete was standing on a chair. He had the peanut butter opened on the counter and the bread dealt out like cards. I got a banana from the fruit bowl and took jars of pickles and cocktail onions out of the refrigerator.
    “Don’t make a mess,” Mom shouted from her bedroom. “I’ve already cleaned in there.” She had ears like a rabbit.
    “I’ll make a deal with you,” I said, slicing the pickles lengthwise. “If you help me with the yard work, I’ll let you steer the plane.”
    “I want to start it,” he said.
    I didn’t expect this. I had always started the engine by flipping the propeller with my finger. Each time I did it, I imagined I might not get my finger out of the way in time and it would get sliced up like a piece of pickle. I knew Mom and Dad would say Pete was too young to try to start the engine. But I had no choice. I needed his help with the yard.
    “Okay,” I said. “But you gotta get all your work done first.”
    He agreed.
“Vrooom, vroom, zoom,”
he sang, spinning his finger through the air.
    “Come on, let’s eat outside. I wanna get a move-on.”
    After lunch, Peter gathered up the palm fronds and stacked up the coconuts like cannonballs. He wasn’t a lot of help but he was good company. I started the lawn mower and began to cut the grass in the back yard. Our spaniel, BoBo, ran from the noise and hid in the utility room where we kept the tools and washer and Pete’s turtle.
    Whenever I mowed the lawn, I imagined my father shaving in the morning. Just as