Jack Adrift Read Free Page B

struck me that maybe Dad said to tell people what they want to hear because he knew life was easier that way, that if you agreed with everyone they wouldn’t say mean things about you, or pick on you. I wanted to get up and ask him if that’s what he meant by telling people what they wanted to hear, but I knew he was already asleep, and wouldn’t want to hear from me. Soon, I didn’t want to hear from myself anymore and drifted into sleep.
    In the morning I opened my eyes and looked directly out my window. There was a kid staring at me. He was standing up to his knees in the little swamp between our two trailer homes. His hair formed a perfect V down the middle of his forehead, kind of like the pointy end of a can opener or, as Dad would say, a church key. When he saw me staring back at him he waved.
    â€œWhere are you from-from-from?” he asked, sloshing through the pea-green water.

    â€œNew York City,” I replied, lying before I could stop myself. I guess I was more Dad than Mom.
    â€œOh,” he said, impressed. “We’re from a town so small-small-small I’m sure you’ve never heard of it. My dad’s a carpenter for the Seabees.”
    â€œMy dad’s an admiral,” I said, lying through my teeth. I couldn’t seem to help myself, then I lied some more. “But he’s wearing a disguise so he can catch all the unambitious sailors who just goof off all day.”
    The kid looked back at me with his head bobbing up and down like a dog toy in the back window of a car. “Wow, I always wanted to meet an admiral’s kid,” he said. “Do you ever get to steer the ships?”
    â€œSteer them, and fire off the big guns,” I boasted.
    His jaw dropped. “What’s your-your-your name?” he asked, repeating his words like the excited goose in Charlotte’s Web.
    â€œJackson,” I said, “like President Jackson.” I knew I was off to a bad start. “What’s yours?”
    â€œJulian,” he replied, splashing forward and up onto dry ground until he could stick his wet hand through my window.
    I shook it. “Nice to meet you,” I said. At least that wasn’t a lie.

Respect Detective

    T he water receded, the sky cleared, school began, and I was in luck. My new teacher was young and enthusiastic and full of great creative ideas. Each morning she dashed through the classroom door with her long wet hair smelling like a bouquet of flowers and her arms filled with papers and supplies for projects. “Sorry, I just got out of the shower,” she’d say breathlessly as she dumped everything on her desk then flicked the blond strands of hair out of her blue eyes. She was smart. She was beautiful. I loved her instantly.
    My third-grade teacher back in Pennsylvania was old and worn-out. It had been her last year before retirement and instead of treating us like students, she turned us into her own private staff of servants. When she pulled up in the parking lot, we hustled out to her car and carried in all her book bags, her purse, her special low-salt lunch, her favorite pillow, and her embroidery
kit. Then we gently supported her shaky arms as we took baby steps all the way inside to her desk. Her hair was as dried out as steel wool. She was rusting away and spent no time thinking about how to make education fun. Instead, she always gave us plain old workbook assignments after settling down in her chair for the day. She had a large alarm clock ticking loudly on her desk, and it regularly went off with an ear-drilling ring whenever she needed to take one of her many medications. Because of her age and ailments she was excused from cafeteria duty, and after lunch we would creep back into the classroom to find her slumped forward on her desk napping with her head on an unfinished embroidered pillow. We’d pull the curtains and turn off the lights and she’d sleep until the alarm clock rang.