Free Jack Adrift by Jack Gantos Page A

snapped his fingers. I did.
    He pulled a photo album off the shelf and flipped it open. “Okay,” he said. “What I’m about to show you is for your own good. I just want you to know that when it comes to pets and pet sitters, I’ve had some lousy experiences. So I’m pretty careful about who I hire.” He opened the album and showed me a photo of a big snake wrapped around his neck. “My beautiful python,” he said wistfully. “This was when he was alive.” Then he pointed to another photo. The snake looked sunburned. “The sitter,” he growled, “thought the snake was cold and warmed him up in the oven.”
    â€œI’m sorry. Deeply grieved,” I said, in my hushed funeral-parlor voice.

    â€œAnd this one,” he said, flipping the page. “My potbellied pig, Wilbur. Now, who would let a pig chew on an electrical cord?”
    â€œI wouldn’t,” I said. “Only an idiot would.” I was trying my best to sound indignant with the person who had done something so careless. Especially to a pig named Wilbur.
    â€œDarn tootin’,” he said. “Only a moron or a sadist would be so cruel.”
    â€œI’m not cruel,” I said. “Honest.”
    He turned the page and I caught a glimpse of something that looked like a ferret strung up on a curtain cord. Or maybe it was a skunk.
    â€œCould we not look at any more pictures?” I asked, feeling queasy, and guilty. The dead pets reminded me of a very bad moment in my life. I was mowing the lawn back in Pennsylvania when I accidentally ran over my uncle Bill’s pet bunny. I’ll never forget that moment when the mower bucked and something thumped around the blade housing and suddenly the bunny was blasted out in shreds across the grass. In my defense, it’s important to point out that the grass was really high and that in honor of Saint Patrick’s Day Uncle Bill had spray-painted the rabbit green.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” the guy asked. “The photos get to you?”
    â€œYes,” I said. Just then I heard a dog scratching on
the other side of a hallway door. It sounded like someone who had suddenly awakened inside a coffin and was now desperately trying to get out.
    â€œYou better get going,” he advised. “He’s pretty active. Once I let him outside to do his business, I have to flip the sign to DOG OUT and let out a blast on my air horn so the neighbors know to call their kids in.”
    I trotted for the door.
    â€œDo you want the job?” he asked.
    â€œNo,” I said, and broke into a full sprint. As I ran down the sidewalk, I didn’t think it would look very romantic if Miss Noelle saw me running from a dog I was supposed to walk. But I didn’t care. Saving my skin was more important than saving my reputation as a manly man.
    Â 
    That night I made up my own book. I titled it Beware of the Dog and it was all about a dog named Jack that was madly in love with its owner, who happened to be a beautiful fourth-grade teacher with blond hair. One day she was attacked by a student who went mad from staring at her radiant beauty and the dog saved her. From then on, the dog was always at her side and she fed him from her own plate and let him sleep at the foot of her bed on a yellow pillow with the name “Jack” embroidered in thread made from her own hair.
    When I turned in my composition book the next day Miss Noelle held me after class.

    â€œMay I see the book you copied this from?” she asked, with her hand extended.
    â€œIt’s my book,” I said proudly as my eyes twinkled. “I wrote it myself.”
    She paused. “Jack, has that infatuation returned?”
    I lowered my head. “Yes, Miss Noelle,” I replied. “I can’t help it.”
    â€œYou have got to get over it,” she demanded. “I can’t have you sitting in the front row dreaming over me