by Jack Gantos
He pulled out a two-part horse costume. “I got to the costume shop a bit late,” he said, not at all happy. “They only had two-parters left. I got the horse, and I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts your mom is going to make me be the rear. But it could have been worse. The guy behind me had to rent the giraffe. Can you imagine, he’ll have to carry his wife on his shoulders all night long.” He smiled at the thought. “Now remember, don’t go telling your mother about the escapees, or she won’t go and the whole evening I’ll have to sit around as a horse’s rear end.”
“Okay,” I said.
But it was hard to keep my mouth shut. Each time Mom passed through the room I wanted to blurt out, “Escaped convicts are on the loose!” I knew Dad would kill me if I spilled the beans, so I went outside to the carport to fix my bike. The chain had come off the day before. We had been playing bicycle-horse polo. We didn’t have horses or the right equipment so we used our bicycles and croquet mallets and one of the solid wooden balls. It was a good game unless you got hit with the ball, which hurt like something shot out of a pirate’s cannon. That is what happened to my chain. Jock hit a low line drive right at me. I lifted my foot and the ball hit the chain and knocked it off the sprocket. Right after, Mom called me in for dinner, so I hadn’t put the chain back on.
I was just threading it back onto the sprocket when Mom and Dad stepped out of the house.
“Have fun,” Mom said, with the giant horse head under her arm. “Be extra nice to the little kids and don’t eat too much candy or you’ll never get to sleep.”
“Sure,” I replied as Dad jogged over toward me.
“Remember,” he whispered, “keep the doors locked and don’t open them no matter what.”
“Don’t worry,” I whispered back, “we’re not stupid.”
He grunted and gave me a little swat with his tail.
As soon as the car left the driveway Betsy broke the news to Pete that Halloween was canceled.
“No big deal,” he said. “Now we can split all our giveaway candy three ways.”
After eating about a pound of chocolate bars I got so hyper from the sugar I dashed from window to window looking to find the escapees creeping through the bushes. Everyone had their porch lights on, but all the pumpkins were unlit. I plugged the TV back in just in case it fixed itself, but it only started to crackle again and smell like burnt rubber so I pulled the plug.
Finally Betsy came up to me. “I just ordered the pizzas,” she said. “And I had them make up an extra-large Hawaiian puke pie just for you.”
“That’s really nice,” I replied. I couldn’t believe she actually ordered it for me.
“There is only one catch,” she said, crossing her arms.
“What?” I asked.
“You have to go get it. The pizza place will make it, but they won’t deliver to our neighborhood because of the escapees.”
“No way,” I said.
“Then I’ll call them up and cancel,” she threatened.
I loved pizza, and Hawaiian was my favorite. “Did you order extra pineapple and macadamia nuts?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Plus extra tuna and cheese.”
That was too good to be true. “Okay,” I said. “But if I’m not back in a half hour call the cops.”
“I’ll call the morgue first,” she said, and stuffed the money into my jeans pocket.
“When I return,” I said, opening the door, “I’ll knock three times real fast, then two times real slow so you know it’s me.”
“Don’t worry,” she replied. “I’ll smell you coming.”
I picked Miss Kitty II up and carried her to my bicycle and placed her in the front basket. If I was going out on a mission to get pizza I wanted company. Plus she was tired of Pete trying to infect her with plague.
I figured the fastest way to get there was a straight line so I pedaled as hard as I could down the middle of our street. It seemed as if every dog in the neighborhood was searching for the prisoners. They barked insanely as I passed by. The shadows in the trees and brush flickered with life. Each gust rearranged their limbs, and their twiggy hands seemed to reach toward me as their leafy eyes followed mine. Radios and TVs were extra loud to let the convicts know people were home.
When I reached the main road I turned right under the streetlight and pedaled the three blocks up to Roy’s Pizza Parlor. The Waffle House was farther down the street and I could see a few cop cars in the parking lot so I felt a lot safer.
I grabbed Miss Kitty II and ran inside the parlor. It smelled great.
“I’m here for the extra-large Hawaiian and whatever,” I told the kid at the cash register.
“You mean extra-large broccoli? And a pepperoni and mushroom?”
“No,” I said. “Hawaiian.”
“Well, we only have one to-go order,” he said, checking his ticket book. “Called in by Betsy Henry.”
I knew she tricked me. Here I was, risking my life for a broccoli pizza. I was still staying away from red meat, but pizza was not the place to catch up on vegetables. “Well, could you put some pineapple and macadamia nuts on it?” I asked. “And tuna?”
“Why don’t you just throw up on it yourself?” he said. He took it back to the kitchen. When he returned, I gave him the money.
“Be careful out there,” he warned me. “One of our delivery drivers said two guys in striped uniforms tried to grab his door. One had a huge knife and tried to stab him. He was so freaked out we had to send him home.”
“Okay,” I replied. I clutched Miss Kitty II like a football under my left arm and balanced the pizzas with my right. I went outside, got her back in the basket, and held her down with the pizzas. Just as I sat on my bike I saw two cop cars speed out of the Waffle House parking lot. If they spotted me I was a goner. I pedaled really hard down the main street and was about a block away from home when I saw them. The two criminals. They were standing directly in the middle of the road. I hit my brakes and skidded to a stop.
“Hey,” the big one yelled. His voice was muffled through a stocking he had pulled down over his face. “I smell pizza.”
“I haven’t had pizza since I was locked up for cold-blooded murder,” said the other one.
I swung my bike around and just as I pressed down on my pedal the chain snapped. I was dead meat. I hopped off my bike, grabbed Miss Kitty II and the pizzas, and headed between two houses. I reached the railroad tracks and ran down them, taking big jumping strides from one wooden tie to the next. When I looked over my shoulder the criminals were running behind me. All I could see were those black-and-white stripes as they yelled, “Pizza! Pizza, or death!”
I looked ahead to see if a train was coming around the far bend. No luck. I was about three houses from home but knew I’d never make it. The convicts were closing in behind me. I was desperate. So I did what I had to do. I ran toward the hole in the tracks. When I got to the space where Jock had dug the hole I threw myself facedown and lay on the pizza boxes. I held Miss Kitty II by my side.
“Lord, help me,” I prayed, and closed my eyes. My pulse hammered. I held my breath. Miss Kitty II was spooked and clawed me but I didn’t dare let her go.
“Hey, where’d he go?” one of the convicts asked.
“Don’t know,” the other said. I heard them turn and walk down the gravel bank.
After a while I peeked up over the rails. I didn’t see them. My legs were all jelly so I crawled out of the hole. I stood and stumbled down the bank as I held Miss Kitty II and the pizzas. I was heading for home when a hand grabbed me from behind.
I whipped around. It was the murderers. “Don’t kill me,” I hollered. “I’m just a kid. Take the pizzas. Just leave the cat alone.”
“Got you good,” Tack said, laughing as he pulled off his stocking mask.
“Yeah,” Jock said. “I thought you were going to die of fright.”
I dropped down to my knees. “What are you guys doing out?” I asked, panting. “The police said to st
ay at home.”
“They caught the murderers already,” Jock said.
“We just heard it on TV and ran outside and there you were.”
“Well, I better get back home and tell Pete and Betsy. Our TV is broken and when kids start pounding on the door it will really flip them out.”
“How about some pizza first?” Tack asked.
“Yeah,” I said, still gathering my breath. “Take what you want.”
He opened the broccoli-Hawaiian and sniffed. “Oh man,” he groaned, “this thing is covered with barf chunks.”
I sniffed it. “No way,” I said. “It’s Hawaiian.”
“Yeah, Hawaiian barf,” he said, and grabbed the other one. He flipped it open. “Pepperoni,” he said happily. “Now we’re talking American barf.”
He took a slice and passed the pizza to Jock, who took two slices and made a sandwich out of them.
“Let’s get going,” Tack said, rolling the stocking back down over his face, “while the element of surprise is on our side.”
After they ran off I figured it was my turn to scare someone. And I knew exactly who I wanted to get.
I hustled over to Miss Fry’s back porch. I peeked in her window to see if she was all dressed up in special police gear. But I didn’t see anything. I squatted down and scratched at the bottom of her door.
“Heeelp meee. Saaave meee,” I warbled. “The convicts got me and I’m bleeding to death.” I stood up and began to back away from the door. I figured when she opened it I’d toss Miss Kitty II at her and see what happened.
Suddenly a hand grabbed the back of my collar and I fell over backward. I looked up. It was Miss Fry. She had snuck around on me.
“You smarmy little creep,” she said. “You think I’m going to fall for your bozo tricks?”
“You’re scaring me,” I said.
She bent over and grabbed the front of my shirt. “Come into my house,” she said, “and I’ll really scare you! And your cat!”
I didn’t know what else to do so I said, “Trick or treat.”
“Treat,” she replied, and grabbed the pizza boxes. She stepped over me and went in her back door. Then before I could scramble back up on my feet she threw the door open.
“Did you puke on this pizza?” she hollered.
“It’s Hawaiian,” I said.
She sniffed it. “Only a sick kid like you would eat garbage like this.”
Then she threw it at me. I ducked and she slammed her door. Then one by one all her lights went off and she let out a bloodcurdling scream. I hope she takes her medication, I thought, as I crawled around her back yard sniffing toward my Hawaiian.
Bottom Line
I was hiding in the bushes wearing nothing but Tack’s new mother’s undies. They were baby blue with little white flowers and the elastic had gone saggy so I had to hold them up with one hand. I tried not to look at myself but every so often my eyes slipped, and when I caught a glimpse of my boy body squatting in the bushes wearing nothing but ladies’ undies, I began to whimper like a hurt puppy.
I had been crying for over an hour and I was wondering just how long I was going to have to spend in the bushes. Even though south Florida didn’t get too cold in the winter, it was still cool in the shade. I figured I’d wait until the sun went down before I made another run for the door and begged Betsy to let me in. Mom was working late at the bank and I wasn’t sure what time Dad would return, when suddenly his car pulled into the driveway. Even before he had the engine turned off I sprang out of the bushes and thrust my head into his open window.
“Betsy made me do it!” I shouted. “It’s all her fault! Honest! She locked me out of the house naked and I was desperate. You have to punish her.” That’s all I could say before I began to blubber again.
I must have surprised Dad. He jerked his head back and gave me a bug-eyed look. Then he cocked his fist behind his ear and got ready to pop me.
“Don’t hit me,” I pleaded, and covered my face. “I know I’m wearing ladies’ underwear but I’m still your son.”
“For God’s sake,” he cried in disbelief, and lowered his fist, “don’t just stand there. Get into the car.”
I ducked down and scurried around the front bumper before Tack’s new mother spotted me again. She had caught me stealing the underwear off her clothesline and called me awful names and sent Jock out to find me and get them back. He had seen me slip into the bushes and all he did was stick his head in and say, “Don’t worry, buddy. I won’t tell Mom I found you. But take my advice and get some help.”
“Thanks,” was all I could reply.
I hopped into Dad’s car and slouched way down in the seat like a common criminal. “Let’s get out of here,” I whispered.
Dad began to back out, then suddenly stopped. “Wait a minute. Don’t you want to go into the house and get some clothes?”
“Can’t I have your shirt?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “I don’t have an undershirt on, and it would look pretty fishy if a shirtless adult was seen hanging around a boy wearing nothing but women’s undies.”
I lowered my head and pulled up on the slouching panties. My ears felt red and raw with shame.
“Now tell me,” he asked, and turned the heater on. “Why is this all Betsy’s fault?”
‘Just drive around for a while so I can tell you my side of the story without Betsy butting in and twisting everything around,” I requested.
“Okay. You can make a case for yourself now. And I’ll be the judge as to who is right and wrong. But,” he warned me, “you have to tell me the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. If you lie, I’ll stop the car and make you walk home.” Then he backed out into the road.
“It all started five days ago,” I began, as he put the car in drive. “You know I haven’t won an argument with Betsy in my entire life so I’m always waiting for her to show some kind of weakness. Last Monday I was walking down the hall when she stepped out of the bathroom with a huge pimple on her forehead. It had a pussy yellow head like a piece of candy corn and looked like a volcano just waiting to blow. I knew she had been operating on it because I could see the red nail marks around the base where she’d been squeezing. But she hadn’t gotten it to pop. So when she passed by me I said, ‘Hey, Cyclops. Got something stuck in your third eye?’ And she just burst into tears and ran into her room. I thought she was faking me out until later, when I walked down the hall. I poked my head in her doorway. Her bed was covered with crushed-up tissues, and she was lying there with a pillow across her face as if she had suffocated herself. I told her I was sorry.”
“Let me get this straight,” Dad interrupted, peering down at me. “You were mean first, so at this point it looks like you started it.”
“True,” I said. “But you have to hear the rest and then you’ll see that I’m the victim.”
So while Dad continued to cruise up and down the tree-lined streets I continued talking. From my spot, crouched down next to the stereo, I sounded like an old radio drama. I used my hands as Jack and Betsy puppets and made bickering, yakking motions back and forth as I spoke.
“So Betsy sat up and looked at me with sad puppy eyes and said, ‘We are brother and sister and should be nice to each other.’ She was right and I felt even worse. Then she said, ‘So, let’s do something really important. Let’s be kind and respectful toward each other for a whole week. Be supportive, and not one bit nasty’
“I asked her if she was calling a truce. She said she wanted to set an example to the world that a brother and sister can exist in harmony under one roof.
“I said okay but asked what happens if one of us slips up and is nasty? She thought it over and said the punishment has to be severe, otherwise it would be too easy to slack off.
“I agreed. And we decided that the nasty person has to stand totally naked, buck naked, next to the tracks when the New England passenger train comes through. And we shook hands on it.”
Dad pulled up to a red
light and glanced down at me. “I’m getting a pretty good picture of what happened next,” he said.
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” I cautioned. ‘Just hold your horses. Things started off really well,” I said proudly. “That first day I was totally nice. I made her fresh-squeezed orange juice for breakfast. I cleaned the trash in her room. Took her overdue books back to the library and paid the fines. I mean, I was saintly nice. And she didn’t even say thank you. Not once. On the second day I polished all of her shoes, cleaned out her fish tank, and crawled under her bed to find some missing earring backs. And still she didn’t say thanks. Not only that, she didn’t lift a finger to do one nice thing for me. But I was still trying. So on the third day I took all the little pieces of furniture and stuff out of her big Victorian dollhouse and repaired every piece. I Super-Glued all the teeny-tiny handles back on the teacups, I re wove the loose threads in the Oriental rugs, and even touched up the royal portrait paintings on the walls. And still, she didn’t say anything. On the fourth day I was running out of gas. I didn’t do a thing for her. I wasn’t nasty. I just didn’t go out of my way to be nice.”
“You know your sister was just setting you up,” Dad said. “You do know that? She was just waiting for you to crack.”
“Well, I didn’t know that,” I said reluctantly. “I was still trying to be a decent brother. So on the fifth day, today, I woke up and ironed all the clothes she had been putting off. And when I finished I said to her, ‘Don’t you think I’ve been a really good brother?’ And she said, really snotty like, ‘What do you want? A medal for being nice, when being nice is something that should come naturally and not be a special event?’ And that hurt my feelings. And you know how I get. I started to redden up and snivel. And Betsy jumped all over me.
“ Are you having an emotional emergency?’ she asked.
“I said yes.
“‘Then I’m going to call 911 and ask for a psychologist,’ she cracked.
“‘I don’t need a shrink,’ I yelled. I’m fine.’