Heads or Tails

by Jack Gantos

  “Yes, I can,” he said. “I just did it.”

  “No, you can’t. Now try and shoot me. Come on.”

  “No, I’ll kill you,” he cried.

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “Come on, get out from under the bed and I’ll prove that you can’t shoot things down with your finger.”

  “Don’t tell anyone,” he begged. “They’ll put me in jail.”

  I knew I could ruin his life at this moment. I could say, “Yes, you shot down an airplane and killed the pilot and they will put you in jail for the rest of your life.” But I couldn’t be so mean to him.

  “I won’t tell anyone,” I said, “as long as you try and shoot this book with your finger.” I set a book on the floor and leaned it against the wall. He aimed his finger at it. “Bang,” he whispered. “Bang, bang. “ Nothing happened, but I could tell by his screwy face that he wasn’t convinced.

  “Now try and shoot things out of the air.” I tossed his pillow across the room.

  “Bang, “ he said.

  I threw his Godzilla across the room.

  “Bang, “ he said.

  I threw his Nerf ball and baseball cap. Each time he shot at them with his finger and each time nothing happened. Then I jumped on him and picked him up and threw him on the bed and rolled him up in the bedspread and sat on him.

  “Repeat after me,” I demanded. “I can’t breathe.”

  “I can’t breathe,” said a muffled voice.

  “And I can’t shoot down planes with my finger.”

  “I can’t shoot down planes with my finger.”

  “And I’ll help Jack with all the yard work for the rest of my life.”

  “And I’ll never help Jack again,” he shouted and began to twist his way out from under me. He was cured.

  Just then, Mom came into the room. “Look what a mess you two have made,” she said sharply. But she was crying. “Dad called,” she said. Then she turned away to blow her nose into a tissue. “He’ll be home soon. Johnny didn’t survive.” Pete ran over to her and hugged her around the waist.

  Dad didn’t come home until we were eating dinner. “Sorry I’m so late,” he said. “We went over to see his family. They’re just stunned.”

  We watched him scrub his hands at the kitchen sink. “I’m just disgusted,” he said bitterly. “The Hollywood guys just flew right into his path. They called it an accident. I call it piss-poor flying. And to make matters worse, somebody stole his wallet. They took it right out of his pocket before anyone arrived.”

  After dinner I was tired and went to my room. I unlocked my diary but didn’t know what to write just yet. I closed my eyes and saw the red biplane buzzing over our house. I kept thinking that maybe the wallet wasn’t stolen. Maybe it had been thrown from Johnny’s pocket on impact. Maybe it was lost in the bushes far from the plane. I’d find it and fix up the house, have the bugs sprayed and make everything good again. But I was wrong to think this way. It wasn’t my money. Instead, I imagined the crash. I felt myself going down. The engine growled and my hands gripped the wheel. The wings folded over my head. My eyes were closed so tight, small explosions of color went off inside my brain before I hit the ground. “Boom!” Then I was dead.

  I WAS SITTING in the Florida room looking out the window, waiting for Johnny Ross and his mother to pick me up for choir practice at the Baptist Mission. My mother is Lutheran and my father is Catholic, but we don’t regularly go to church. I had gone with Johnny to the mission a few times when he asked if I’d sing with him on Sundays in the choir. The thought of singing in front of strangers made me nervous. But since this was my family’s fifth neighborhood in six years, it was about time I got used to being with strangers. As Betsy always said to me, “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  Mom was delighted. “Of course you can,” she said. “But you’ll have to get a haircut and a new white shirt and a bow tie.”

  I hadn’t thought she was going to make such a big deal of it, but I should have known better. Mom loves to watch the Vienna Boys’ Choir sing on television. Every Christmas, she decorates the dining-room table with a group of choirboy candles. We even have those giant light-up choirboy statues on our front lawn.

  This year, she insisted that I sing in the chorus at school. But I couldn’t carry a tune. I was tone deaf and wailed like bagpipes warming up.

  “Sing from your diaphragm,” Miss Connors would say to me during class, and pat her big belly. “From the diaphragm.” She’d play a set of scales on the piano and sing, “Do, re, me, fa, so, la, ti, do.”

  Then it was my turn. I was great on the first “do, re, me.” But when I reached “fa, so, la, ti,” my voice splintered like a broken mirror and only a dog could hear my last, painful “doooooough.”

  “You’re singing from the throat,” she said, stroking her flabby neck. “Stop straining and sing from the belly.” Then she threw her head back and sang the scales as though they were the names of her children. Maybe skinny people can’t sing, I thought. All the opera stars were as big as cows …

  I got up and looked at the clock on my desk. Johnny and his mother were twenty minutes late. I wanted a glass of chocolate milk, but Mom was in the kitchen and I was afraid she was going to tell me for the hundredth time to get a haircut. The back had finally reached the top of my collar, and when I pulled my bangs down really hard, I could tickle my nose. Johnny had long black hair he could comb back in a wave, and I wanted hair just like his. He didn’t look like a choirboy. He looked more like a movie star.

  “They’re here,” Mom called.

  “Coming,” I yelled back. I raced down the hall and through the living room. “Bye.”

  “Not so fast,” she ordered, pointing her finger at my head. “I’m telling you for the last time that I want you to get a haircut before Sunday.”

  “I have to run,” I said, opening the front door.

  “You can either go on your own or I’ll have your father take you,” she said. “And you know what he’ll tell the barber.” Dad had been in the navy and he liked haircuts “high and tight.” If he had it his way, I’d have to draw hair on my shaved head with a Magic Marker.

  “Okay, okay, okay,” I moaned and ran out the door.

  “Have fun,” she called behind me.

  The preacher’s son, Brent, was in the back seat with Johnny. I didn’t know him too well. He went to a special mission school. “Move over,” I said, scooting in with them and closing the door.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Johnny said, “but we had to wait for Brent to finish dinner.”

  “Yeah,” said Brent. “Once Dad says grace you can’t leave the table till everyone eats everything on their plate, and my sister eats like a snail, so we all have to sit there and watch her.”

  “Can’t you help her?” I asked. “We always make food trades at home.”

  “Forget it. Dad likes it that she eats slow. It gives him more time to preach at us.”

  There were two strange things about Brent. The first was that, for a preacher’s kid, he said more nasty things about his dad and used more curse words than any other kid I knew. The second was that he was born with six fingers on each hand. But the sixth fingers didn’t have a bone in them, so when he moved his hands and spoke, those shriveled fingers danced around like rubber worms.

  “You ought to cut those things off,” Johnny said, pulling back so they didn’t touch him. “They’re disgusting.”

  “Can’t,” Brent said. “Dad says God gave ‘em to me for a good reason and so I have to keep ‘em.”

  “You ought to cut ‘em off and use ‘em for fishing bait,” Johnny said. “I bet you’d catch a shark.”

  “That’s enough, boys,” his mother said. I could see her looking hard into the rearview mirror to catch our eyes. “I’m sure Reverend Sears knows what he’s talking about. Now you apologize.”

  But before Johnny could, Brent cut him off. “Mrs. Ross,” he twanged, leaning forward and propping his elbows on the back of her seat
. “The other day I punched my little sister in the ear and Dad tied my fingers in a knot an’ said, ‘This is what God gave you these things for, so I can tie your nasty hands together.’”

  “It’s not nice for a preacher’s son to lie,” replied Mrs. Ross. “I’m sure he would never do something like that.”

  I wasn’t so sure. Reverend Sears was a big, strong man who was always telling people what to do. He was strict and his sermons were tough. Reverend Sears really got going when it came to people burning in hell. Every week, it seemed like he would give a sermon about another sinner who joined the Hell Hall of Fame. Stealing, lying, cheating, gossiping, cursing, drinking, dancing, and a long, long list of other sins always “bought you a one-way ticket to the Hell Hall of Fame.”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Ross,” Brent said sweetly. “Do you have a Kleenex?” He crammed one useless finger up his nose and then fake-sneezed. “Eu,” he cried, slowly pulling the finger out of his nose. “Look at the booger.”

  We arrived at the church without another word spoken on the subject. “Call me when you’re finished with practice,” Mrs. Ross said to Johnny as we got out.

  “Will do.”

  “Thanks for the ride, Mrs. Ross,” I said, not wanting her to be annoyed with me.

  “Why don’t you just kiss her butt goodbye,” Brent cracked as she drove off. I didn’t say anything back to him, because he was the preacher’s son and I didn’t know how much trouble he could make for me.

  It was my first practice with the choir and I wanted the music director to think I was polite, since once she heard my voice, she’d be sorry I arrived. I had Johnny introduce me. “This is Miss Tate,” he said quickly and rejoined Brent. They were trying to rub chewing gum on Becky Earl’s new braces.

  “It’s very nice to meet you, ma’am,” I said as clearly as I could. She had big black hair the size of a garden bush piled up on her head and it smelled like lemon furniture polish. It made my eyes water.

  “Why, thank you kindly,” she said with a heavy Southern accent. “Now, what range do you sing?”

  “I’m a tenor,” I said.

  “You are just what I’m looking for,” she chirped. “I have a duet in mind for a tenor and an alto. Oh, this is just splendid. God must have sent you to me.”

  “Thanks.” I knew God did not send me because He knew how rotten my voice was, and soon she would, especially after I shattered a few windows. I just hoped she didn’t embarrass me too much. I knew Johnny and Brent were going to gang up on me, and already my heart was beating quickly and my face was hot.

  We practiced three songs. I tried to keep my voice low, but she heard me. She canceled the duet. But she was polite enough to have me sing a long, elaborate “Hallelujah,” for after the sermon. She no longer thought God sent me, nor did the rest of the choir, who were restless and began to talk while I struggled to sing up and down all those eighth notes. The only luck I had was that Johnny called his mother while I practiced the “Hallelujah” and she was waiting for us when I finished, so we could make a quick getaway.

  “Your voice stinks,” Brent said to me in the car. “My dad will probably throw you out of the church after he hears that racket.”

  “Then you sing it,” I snapped.

  “I won’t have time to sing it,” he said. “I’ll be makin’ a fortune sellin’ earplugs.”

  Johnny laughed. “You sound like Tarzan calling the elephants.”

  “Boys,” said Mrs. Ross. “Be nice for a change.”

  “Drop dead,” I said, meaning them, not her.

  “That’s enough of your back talk, Jack,” Mrs. Ross said sharply. Brent took a pen and wrote BUTTHOLE on his hand. “Sniff this,” he whispered and rubbed it across my face.

  When I woke up the next morning, it was hot and humid. I went out to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of orange juice. Dad was reading the newspaper and Mom was vacuuming the living-room carpet. “This dog hair is driving me nuts,” she said. “It’s everywhere. I should just vacuum the dog instead of the house.”

  “That dog needs a haircut,” Dad proclaimed without lowering the newspaper.

  “You’re so right,” she said. “I’ll call a dog groomer and make an appointment.”

  “Wait a minute.” He jumped to his feet. “There’s no reason to take the dog to a hair salon that charges an arm and a leg when I can do it.”

  “What do you know about clipping a dog?” she asked.

  “I know that it doesn’t take a genius to do it. All I need is a pair of clippers.”

  “Well, I’m not in the mood to argue about it,” she said. “Either you do it now or I’m calling the dog barber.” She turned the vacuum cleaner on as I retreated down the hall and into the bathroom. All this hair talk was making me nervous. I locked the door and looked into the mirror. Nothing I could do to my hair would make it look shorter. Not even combing it down flat on my head with Vaseline. I decided to wear a baseball cap all day.

  Dad returned from the hardware store with a pair of manual hair clippers. He had a wild, determined look on his face. “Bring the dog into the back yard,” he ordered.

  I cornered BoBo and carried him out back. He looked at me with his big, dumb spaniel eyes that said, “Traitor, traitor, traitor!” Mom arrived with a bucket of soapy water and a towel. “It’s BoBo’s day of beauty,” she remarked. “A haircut and a bath.”

  Dad stood over BoBo with one leg on either side of him. He leaned forward, grabbed a clump of fur on the back of BoBo’s neck, and started to cut. The clippers chewed at the hair. BoBo stood still for about a minute. Then he began to squirm and try to escape. But Dad was possessed. He fell over onto BoBo and the two of them wrestled around in the grass. BoBo yelled and Dad clipped like a madman while calling for me to help hold BoBo down. “Now, don’t hurt him,” Mom cautioned. “He’s scared, he might bite you.”

  Dad rode him like a rodeo bronco, until he suddenly jumped up and announced, “There, I’m finished. I told you there’s no reason to pay good money to a dog barber when you can do it yourself.” He brushed himself off as BoBo sprang to his feet and dashed toward the front yard.

  I knew Mom didn’t want to hurt Dad’s pride or get him angry, so she just picked up the bucket of soapy water and trudged toward the utility room. I followed her with the flea powder. “You know, Mom,” I said, “watching Dad just now reminded me that I have to get a haircut today.”

  She wasn’t surprised. “I can’t blame you for not wanting to be his next victim,” she said. “Take the money out of my wallet and get going.”

  BoBo followed me to the barbershop. Huge hunks and patches of hair had been cut away unevenly all over his body. He looked a lot like the fairway when Dad plays golf.

  I left BoBo outside the barbershop and took my seat in the giant chrome and red-leather chair. I looked into the mirror. With the apron on I looked like a genuine choirboy, which got me thinking about the “Hallelujah.” I could feel my throat tighten up into a fist.

  My throat was still tight when I woke up the next morning. Mom had a white shirt ironed for me and had bought a yellow-and-red-checked clip-on bow tie.

  “I can’t wear the bow tie,” I whined. “It’s ugly. Everyone will laugh at me.”

  “Don’t be nervous just because you have a solo,” Mom said. “Nobody will laugh at you.”

  “They’ll be too busy laughing at your voice,” snapped Betsy, who had stepped down off her throne and into my room just long enough to be snotty to me. I was doomed.

  “You know why they call it a solo?” Betsy cracked again. “Because by the time you finish you’ll be all alone.”

  Johnny’s mom picked me up on time. I sat up front with her and let him and Brent have the back seat to themselves. Brent leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “Your head looks like the hair on my old man’s butt.” I kept my mouth shut. If I’d had a pair of scissors, I’d have clipped his fingers off.

  The choir room was just behind the altar in the front of the
church. It had its own entrance from the parking lot. We went inside and put on our blue robes. Mine didn’t zip up high enough to cover my bow tie. When it was time, we marched out like a jury entering a courtroom and took our places in the pews to the side of the altar.

  We sang the first hymn and one of the deacons delivered the first reading. We sang another hymn and a newlywed couple shared the second reading and drove us nuts. He’d start a sentence and she’d finish it. Then he’d start another and she’d finish it.

  Reverend Sears was sitting in meditation, heating up for his sermon, when a man in the front pew jumped up and pointed out the window. “A man is runnin’ off with the choir pocketbooks,” he hollered. “Get him.”

  Reverend Sears shot up from his chair and dashed out the back door like a rocket. From where I was standing, I watched a thickset man running across the parking lot with all the ladies’ purses slung around his neck and shoulders. He must have sneaked in the back door and taken them from the choir changing room. Then I saw Reverend Sears chasing after him. He was a lot faster and tackled the thief from behind. They went down onto the rough asphalt and rolled over and over until a group of church men pulled the thief up onto his feet. They marched him slowly across the parking lot, through the back door, and around to the altar. One of the men used his own necktie to tie the thief’s hands behind his back. The deacon brought around the purses and set them on the altar, to the relieved sighs of the choir members.

  Then Reverend Sears stood up next to the man and cried out, “What is your name, sinner!”

  “Candy Itani,” he whispered.

  “Louder,” demanded Reverend Sears. “And lift your eyes from the floor and face those you have sinned against.”

  “Candy Itani,” he said more loudly and looked out at the congregation. He was bleeding from both his elbows, the knees in his dark trousers were ripped open, and his pink shirt was cloudy with sweat. He was still breathing heavily and trying to wipe the sweat from his eyes onto his round shoulders.

  “Now, don’t try to run away,” said Reverend Sears as he let go of Candy’s arm and stepped toward the congregation. “So often I have stood up here and preached that stealing is a sin against God and all mankind,” he said, holding the Bible aloft. “I have read passages in the Bible about thieves. We have read about thieves in our newspapers. Some of us have had our homes violated by thieves. They rob us for drugs and alcohol. For gambling and girlfriends. For nice clothes and cars, out of laziness and sloth, and for the sport of stealing, yes… even for the sinful pleasure of taking what does not belong to them.”