Free The Bloody Souvenir by Jack Gantos Page B

grinned sheepishly and leaned toward my ear. “Fishing bait,” he whispered. “A little finger food.”
    â€œDid you catch anything?” I asked.
    â€œA catfish that was big enough to feed the whole family,” he replied. “It was a monster.”
    So if Gary could snip off his extra fingers, I could just pull my ugly wart out as if it were a bad tooth. How hard could it be?
    I opened the front door of the house and didn’t see my mom, so I quickly limped down the hallway and slipped into my room. I kept my toolbox on my dresser, and I opened it up and removed a rusty pair of needle-nose pliers I had found in the street. They must have fallen out of the back of a telephone repairman’s truck. They were a little dirty-looking, so I rubbed them back and forth on my pants. Then I stood next to my bed with the bottom of my back left foot facing up. I twisted around behind me and with the pliers got a deep, unyielding grip on the wart, and just like my dentist I shouted out, “One, two, three—shazam!” And with all my might I ripped the wart out of the bottom of my foot. Instantly I knew this was not a good idea because I actually heard the sound of ripping flesh, which was like a little zipper sound. And then the blood came squirting right out of that hole in my foot and shot about six feet across the room and hit the wall.
    â€œArrrgh!” I cried out, and dropped straight to the floor. The pain was crippling. I kept slapping the floor and muttering the magic words against pain, “Mind over matter…mind over matter…I don’t feel a thing!” But the magic words did not work. The pain was massive. I looked back at my foot and a little fountain of blood was spurting out with every beat of my heart. I’m dying, I thought. I’ve really done it this time.
    After some deep breaths I pulled myself together for a moment and steadied myself against the doorjamb. I peeked around the corner. I didn’t see my mom, so I desperately hopped on one foot down the hall toward the bathroom. I glanced over my shoulder and saw little pools of blood scattered behind me. I knew they might lead to trouble with my mom, but there was nothing I could do at the moment but concentrate all my “mind-over-matter” techniques to block out the pain. I kept hopping and zigzagging down the hall like a wounded rabbit until I lunged into the bathroom, spun around, and wisely locked the door behind me.
    I was out of breath, and between gasps of air I kept chanting, “Now you have done something really, really stupid!” The blood was still burbling out of my foot when I worked my way over to the tub spigot and turned it on. I knew I should clean the wound, but when the water went into the ragged, bloody hole in my foot, I thought I had been jabbed with a hot poker. “Oh, cheese!” I shouted.
    I was blinded by the pain as I danced up and down while splashing bloody water all over the walls. And then just what I dreaded most in the world happened next. There was a loud knocking on the door.
    â€œJack!” my mother said sharply. “What is going on in there?”
    I quickly bit down on my lip and composed myself. “Nothing,” I said blithely as if I really were telling the truth.
    â€œWell,” she continued, “then can you explain why there are blood drops leading from your bedroom to the bathroom?”
    â€œOh, I just had a tiny accident,” I replied with a jolly chuckle. “No big deal.”
    â€œAre you okay?” she pressed.
    â€œYes,” I said in a fake cheerful voice because I was about to explode. My muscles were so contorted I thought all the bones in my body would snap. “I’ll be okay.”
    â€œJust make sure you clean up the hall,” she ordered, and I heard her turn and walk away.
    I instantly shoved a wet washcloth in my mouth and tried not to scream too loudly when suddenly there was more