Me & Jack

by Danette Haworth

  “He is.” Prater shrugged. “He’s in the house.”

  Great. Now Prater could act any way he wanted. Plus, Dad only let me come because he thought Mr. Prater would be here with us. But it would be all right; Ray and Prater had done this lots of times. Nothing bad would happen.

  Ray stood at the bottom of the tree and looked up. The yo-yo was out of sight. “Man, this tree house is going to be great.”

  Prater walked up beside Ray. “Yeah, wait till it’s done.” Then he glanced at me. “Did Ray tell you about it?”

  When I shrugged, he went on. “It’s going to be like a little house. And on this side”—he motioned with his hand—“there’ll be a window but with no glass. Dad’s planning to mount a pulley with a line for targets.” He pointed to the fallen tree. “It’ll be hooked up to that tree. Then I can sit in the tree house and practice shooting from a stand.”

  Ray nodded. He knew what Prater was talking about. I’d ask Ray later.

  Prater walked past us and nailed a poster onto the overturned tree. A bunch of black circles inside of each other and a bull’s-eye right in the middle. I sighed.

  Ray dropped a block of wood on the grass. “This is where you stand.”

  Prater grabbed one of the rifles, loaded it, and stepped up to the block. He cocked the gun, brought it to his eye, and fired. It was loud, but not as loud as I thought it would be.

  “Ha!” Prater said. “Look at that.” A hole showed through one of the rings of the target.

  “Good one!” Ray said.

  Ray took a turn, hitting the white part of the paper outside the target.

  “Pretty good,” Prater said.

  It was my turn. My hands felt shaky as I took the rifle from Ray. The barrel was warm. The gun was long but not too heavy. I tried to shoot like they had, but the rifle just snapped.

  Prater laughed through his nose. “You have to load it first.”

  I glanced at him and then at the rifle. I scanned the barrel trying to remember exactly how they had done it.

  He snorted and grabbed the gun from me. He took a shiny brass bullet from a box beside the block. “Like this,” he said. He pulled the lever down, and the casing from the used bullet popped out. Then he dropped the new bullet into the same compartment and snapped the lever closed. “You can carry the gun around like this ’cause it can’t shoot. Then if you see something—” He spun toward the target, pulled the hammer back, and fired. Another neat hole inside the target.

  He held the gun out to me. “Try again.”

  I gave him a sharp nod and took the rifle from him. The barrel was even warmer. Bending down, I took a bullet from the box and stood up. Prater’s tiny eyes watched everything I did. The lever was easy to pull down, but the casing popped out and startled me. I almost dropped the rifle. Prater huffed. I slammed the lever shut.

  “Hey, be careful!” Prater said. “That gun used to be my dad’s.”

  I acted like I didn’t hear him.

  The hammer was hard to pull back. I had to use both thumbs. Slowly, I raised the gun and tried to steady it, but I couldn’t hold it perfectly still.

  “Come on, already,” Prater said.

  My eyes darted to him and quickly back to the target. I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and squeezed the trigger. I expected to feel the power of the gun, maybe even be knocked back a little, but it was just kind of a loud pop. A wisp of smoke trailed out of the end of the barrel.

  “Good try,” Ray said.

  “Yeah, right,” Prater said.

  There were still only three holes in the target. “Did I hit it?”

  “No!” Prater grabbed the rifle. “Just watch me.” He loaded, cocked, and fired. Blam! It tore a fourth hole into the target, this one even closer to the bull’s-eye. He turned to me, smug. “That’s how you do it.”

  Ray took a turn, hitting an inside ring, and then it was my turn. I was determined not to mess up again in front of Prater. I couldn’t care less if I hit the target or not, but Prater cared—this had become a test I had to pass in order to be friends. I popped out the casing, loaded the bullet, and tried to pull the hammer back with one thumb like they did, but it was too hard. Again, I had to grip the rifle with two hands and use both thumbs to cock it. This time when I raised the gun, I steadied it against my shoulder, squinted, aimed, and squeezed the trigger.

  Prater clicked his tongue in disgust. Still five holes. Heat seeped into my face.

  He grabbed the rifle from me and exchanged it with the other gun. “Here,” he said, thrusting the new gun at me. “Maybe you can use this one. It’s a BB gun. BB for babies.”

  “Geez,” Ray said.

  “What?” Prater asked. “Just joking.”

  I pushed the BB gun back to him. “Naw, I think I’m done shooting. I’ll just watch.”

  “Okay, little baby.”

  “Alan,” Ray chided.

  Prater rolled his eyes. He raised the BB gun and fired toward the target. A neat little circle appeared near the bull’s-eye. “Ha!” he shouted victoriously. He sent Ray to the barn to get another BB gun, and then he asked, “Hey, kid, ever go hunting?”

  I looked at him. This was some sort of trap, something he would make fun of me for. “Why?”

  “Just wanted to know.” Prater lifted the BB gun up and got ready to fire. I turned an eye toward the target.

  Pop. He cranked the gun again, aiming up a tree to the right of the target. Pop. Pop. What was he doing? I looked through the branches. A squirrel clung to the branch, staring at Prater.

  I didn’t even think about it—I pushed him just as he got off the next shot.

  He whipped around and glared at me. “You idiot! What’d you do that for?”

  Prater was bigger than me, and I could see up his nose. I forced myself to stare back. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the squirrel dart into the next tree. “You could’ve killed him,” I said.

  “I would’ve if it hadn’t been for you. What are you,” he snarled, “a wuss?”

  “No!” I tried to stand my ground. “It’s just—you don’t need to be shooting innocent squirrels.” The moment I said it, I wished I hadn’t. I mean, I believed what I said, but it didn’t sound very he-man, especially since Prater thought he was some big gunslinger.

  He drilled holes into me with his eyes.

  When I didn’t say anything, he gathered the bullets and the other gun, then yelled to Ray, who was coming back, “Forget it! He’s a wussy!”

  It was one thing to have Prater call me that—he was an idiot—but if Ray laughed at me, I was done for. That would be it for me and him as friends.

  Prater told him how I knocked off the shot.

  Ray looked from Prater to me, then up in the branches. “I like squirrels,” he said.

  Prater huffed. “Whatever. Let’s do something else.”

  “Lemonade!” CeeCee hollered from the back porch.

  I followed them down the yard, not quite behind them, not quite with them either.

  On the bike ride home, I told Ray about the arrowheads Jack and I had found. He stopped by to see them. “Wow,” he said, inspecting the arrowheads under the light in my room. He pressed his thumbs against the points. “These are cool. Maybe we could find one for me.”

  “Sure,” I said. Jack had draped himself across my legs, and I petted him. “How about tomorrow?” When Ray hesitated, I added, “I mean, if you’re not busy with Prater or anything.” I shrugged to show it didn’t matter to me either way.

  He handed the arrowheads back. “Well, I am supposed to go over to his house tomorrow. Could Alan come?”

  My next words came out before I even had time to make them up. “My dad says I’m only allowed to have one friend over at a time when he’s gone.”

  Ray nodded. Good, he believed it. I pushed the shoe boxes back under the bed. “So, does Prater always shoot squirrels?”

  Ray sighed. “He shot a deer once, but his dad had to shoot it again because it was still alive. They l
ike to go hunting.”

  It figured—Prater and his dad, out shooting innocent animals. I said, “Does everyone around here hunt?”

  “Not really. I know I don’t like to.” He frowned. “Once, when I was little, I went over to Alan’s house to play but no one answered the front door, so we went around to the back and this huge deer was hanging upside down from the roof of the porch. It was all bloody and ripped apart where the bullet had come out.”

  I made a face. I would never hurt an animal on purpose.

  “Alan was, like, all excited because his dad was going to give the antlers to him,” he said. “The deer was kind of twirling, and when its face turned, it was looking right at me. Uncle Bruce told me it was Rudolph. I started crying—I mean, I was only five. My mom yelled at him for saying that, and then my aunt had us go in the house.”

  I imagined the deer, strung up like meat at a butcher’s, its eyes staring. Rudolph. “So your uncle was there, too?” I asked.

  He looked confused for a second, then said, “Uncle Bruce is Alan’s dad. We’ve always called each other’s parents ‘aunt’ and ‘uncle.’ ”

  One big, happy family. “So do all of you ride horses?”

  “Yeah, you ever ride?”

  “No, I’ve never been on a horse before.” I didn’t feel stupid admitting that to Ray. “Do you ride a lot? At Prater’s house?”

  “I ride some,” Ray said with a shrug, “but not too much. His dad doesn’t like to break their training by having other people ride them. He’s even pickier than Alan.”

  I kind of liked hearing him say something bad about Prater. “Yeah, he’s picky,” I said.

  Ray tilted his head and looked at me sideways. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you know, like what you just said.” I tried to sound casual.

  He raked his fingers back and forth through the carpet. “He’s picky, but he’s okay.”

  I did not want to hear that. “But why did he try to shoot that squirrel?”

  Ray shrugged his shoulders. “I guess he’s used to it, you know.”

  I wasn’t willing to forgive Prater that easily. “He didn’t even care if he killed it.”

  “I know,” Ray said, then he looked directly at me. “But he’s my cousin.”

  chapter 10

  Jack and I spent the next few days going down roads we hadn’t been on before. A few kids were outside, but we didn’t really meet anyone. That was okay; I had Jack. Some days, I didn’t even ride my bike; I’d just run with him.

  We got home from one of our runs to find Millie at the kitchen table with a plate in front of her and another plate in front of an empty chair.

  “There you are!” she said. “I was getting ready to eat without you.”

  I laughed and sat down. Jack settled at my feet. Millie sure knew how to fix lunch: a ham and cheese sandwich with lettuce surrounded by potato chips and a pickle. Sure looked better than the thin peanut butter sandwiches I’d been fixing for myself.

  “How’s your dad doing?”

  I shrugged. “Fine.”

  “I heard Mark Zimmerman is coming home in July. Maybe he’ll make it for the July Fourth festival.”

  I’d heard about that festival in church. “Who’s Mark Zimmerman?”

  “Oh, I thought maybe you knew the family. Mark’s in Vietnam.”

  “Nope.” I chowed down.

  “Maybe your dad has met his parents. They go to your church.”

  Yeah, now I remembered. The local boy. Mark Zimmerman. I nodded thoughtfully. I felt relieved knowing that someone everyone liked was coming home. That would show them that recruiters weren’t bad people.

  “So what’s been going on with you?” she asked between bites. “What have you been up to?”

  “You know, just hanging around.” Salt and vinegar potato chips—my favorite.

  “What about those boys you met? Have you been playing with them?”

  I thought of Ray, but then stupid Prater took over. “I only saw them that one day,” I said. “I’m kind of busy anyway. You know, with Jack and all.”

  “Hmm.” Millie nodded slowly. She sipped her coffee, set it down, and grabbed her purse. Then she pulled out some money and handed it to me. “After lunch, I want you to go on over to Tysko’s. You know where that is?”

  I nodded; it was the corner grocery store just past Ray’s house.

  “I want you to get an ice cream cone. There’s enough there for two.”

  “You want me to bring you back one?” That would be hard; it would melt and run down my hand.

  Millie laughed. “Not me, honey, I’m trying to lose weight! You go and treat your friend to ice cream.” She sat back in her chair.

  Great idea! Who could say no to ice cream? I stuffed the money into my pocket. “Thanks, Millie,” I said, smiling. She smiled, too, already back to her sandwich; I gobbled down the rest of mine. Maybe after ice cream, Ray and I could play basketball or something.

  I screeched my chair back and slid my dishes on the counter. “Is it okay, can I go now?”

  Millie held up one finger and swallowed. Then she said, “The turtle sundae is excellent.”

  I got on my bike and kept Jack on my right side. That way, I could keep him safe from cars. He trotted along; running was just about his favorite thing. There was no breeze today and no clouds, just the sun beating down on us. Heat rose from the tar. That ice cream was sure going to be good.

  As we coasted around the bend, I saw Ray yo-yoing in his driveway.

  “Ray!” I shouted.

  An old lady with puffy hair sat on the porch of the house before Ray’s. She startled when I yelled. I caught a glimpse of black and white jumping off her lap—a cat, I think. “Sorry!” I called out but kept going. I pedaled faster and skidded to a stop in Ray’s driveway.

  “Hiya!” he said. He patted Jack’s head, then stood, threw the yo-yo down, and whipped it around the opposite finger. The yo-yo landed on the string still spinning. “Man on trapeze.”

  “Cool,” I said. “Can you do walk-the-dog?”

  Ray laughed. “Beginner’s trick.” But he did it anyway. Jack sniffed an imaginary trail left by the yo-yo before Ray pulled it up.

  “I can never do that with my yo-yo—it just comes right back up.”

  He cupped his yo-yo and nodded. “You probably have one of those yo-yos that’s tied around the axle. Mine’s got a slip string—”

  Just then the screen door banged and Prater barged out holding a basketball. Oh, man. Why does he have to be here?

  “Hey, kid!” Prater called, clobbering down the stairs. “Shoot any squirrels lately?”

  Real funny. “About as many as you have.”

  He smirked but pulled up fast when he saw Jack.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. I couldn’t help myself—I wanted to mess with him after the way he acted the other day. I laid my bike down and walked closer to Prater with Jack.

  He shuffled backward. He didn’t take his eyes off Jack. His hand fumbled behind him, raking the air for the porch rail.

  All of a sudden, shame washed over me. I knew Prater’s weak spot, and I was using Jack as a weapon to hit it. That was wrong on both parts. Prater had been a jerk with the guns, but I remembered how he’d let me pet his horse—how he didn’t make fun of me when I thought the horse was going to bite me.

  I didn’t really want him to be afraid of Jack. I wanted him to like Jack. Besides, Jack was a good dog. I stooped, pretending to fix his collar. Without looking at Prater I said, “Come on over here and pet him. He won’t bite.”

  Prater spoke in a quiet voice. “I thought we were going to play twenty-one.”

  “Yeah, in a second,” Ray said, coming up to Jack. Jack greeted him by snuffling into his hand. “Jack won’t hurt you.”

  “I know that!” Prater snapped. He huffed and puffed for a second. “Geez! What’s the big deal?” Shaking his head, he took a few wary steps closer.

  Jack growled.

 
Prater jumped back. “I knew it! He’s an attack dog!”

  “No, he’s not!” I tried to calm my voice. “Look,” I said, “bend down so you’re not looming over him. When you stick out your hand, make a loose fist and hold it out so he can sniff it.”

  Prater licked his lips and swallowed before following my instructions. I let the leash out a little and Jack moved toward him, giving his tail a faint wag. When Jack’s nose touched his hand, Prater stiffened and squeezed his eyes shut.

  Jack’s muscles tensed and he barked.

  Prater scrambled backward. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Dogs can sense fear,” I started. “He probably—”

  “I’m not afraid!” He stood and made a wide arc around us to the driveway. “I just don’t like him, okay? Stupid dog.”

  I pulled Jack closer to me. “He’s not stupid.”

  “Alan, just be more relaxed, like with Shadow,” Ray said.

  Prater stood and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Who cares? I don’t care; he’s just a weird dog, that’s all.”

  I pressed my lips together. I wished I had never come here.

  “Jack’s not weird,” Ray said and laughed. “You are.” He chucked Prater on the shoulder.

  “Yeah, right,” Prater said, returning a light punch.

  Ray looked at me. “You want to shoot baskets, then? We could play twenty-one or horse.”

  I jammed my hand into my pocket, fingering the bills. There was probably enough for three cones. Not that I wanted Prater along, but I couldn’t invite Ray without asking Prater, too. Maybe this would work out. If I bought him ice cream, he might be nicer to me. Maybe he would like me better. Maybe he would like Jack better.

  “Millie gave me money for ice cream,” I said. “She said I could treat you.” I looked at Prater. “Both of you.”

  chapter 11

  Tysko’s sat on the corner down from Ray’s house. We rode past a farmer driving a tractor on the road and turned into the parking lot. Picnic tables sat in front of the store and it looked like a lot of people had the same idea as we did. We leaned our bikes against a table and hurried into line just as a lady was getting her cone.