Free Jake and Lily by Jerry Spinelli

all.”
    “Give it.”
    “He’s a boy. Three jacks.”
    “Bull,” I said. “Four queens.” I took the pot.
    He shrugged. He got up. “Let’s go shopping. I need furniture.”
    “Poppy, you have to have an answer. You’re old. Old people have the answers.”
    “Ask me tomorrow,” he said. “Maybe I’ll have a better answer then.”
    So we went to Goodwill and got him some furniture. And he got a secondhand bike till he can afford his own car. And he looked for a job. I went with him the next day and the next. And everyday, as soon as he opened the front door, I said, “Why?” And every day he said, “He’s a boy.”
    Until today, when he said, “Maybe you’re asking the wrong question.”
    I got excited. “What’s the right question?”
    “I don’t know,” he said.
    I pounded his chest and buried my face in his shirt and pretended I was bawling, but part of me wasn’t pretending.

Jake
    A s I said before, it’s not enough to just observe a goober. You have to mess with him. You have to.
    So day after day we pulled up to the curb at Soop’s house and we watched him hammer and saw away in his orange hat. He asked how our blisters were coming along, and we told him they were still pretty bad and we acted all sad because we couldn’t help him build the clubhouse.
    We asked him tons of questions, just to keep him talking. He was our daily entertainment. Better than the movies. For instance, when we asked him what his favorite subject was, he said, “Oh, I would say mathematics.” Not just Math . But Oh, I would say mathematics . Classic goober answer.
    If we didn’t get a good goober answer right away, we kept digging.
    “Do you have a girlfriend?”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    “I’m still a little young for that.”
    “You like girls, don’t you?”
    “Sure.”
    “Why?”
    “They’re people. I like all people.”
    “Do you think girls are as good as boys?”
    “Absolutely. I believe in gender equality.”
    Bingo! I believe in gender equality. It’s like digging for night crawlers. If you keep at it, sooner or later you’ll come to a beaut.
    Our questions got sillier and sillier.
    “How many bites does it take you to finish a hamburger?”
    “Where would you wipe your nose if you forgot your handkerchief?”
    “Did you ever pee while standing on your head?”
    By now we didn’t even try to hide it. We were hooting and howling at the stuff he said, and hewas laughing right along. Goobers don’t know when they’re being laughed at. They just think they’re funny.
    I’ve been thinking about it, and here’s the thing. A true goober—you can’t insult him. You can’t hurt him. Physically, sure. But that’s all. So go ahead, mess with him. Insult him. Mock him. Embarrass him. Boo him. Everything rolls off the inhabitants of Planet Goober. They’re invincible.
    Anyway, that’s how it went—until today. Somewhere along the line Bump asked him where he moved here from and he said, “Gary, Indiana,” and Bump said, “Did you like it there?” and he said, “Yes,” and Bump said, “So why did you leave?” and there was no answer.
    We were all so shocked, it took a minute to reach our brains: He didn’t answer . It’s totally ungoober-like to not answer a question. He just went on hammering. “Must not’ve heard,” Bump whispered. So Bump said, “Ernie?”
    The hammer stopped. Ernie cocked his head. That’s another thing he does—he cocks his head when you say his name or ask a question, like he’s moving his ear to scoop up every last sound wavefrom your voice. So he cocks his head and says, “Hello?”
    And Bump says, “I guess you didn’t hear me. I asked you why you moved away from Gary, Indiana.”
    And Soop just stares at Bump. Stares and blinks, stares and blinks. Then he suddenly jumps up and says, “Oops, I just remembered, guys. I have to go in and do something for my mother.” He runs for the door. “Seeya later!”
    We all looked at each other,