Jack's New Power

by Jack Gantos

“She’s a fake,” a man said.

  No kidding, I thought.

  At first I felt cheated when I saw she was a fake, but then I didn’t mind. I really felt sorry for whoever was in that costume. I should be her friend, I thought. I could run away and join the circus and live with the freaks and they would accept me as the purple boy and be my friends.

  “You can ask her questions,” the man in the white suit said. “She can predict the future.”

  “When do I get my dollar back?” asked a wise guy.

  The Alligator Lady cocked her head and turned to glare at the man. “Listen,” she said in an irritated tone. “I’m hot and sweaty and this is the only job I could get, so give me a break.”

  Everyone took a step back.

  “Hey honey, don’t bite,” the wise guy said.

  The man in the white suit waved his cane over his head. “She is not feeling well today,” he said. “Her malaria is acting up.”

  I wasn’t feeling well either. Suddenly I thought I might vomit. I didn’t want to throw up and steal the show. I turned and went back outside. The light was so bright my head hurt. Maybe I have a headache, I thought, though I wasn’t sure what a headache was supposed to feel like. In the movies, when people had headaches, they went to bed or fainted. When Mom had one, she seemed grouchy. When Betsy had one, she didn’t want to do anything but pout.

  My eyes hurt. Maybe I don’t have a headache, I thought. Maybe I really am sick. Maybe I have a deadly disease and no one has the guts to tell me. Maybe Dad brought me to the carnival for one last good time before I croak.

  “Hey, purple chicken eater,” Pete said, sneaking up behind me. “Where’ve you been?”

  “None of your business, Betsy’s pet,” I replied.

  He stuck out his tongue. “Look what I won.” He held up a stuffed red devil.

  “I bet Dad won that for you,” I said.

  “Betsy did.” He frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  “Headache,” I said and shielded my eyes from the sun. “I need to lie down.”

  That night my foot felt better. It was still sore if I stepped hard on the wart hole, but if I wanted to make friends before Betsy, I had to get going. She was already starting to plant flowers in the front yard, and it wouldn’t take long before a neighbor stopped by to introduce herself. Betsy’d pounce on her like a cat. I’d never hear the end of her calling me a “friendless purple freak.”

  I got my diary and map and opened my French doors. In the darkness no one could tell I was purple. I removed a kitchen match from my pocket and stooped down to scratch it across the asphalt. It snapped to life. I shielded the flame behind my diary and walked a little ways until I came to a driveway. My match went out and I stood still until my eyes adjusted to the dark. When I looked around, I saw the faint outline of a white mailbox. I leaned toward it and struck another match. NAIME was painted in big red block letters. It was the Arabs’ house. I dropped down to my knees, opened my diary, and wrote NAIME on my street map. One down, I thought. I jogged for a little bit, until I thought I must be close to another mailbox. I stooped down and struck another match. There it was. HUNT. I wrote that down on my map. The next house was easy because their porch light was on. GRANTHAM. Then there was a lot of darkness. I jogged for a little distance and lit another match. Nothing. I jogged some more. The road curved to my right and I kept jogging. It felt good to run a bit. I wanted to get my health back.

  I stopped and lit another match. I found a driveway, or was it a road that took a left turn? I couldn’t tell. I didn’t see a mailbox, so I jogged a little ways farther. I lit another match and found I was standing next to a bicycle that was propped against the front porch stairs of a big house. I dropped the match and stepped on it as I crept back out of the driveway before someone threw a net over me. I crossed the street and checked for mailboxes on the other side of the road. I lit a match and just then heard footsteps.

  “Hey!” a boy hollered. “Hey!”

  I threw the match down and started to run. I figured I was going in the right direction.

  “Hey!” he said. “Stop.”

  I picked up my pace.

  He picked up his pace.

  I turned it on. My foot throbbed, but I wanted to get home. I didn’t want someone to catch me snooping around. They might think I was a burglar and I’d get a bad reputation and never make a friend.

  “Hey,” he shouted. He was gaining on me. “Slow down.”

  I speeded up. If my foot wasn’t so tender I could take off and leave him in the dark.

  He speeded up.

  I turned it on even more.

  The steps kept coming. They were right behind me.

  “Hey. Hey, you.” He reached out and tapped me on the back.

  I kept running.

  “Hey,” he said. “Slow down.”

  I was doing that anyway. My lungs felt like they were being ripped out of my chest. My feet slapped at the tar as I slowed down. My foot throbbed.

  He slowed down, too.

  I put my hands on my hips and walked in a wide circle. He did the same.

  “Are you new?” he asked between breaths.

  “Yes,” I huffed. Even though it was dark I covered my purple face with my hands and diary. I stared out at him. He was only a slightly darker shadow against the night.

  “Where do you live?” he asked.

  I paused. The houses didn’t have street numbers, just names. Dad had painted HENRY on a piece of wood and wired it to the front gate.

  “Henry,” I replied.

  “So, you’re the new kid,” he said. “I heard a new American family had moved in.”

  “Yep,” I said. “That’s us.”

  He must have stuck out his hand to shake mine, but because it was so dark, he kind of poked me in the stomach.

  I jumped back.

  “Sorry,” he said. “My name is Shiva.”

  “Jack,” I replied, thinking that Shiva was an odd name for someone with an English accent. I stuck out my hand and searched for his as if I was reaching for a doorknob in the dark.

  “Do you want to join our track club?” he asked.

  I did, but I said, “Not just yet. I need to practice some more.” No club would have me until I got rid of this purple stuff first.

  “Well, I’ll pass by sometime and we can run,” he said.

  “I only run at night,” I said. “It’s cooler.”

  “Me too,” he said. “But presently I must return home.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  “Yes,” he replied, “and I will look into what you need to join the club.” Then I heard his footsteps running off behind me.

  I went directly home. My heart was pounding. I had a friend hooked, but could I reel him in? Or would I lose him once he saw me in the light of day? But for now I didn’t have to worry. We could run at night.

  The next morning, after breakfast, Betsy was back out in the front yard planting marigolds. She had a pitcher of iced tea and two extra glasses. She was waiting for anyone her age to walk by so she could offer them a drink. She was going to beat me at making new friends. Since it was daytime, I figured my strategy was to keep her from getting a friend, instead of me finding one.

  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 driv
er 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.

  Love

  Betsy 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 stagge
red 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.”