by Jack Gantos
On my way back toward the building I looked over my shoulder and saw why recess was being cut short. A row of black limousines, lined up like a chain of fallen dominoes, slowly pulled to a halt along the street. I knew it wasn’t the president coming to visit our school because all the cars had small purple-and-white flags flying from their front fenders. Their headlights were on. It was a funeral procession. Our playground was separated by a chain-link fence from the cemetery I’d seen that first night in Cape Hatteras. The school had an agreement with the cemetery that during a weekday burial service all the schoolkids would be called inside rather than be allowed to hang over the fence and point and gawk at the polished casket and the family members looking as sad and crumpled as balled-up laundry.
Just then I spotted Mrs. Nivlash at her office window. She held a pair of binoculars to her eyes and scanned the playground and funeral. That’s right, I reminded myself, I’m the Respect Detective. I’d better get busy. I dutifully checked the playground to make certain all the kids were respectful. A few kids had stopped running for the door and had turned back to point at the limousines. They craned their necks and jumped up and down to get a better look at the casket. Just when I thought I might have to turn them in to Mrs. Nivlash, the gym teacher blew his whistle and threatened to jab their eyes out with a red-hot needle if they didn’t get a move on. They bolted for the door.
After we filed back into the school and returned to our seats, I raised my hand. “Miss Noelle,” I said after she called on me, “I’m having trouble with the assignment. It’s easy to write about my life as it really is, but I’m kind of stuck on writing about the life I wish for.”
She smiled. “You mean to tell me you don’t know what to wish for in life?” She crossed her hands over her heart and made a cheerless, turned-down-mouth clown face. “That is heartbreaking,” she whimpered with mock despair. Behind me there were a few laughs.
Suddenly I felt panicked inside and realized that to her, and to others, I must have appeared shamefully pathetic. But I wasn’t pathetic—my wish was just too personal to share.
“Don’t get all bogged down in reality,” she said, snapping out of her act. “Let your imagination run wild. Cut loose. Think of what a wonderful life it would be if you could get everything you wanted. Or if you could be great at everything you attempted. Be smarter, wiser, bigger, more clever … more handsome …”
My cheeks and ears reddened. I could hear a few more snickers behind me but then I was saved when Mrs. Nivlash’s voice flooded the room. “Good afternoon, students and staff,” she announced. “I just want to wish you all a great school year and, to kick it off, I have decided to allow you a privilege unheard of in any other school across America. I am allowing you to chew gum.”
Our class let out a cheer, and down the hall I could hear the echoes of the other cheering classrooms full of kids. My heart began to pound. Slowly I looked around the room. Everyone was thrilled. They were all talking about gum. Chewing gum. Buying gum. Swapping gum. Bubble gum. Hot gum. Licorice gum.
“But of course,” continued Mrs. Nivlash as her voice rose, “this is a privilege that must be constantly earned. So if you are respectful of the school and dispose of your gum properly, then you may continue to enjoy the privilege for the entire year. But if I find one piece of gum stuck anywhere, then the privilege will be revoked. I know many of you think that when I’m not looking you can stick it wherever you wish, but watch yourself. I have appointed a student Respect Detective who will secretly be my eyes and ears among you—and he’ll be watching. So, enjoy your privilege and I look forward to a great year.”
“I wonder who the snitch is?” I heard one kid ask another.
“I don’t know,” he replied roughly, and pounded his fist into his open hand. “But my dad always says, ‘The only good snitch is a dead snitch.’”
Suddenly I began to get the creepy feeling that being the Respect Detective was not going to be appreciated by the other kids.
And I felt worse once I returned home. Betsy was in the kitchen eating an avocado half-filled with wine vinegar. It was her favorite snack and made her breath so acidic she could melt the head off a toothbrush.
“Can I ask your advice about something?” I asked timidly.
“Sure,” she replied and spooned a curl of avocado out of its shell, slipped it into her mouth, then washed it down with a sip of vinegar.
I told her about being named Mrs. Nivlash’s Respect Detective. “Do you think it’s a good thing or a bad thing?” I asked. “I’m a little confused.”
She looked at me as if I were a complete idiot. “Naming you the Respect Detective is just a scam,” she said. “What you really are is her head spy. Her mole, tattletale, stool pigeon, snake in the grass … Now do you get it? She has set you up to be her rat. And when everyone finds out, they’ll do what is always done to rats—they’ll corner you and crush you to death with giant stones.”
Tombstones, I thought. They’ll use bloodhounds to track me down in the cemetery, then push me into an open grave and do me in. The air went slowly out of my lungs as if it were my last breath. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said with a shudder.
She took another sip of vinegar and screwed up her face. When she smacked her lips it sounded like a whip snapping. “You are really up to your neck in it this time,” she continued.
“How can I get out of this?” I pleaded.
“Who do you want to hate you the most—Mrs. Nivlash or the students?”
“I don’t want anyone to hate me,” I said, already hating myself for being stupid.
“Too late for that,” she said. “But I’m warning you, if the other kids find out you are a snitch you are going to have to enter the witness protection program.”
That night I lay in bed looking out my window and over the little swamp. I felt like pond scum. No amount of wishing would get me out of the jam I was in. Even my favorite time-wasting activity of dreaming about Miss Noelle was now ruined. All I could think about was being Mrs. Nivlash’s dead rat. It was awful.
The next morning I passed by the cemetery on my way to school. I could see the new grave with its silvery granite tombstone. A few rows away a backhoe was clawing at the sand, preparing for another coffin. “That will be me,” I whispered to myself, “if I don’t get out of this mess.” By the time I opened the front door, I knew what I had to do. Instead of going to class, I went directly into the front office. I pulled the secretary to one side. “I need to speak to the principal,” I whispered. “Top secret.”
In a minute I was in Mrs. Nivlash’s office. When she saw me she smiled, but not for long.
“I don’t think I’m cut out for this job,” I said to her, and held out my Respect Detective identification card.
“Why?” she asked, and stared hard into my face. I looked down at her hands. Her fingers wiggled about like the desperate legs on an overturned crab.
“It takes too much time away from class,” I said, lying. “I don’t spend as much time thinking about my teacher as I should.”
She smiled down at me. “How do you like your nice, pretty teacher?” she asked in a syrupy voice.
“I love her,” I blurted out. “She’s the best.”
“Well, I might have to transfer you to another class,” she continued, amused with herself. “You get my drift?”
I got it. “Okay,” I said, backing off. “I’ll stick with the job.”
“Smart boy,” Mrs. Nivlash replied, smiling brightly. “Now get busy.”
I did. I ran out of the office and down to my classroom and threw myself into my seat. I took a deep breath, then suddenly realized I was in deeper trouble than I had feared. Everyone had gum. The class sounded like a herd of cows chewing and smacking and snapping. The air was sweet from the smell of grape and cherry and strawberry and clove and mint. I was surrounded.
I put my face down on my desk. Somewhere, an overblown bubble popped. That’s going to be my head, I thought, once Mrs.
Nivlash sees this. Suddenly a finger poked me on the shoulder.
I bolted straight up in my seat. “Arghhh!” I cried out.
“Sorry,” the kid behind me said. “I thought you might like a bubble-gum cigar. I brought a whole pack.”
“No, thanks,” I said breathlessly. “I can’t chew it. My dad’s a dentist. He forbids us to have gum. He checks my breath after school.”
“I have some trick gum,” he replied, reaching into his top pocket. “It tastes just like bad breath.”
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I said suddenly. I jumped up and fled for the door. As I dashed down the hallway I scanned the floor and walls for gum. There was none on the light switches or fire alarm pulls. I went inside the boys’ room. None on the floor. I looked in the stalls. I checked the toilet seats. They were disgusting, but no gum. I ran out. I passed the water fountain. No gum on the mouth guard, or in the drain, or on the handle. I ran to the next bathroom. No gum. I passed the library. The librarian, Mrs. Alice, defied Mrs. Nivlash with a sign reading: STILL NO GUM ALLOWED. I gave her the thumbs up as I dashed by. There was nothing in the lost and found. By the time I made it back to class, Miss Noelle had arrived. “Okay, students,” she was saying. “Put the gum away and take out your journals.” Quickly I threw a penny on the floor and got down on my hands and knees to search for it. I didn’t care about the penny. I was looking up at the undersides of everyone’s desks to make certain no one had parked a wad of gum there.
“Jack,” Miss Noelle said sharply, “what are you doing crawling around on all fours?”
I jumped up so fast I got dizzy. My knees buckled and I stumbled around like a drunk while the room turned into a silent black-and-white film, then back to normal.
“Are you sick?” she asked. “Do you need to see the nurse?”
“Yes,” I said. I grabbed my book bag and as I left the room my head twitched wildly as my eyes jerked around, searching for signs of improperly discarded gum.
In the nurse’s office I told her I had the flu. She laid me out on the uncomfortable plastic-covered bed and slipped a thermometer under my tongue, then went back to reading a book on flesh-eating infectious diseases. To calm down I lay there and thought only of Miss Noelle. If I lived at her house, I could help her think up clever assignments. I could help her grade papers. After school I’d help her redo the hallway bulletin boards. My desk would be directly next to hers. We would think up little codes and signals so we could communicate privately in front of the students. We’d pass snappy notes back and forth, and smile knowingly into each other’s eyes. Just imagining this totally fulfilling life made me purr like a relaxed cat.
Suddenly the nurse removed the thermometer and squinted at it. She scowled and gave it a shake. “You’re fine,” she declared.
I knew better. I was sick in a way no thermometer could detect.
After school I passed the cemetery. I had the idea to go in and find a quiet spot to sit and think about my imaginary life, because I knew that once I got home my real life would take over and I’d have no time to myself. I walked in and looked around. The rows of tombstones looked like giant toes sticking out of the ground. I walked over to where the last person had been buried and examined the fresh dirt piled up on the grave. Large bouquets of flowers were spread around the stone. Some of them were on tripods, with the stems woven into circular wreaths big enough to fit around the head of a horse. I lifted one and stuck my head through the middle. I tried to imagine the circle as a life preserver, but it read REST IN PEACE in black ribbon.
The cemetery must have influenced my imagination. I suddenly imagined myself trapped by the students, who wrapped me up in a ball of stringy gum and left me to rot to death like a bug caught in a spider’s web. At the funeral Miss Noelle would kneel down on my burial mound and weep. “I’ll never love another,” she’d whimper.
I didn’t write all this down because it was warped and I didn’t think she wanted to hear it. I figured what I was imagining would scare her. My own dream life made me feel weird and nervous, and it confused me that picturing my own death made me happier. I thought I might need a doctor. I hopped up. From where I was, I could see across the cemetery and school playground over to the teachers’ parking lot. There was Miss Noelle walking toward her car and by her side was the muscle-bound gym teacher. She opened her car door, they said a few things, then he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. That was definitely not part of my dream. I felt weak. Maybe it was a mirage? Maybe my mind was playing tricks on me? I staggered out of the cemetery as stunned as Lazarus must have felt after he rose from the dead.
I stayed in my room for the rest of the day. I didn’t eat dinner and I didn’t sleep well. In the morning I inched my way to school. Miss Noelle was full of enthusiasm as we began to share our “wished-for lives” in class. Most everyone was pretty straightforward as they read from their journals. There were five teachers, two presidents, a pirate, three rock stars, a great white shark, a fashion model, a veterinarian, an admiral, a fireman, a chef, and then it was my turn.
“Jack,” Miss Noelle said sweetly, “I saved you for last. Now would you please share your wish with us.”
I just knew she was waiting for me to say something wildly imaginative. But I couldn’t. I hadn’t written a word. “Can I go to the bathroom first?” I asked.
“Hurry back,” she said, glancing up at the clock. “We have other subjects to cover today.”
I ran for the door and down the hall. Once again I checked the hallway floor. No gum. The walls. The water fountain. The toilets. No gum. I took a quick sprint through the cafeteria and glanced under the tables. My heart stopped! There was a piece. As I reached out to remove it, Mrs. Nivlash came around the corner. I didn’t want her to think I was sticking it there so I quickly unstuck it, popped it into my mouth, and began to chew. It was crunchy with some hard cereal crumbs mixed in with it. I waved to her as I ran off. I used a shortcut back through the gym, spit the gum into a trash can, and with a final burst of speed ran outside and checked the bus drop-off spots. It was all clean.
By the time I returned to class, Miss Noelle was working on math.
“Sorry that took so long,” I said, and rubbed my belly as if I’d had a problem. “I’ll lead off next time.”
She raised an eyebrow when she looked at me, and I knew she wasn’t going to let me off the hook so easily.
For the rest of the day Miss Noelle treated me like a regular kid. She only looked my way occasionally. When I volunteered for snack duty, she called on someone else. I knew she was annoyed with me for letting her down, and before long I began to imagine the punishments she would give me. I’d have to wash the blackboards. Alphabetize her books. Water the plants. Clean the hamster cage. I was ready for punishment. I felt I needed it. It wasn’t right to have a crush on my teacher. It was unhealthy. Weird. I just didn’t know what to do about it. Should I tell her? Or not?
Then just before the bell rang she said, “Jack, could you stay behind after class?”
“Yes,” I replied, feeling nervous as a cricket as I sat there scratching at myself and waiting for the room to empty.
When we were alone, Miss Noelle sat sideways in the desk next to mine. “I’m still waiting to hear about your life as you wish it to be,” she said.
“I wish I could give it to you,” I replied. “But everything I wish for seems so wrong.”
“How can a wish be wrong?” she asked.
“Trust me,” I said. “I wish for all the wrong things.”
“Tell me,” she said. “Give me an example.”
“What would you like to hear?” I asked.
“Whatever,” she said, and shrugged. “I’m open.”
“No, you tell me what you want to hear, and then I’ll wish for it,” I said.
“You’ve got it all wrong,” she said. “You wish first.”
“No,” I said. “I want my wish to add up to what you want, then my wish will come true.”
S
he sighed. “That’s not how a wish works,” she said. “Your wishes are just wild, crazy desires. They don’t have to come true.”
“Yes, they do,” I insisted. “How can you wish for something if there is no chance it will come true?”
She put her hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze that was like half a wish coming true. “Do you mind if I make a wish?” she asked.
“Sure, go ahead,” I said.
“I wish you’d just tell me what it is you aren’t writing.”
I took a deep breath. It was time to tell her. I couldn’t get through a whole year feeling like this without being a nervous wreck each day. “I have a crush on you,” I whispered, and felt all the blood in my body gather in my face, which heated up like a hot plate. My head tilted forward from the weight. I felt faint.
“Well, everyone’s had a crush on a teacher at one time or another,” she said. “I had several. I’m sure you will have others, too, and on it goes. It’s natural, enjoy it.”
“I’m trying to,” I croaked, but I had a cramp in my foot and I was sweating and still blushing so dangerously that I thought my head might burst into segments like an overripe tomato.
“I think some of the best friendships start with a crush. Don’t you?”
“I-I don’t know,” I stammered. “I’m still at the crush stage.”
“Trust me,” she said. “You’ll move on. Once you see me for who I am, you’ll be happy we’re just friends.”
“Okay,” I said, wanting the conversation to end.
“Do you have any other wishes?”
“There was one where I died.”
“That was your wish?” she asked, alarmed. “To die?”
“Among others,” I said.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “I mean, sick or depressed—things at home a little difficult?”
