by Jon Scieszka
The bats quickly disappeared beyond the trees, and the cops laughed at themselves. Soon, they smashed open the hole and lowered the extension pole with a wire basket on the end. After a few scoops through the bottom muck, they pulled up the small revolver and shook it out of the basket and into a plastic bag.
They turned and walked away, smiling and teasing each other like kids with their hands darting to and fro, like vampire bats. I watched them leave and thought of the moment Mom had pulled the revolver out of the paper bag and pointed it across the dining room table. “Nothing but trouble,” I said to myself.
Later, Betsy fed and bathed the baby and put him to bed. I ate a sandwich and went to my room. I had homework. I opened a book to read, but thinking about Mom and our family and what might happen to us had me in a knot. I closed the book and just sat there with my elbows on my knees, and my eyes out of focus.
When Betsy and I heard Dad’s car pull up the driveway, we ventured out of our rooms and stood in the living room. After he opened the door and saw us, he just shrugged and shook his head back and forth. “For now they’ve charged her,” he said, and bit down on his lip. “I don’t have the cash for bail just now, but the lawyer and I will try to get it tomorrow.”
He opened the refrigerator and removed a plate of leftovers and a beer. I watched him eat. It was like watching someone feasting on another person’s troubles. It probably wasn’t nice to think about him that way, but that is how I felt. He was the one who should be charged. He gave her the gun. He took her shooting. He should take the blame.
The next day Betsy stayed home with the baby, and I stayed home just because it seemed impossible to get out of my pajamas or take a shower and get dressed and stand at a bus stop or do anything that now belonged to the life I used to have. There had been a good life with Mom, and now there was going to be a lesser life without her. What was that life going to be like? I drifted aimlessly down to her room and opened her closet door. Her dresses just hung there. They were lifeless without her, and so were we.
When Dad came home after dark, I dashed into the living room to greet him. Across his arm was draped Mom’s purse, and in a brown grocery bag, he had her other things. Without thinking I blurted out, “Did they execute her?”
Dad winced. “No,” he replied. “They just put her in a jail uniform.”
Betsy walked down with the baby in her arms. She was feeding him from a bottle. She didn’t raise her voice, but there was a dark look on her face when she said, “Well, I guess this means you still don’t have the money to bail her out.”
“Not yet,” he replied. “But I did talk with her. They are treating her okay. She asked about you kids.”
He said other things, but I wasn’t listening. I returned to my room and switched off the lights. Somehow the little bit of hope I had was easier to see in the darkness.
That night, Betsy opened my bedroom door and quickly closed it behind herself. “Look,” she whispered. “It’s clear that Dad’s not going to get bail money, and the lawyer can’t do anything, so I’ve been thinking of a plan on how to save Mom—and you can help.”
“I’ll do anything,” I said, jumping at the chance. “Just name it.”
“I want you to pick up the phone and call the detective. Tell him you fired the gun. They can’t throw a kid in jail.”
“That’s crazy,” I said. “They know it’s not me.”
“You have to insist on it,” she replied. “Convince them that you did it and Mom is taking the blame for what you did. You can say that.”
“I can’t,” I pleaded.
“Look, you are a kid. They’ll just slap you on the wrist and let you go. But they might put Mom away in prison for years, and then what would happen to us?”
“You’d have to be the mother,” I replied, “and take care of the baby.”
“I’m willing to do my part,” she said, “whatever it takes. And now it’s time for you to do your part. If you take the blame, then no matter what they do to you, the family will be saved. We’ll have Mom and Dad and the baby . . .”
“. . . and you,” I blurted out. “What about me?”
“This isn’t about what happens to you,” she said directly. “It’s about what you can do to save the family. Besides, no matter what happens, we’ll always be there for you. Like, if you went to a boy’s prison, we’d visit you every Sunday.”
“I would do anything to save Mom,” I replied nervously. “But lying is not what she would want, because she didn’t lie to the police, even when she had the chance to.”
“Listen to me,” she demanded. “Mom called me from jail to check on the baby. And I’m not lying when I say that more than anything in the world, she wants to be home taking care of him. We owe her that much.”
“We owe her our promise to always tell the truth,” I said right back. “So I won’t lie. It’s wrong.”
She looked me up and down and sneered. “What kind of boy are you? You’d rather let her rot in prison than save her?”
“That’s not true,” I replied. “Mom wouldn’t want me to lie.”
“A coward always has an excuse,” she shot back. “The fact is, you won’t even help your own mother.”
Before I could say any more, the baby began to cry. She shot me a detestable glance and then retreated up the hall.
I stood there, feeling pathetic and cowardly. But I couldn’t think of any honest way to help. I knew if I called the police and lied, I would just make it worse. Still, maybe there was something I could do. Maybe I could come up with my own plan to help her and the family. Maybe. But what?
Then, before I could think of a sure-fire plan to spring Mom from prison, the next morning she miraculously showed up. Dad had left for work already, and when I heard a car in the driveway, I looked out the window and saw Mom sitting in the detective’s car.
“Betsy,” I yelled, and ran to the front porch. “Dad must have found the bail money. The police are here with Mom.”
Betsy joined me on the front porch. “I guess Mom took my advice,” she said. “When she called from jail to check on the baby, I told her to tell the police that you did it. She must have because now they’re releasing her and coming to take you away. You better throw yourself at the detective’s feet and beg for mercy.”
“Drop dead,” I said.
Detective Wilton opened his car door and swiftly walked around the front of the car and opened Mom’s door. Betsy ran with the baby to Mom’s side, and the detective walked toward me.
Maybe he is going to take me away, I thought. But when he reached me, it was only to shake my hand. “Your mother is no longer charged as a suspect,” he said politely. “We tested the gun, and it did not fire the bullet that killed the victim.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Then he called Mom over. He had one more bit of business. Mom handed me the baby, and the detective reached into his pocket and withdrew a small brown bag. “I’m returning your pistol. Please, don’t fire it in public places,” he said, reprimanding her.
“Don’t worry,” she assured him. “It will never be fired again as far as I’m concerned.”
As soon as the detective drove away, we went into the house. Mom dashed into the kitchen and began to wash the fingerprint ink off her fingers.
“Hey, Mom,” I asked. “What about the dead man? What happened?”
“It was a family quarrel,” she replied softly. “It was horrid. He was shot in his own home, with his own gun, and by a member of his own family, who dumped his body out by that racetrack.”
“That’s awful,” I said. “But I’m so glad you are back home.”
“Me too,” she said. “Still, I can’t help but feel sorry for that other family. We dodged a bullet, and they did not.”
That was so true.
Once we all settled down, Mom sent Betsy up to the corner store to buy formula for the baby and some snacks for us. “Chocolates,” she said. “Everything that is sinful!”
As soon as Betsy was gone, Mom called me into her bedroom. She held out the gun. “We have to throw this away,” she said secretively. “Someplace where your dad can’t find it.”
“Okay,” I replied. “But you’ll have to drive.” Dad had the company truck, and the car was in the garage.
“Honey,” she said, and gently touched my face, “I haven’t been behind the wheel of a car for years. Me driving is more dangerous than me shooting. Besides, you have to do it alone. Betsy will be back at any minute, and I have to stay with the baby. I’ll call a cab.”
I didn’t want to do it alone, but I didn’t want to be spineless, either. I still felt bad because when Mom was taken away, I couldn’t think of any way to save her. Now I could do my part for the family and save all of us from having a gun in the house. Still, I was scared. Dad would be worse than the police if he figured out what I was doing.
“Where should I hide it?” I asked.
She opened her wallet and gave me twenty dollars. “You pick a spot,” she replied. “But don’t tell me where. It will have to be your secret.”
I took the cab to the fishing pier, which was on a rocky part of the shore, where no one went swimming. I kept the gun in my jacket pocket and walked out to a corner at the very end. I felt suspicious all over, especially with a few fishermen glancing at me. I could feel how angry Dad would be if he knew what I was up to. Even though he didn’t know where I was or what I was doing, I knew he would soon want to know the answer to both those questions. He got upset when he found a tool out of place. He’d definitely be on a rampage when he found his gun missing.
It was cloudy. Seagulls were flapping around. The waves foamed up over the ring of coral reefs to one side. It was now or never. I reached into my pocket and removed the pistol. I leaned back, and in one motion, winged it out there. It hit the blue water and splashed like a fish jumping. I bent down and picked up a broken conch shell and threw that too, then another and another, as though I had been throwing broken shells all along.
“Hey!” one of the fishermen finally called out. “You’re scaring the fish.”
“Sorry,” I said, then I turned and quickly walked back down the pier. Across the street was a hotel, where I caught a cab.
It wasn’t long before I was home. I entered through the back door. Mom saw me before I could get to my room. “He’ll be home soon,” she said, and kissed me on the head, then pushed a handful of candy bars into my jacket pocket. “He’ll be mad, but he’ll get over it. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”
I nodded. I was scared speechless. Would she take care of me before or after he got to me?
Just then, Dad’s tires skidded to a stop as he pulled into the driveway. The car door slammed behind him.
“See,” he called out happily when he opened the front door. “I said you couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn—much less some guy in the dark.”
“Don’t make a joke of this,” Mom replied. “I’m still shaken.”
Dad picked her up by the waist and swung her around. “Let’s go celebrate,” he said. “We’ll drive out to the Lobster Trap for lobsters and a cold beer.”
“Oh, that would be lovely,” Mom replied. She gave him a long kiss. “I’ve had a rough few days.”
“Then let’s get a move on,” he cried, and headed for the bedroom. Then he stopped.
“Hey, where’s the gun?” he asked. “When I called the detective, he said he gave it back to you.”
“I got rid of it,” she said. “It was nothing but bad luck, so let’s not talk about it anymore.”
He laughed like he didn’t believe her. “Did you throw it in the well again?”
“You told me I was stupid for doing that the first time,” she replied as they walked toward their bedroom. “You’ll never find it this time. Never in a million years.”
“We’ll see,” Dad replied, and closed the bedroom door. I couldn’t hear any more after that, but I knew I was going to have to get ready for him.
It didn’t take long for him to shower, and after he finished dressing, he came into my room. He cocked his shoe on the edge of my desk chair and began to tie the laces. “I think you know where that gun is,” he said, and turned his face to look me. I don’t know what he saw in my eyes, but in his I could see he knew Mom had gotten to me.
He waited for me to tell him, but I stuck to my plan and kept my mouth shut.
“Your mother will eventually tell me everything,” he said, tying the other shoe. “She always does.”
“She doesn’t know where it is,” I replied. Then added, “We’re all afraid of it.”
“That’s nonsense. The gun is to protect us. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Yes, there was. We almost lost Mom. And there was the suffering the dead man’s family was enduring.
“You know, I’d like to trust you,” he said evenly. “But you’re making it hard for me because nobody can trust a liar.”
I stood there thinking, He’s taking her to dinner, and I’m taking the blame. But it was worth it to get the gun out of the house.
“Do you have anything more to say?”
I shook my head no.
He shrugged in return, as if it really didn’t matter if he trusted me or not, when trusting a person is one of the things that matters most in life.
He looked in my dresser mirror and adjusted his tie. “I guess you know it disappoints me that you are more like your mother,” he finally said, then marched out, with the door slamming behind him.
I flicked off the light. I wasn’t disappointed in myself.
After a moment Mom cracked open the door. “Jack,” she whispered, in her sneaky voice. “Are you in here?”
I didn’t answer. I did my part, I thought. You do yours.
“Let’s go, killer,” Dad called to Mom from the living room. “I’m hungry.”
Mom continued. “I promise there won’t be any more guns,” she said, and closed the door.
I stood in the dark and didn’t move until I heard the car start. Then I hopped onto the bed and jumped up and down on the mattress. The springs creaked as I got higher and higher. I reached out in the darkness and touched the ceiling with the palms of my hands.
“I’m thirteen years old now,” I said. “If I live to be a hundred, that’s eighty-seven more years of dodging bullets.”
It’s true: Guys Read about heroes and villains. And you just proved it. (Unless you just opened the book to this page and started reading. In which case, we feel bad for you because you missed some pretty heroic stuff.)
Now what?
Now we keep going—Guys Read keeps working to find good stuff for you to read. You read it and pass it along to other guys. Here’s how we can do it:
For more than ten years, Guys Read has been at www.guysread.com, collecting recommendations of what guys really want to read. We have gathered recommendations of thousands of great funny books, scary books, action books, illustrated books, information books, wordless books, sci-fi books, mystery books, and you-name-it books.
So what’s your part of the job? Simple: try out some of the suggestions at guysread.com, try some of the other stuff written by the authors in this book, then let us know what you think. Tell us what you like to read. Tell us what you don’t like to read. The more you tell us, the more great book recommendations we can collect. It might even help us choose the writers for the next installment of Guys Read.
Thanks for reading.
And thanks for helping Guys Read.
BACK AD
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
JON SZIESZCKA (editor) has been writing books for children ever since he took time off from his career as an elementary school teacher. He wanted to create funny books that kids would want to read. Once he got going, he never stopped. He is the author of numerous picture books, middle grade series, and even a memoir. From 2007–2010 he served as the first National Ambassador for Children’s Literature, appointed by the Library of Congress. Since 2004, Jo
n has been actively promoting his interest in getting boys to read through his Guys Read initiative and website. Born in Flint, Michigan, he now lives in Brooklyn with his family. Visit him online at www.jsworldwide.com and at www.guysread.com.
SELECTED TITLES
THE STINKY CHEESE MAN AND OTHER FAIRLY STUPID TALES
(Illustrated by Lane Smith)
The Time Warp Trio series, including SUMMER READING IS KILLING ME
(Illustrated by Lane Smith)
The Frank Einstein series, including FRANK EINSTEIN AND THE ELECTRO-FINGER
(Illustrated by Brian Biggs)
LAURIE HALSE ANDERSON (“General Poophead”) is a bestselling author who writes for kids of all ages. Known for tackling tough subjects with humor and sensitivity, her work has earned many national and state book awards, as well as international recognition. Her first young adult novel, SPEAK, was a New York Times bestseller and a Printz Honor winner. SPEAK is taught at middle schools, high schools, and colleges around the country. Laurie also writes historical fiction; her novel CHAINS was a National Book Award finalist. She lives in northern New York State, where she likes to watch the snow fall as she writes. Visit her online at www.madwomanintheforest.com.
SELECTED TITLES
SPEAK
TWISTED
CHAINS
CATHY CAMPER and RAÚL THE THIRD (“The Wager”) are the author and illustrator, respectively, of the Lowriders in Space series. Cathy is a writer, artist, and librarian. In addition to graphic novels, she also writes picture books and nonfiction and has written articles and stories for children and adults for several different magazines. You can visit Cathy online at www.cathycamper.com. Raúl the Third teaches illustration at the Museum of Fine Arts and the Institute for Contemporary Arts, both in Boston. He was born in Texas and spent his childhood in both Texas and Mexico. You can find him online at www.raulthethird.com.
