Dead End in Norvelt by Jack Gantos Read Free Book Online

People want a hand up —not a hand out .”
    He did always say that and I guess hearing his own words thrown back at him settled him down. “You’re right,” he agreed. “I just want to get ahead in the world and this town is a dead end—basically it’s the same do-nothing day here over and over.”
    “Well, I’d rather everyone have the same basic food on their plate,” Mom said, “instead of some rich people eating steak and some poor people eating beans.”
    “Or leftover macaroni,” Dad grumbled, and I heard his fork peck at his plate like the turkeys pecking at feed in their tin bowls.
    I waited for Mom to say something more but she didn’t. It was so odd how they never really ended a conversation. They just seemed to stop talking at some awkward, cliff-hanging moment and then Mom would attend to washing the dishes and Dad would silently read the newspaper.
    I knew Dad wasn’t planning to move us to Russia because they were poorer than we were. He wanted to move to Florida, where a hardworking man could make big money building houses for rich people. But first he had to convince Mom to uproot herself and that was not going to be easy.
    *   *   *
     
    Now as I rested my head against the tractor steering wheel while pinching my nose closed I knew Dad was waiting to hear the engine crank up and for me to do what I was told. As soon as I mow that corn, I said to myself, it will be like lighting the fuse on a stick of dynamite. But I had no choice. I turned the key and got down to business. There were three rows left. I gripped the steering wheel, hit the gas, and mowed down the first row, turned sharply and mowed up the second row, then gunned it down the third row like I was headed for the checkered flag. I glanced over my shoulder and didn’t see Mom as I parked the tractor over by the pony pen. War Chief was rubbing himself against the rough cinder-block wall and snapping his big teeth at the turkeys, who stared back at him with their heads turned sideways as if they were ready for the chopping block. “You better watch yourself,” I warned War Chief as I ran toward the garage. “Mom’s gonna be on the warpath at any moment.”
    When I got to the garage I pounded on the door. “Hey, Dad!” I hollered desperately. “Let me in.” I knew he was up to something Mom wouldn’t like, but he knew I could mostly keep a secret except for the times my nose would betray me. All Mom had to do to get the truth out of me was hold me by the chin, look me in the eye, and ask her question. If my nose stayed dry, I was telling the truth. If I leaked one little drop of blood, then she knew I was lying.
    I kept pounding on the garage door until he pulled it open. “Get in,” he ordered, and grabbed the front of my T-shirt and yanked me inside. As he closed the door and relocked it my eyes adjusted to the dim garage light, and that’s when I saw the green fuselage of a small airplane on the trailer, with the wings and wheels and other parts carefully laid out on the floor.
    “Wow,” I said, staring at it from prop to tail. “What is it?”
    “It’s an army surplus J-3,” he said, smiling proudly. “The same as a Piper Cub. We used them during the war as training planes and for spotting enemy subs and all kinds of things.”
    “Can you put it together?” I asked, pointing at all the pieces.
    “Sure,” he said with confidence. “I took it apart so I suppose I’ll just reverse the process.”
    “Do you know how to fly it?”
    “Somewhat,” he said loosely, “but I’ll take a few lessons just to keep your mom happy—then I can teach you too.”
    “This is why you wanted me to mow the corn, right?” I asked.
    He grinned widely. “Yep,” he said. “You and I are building a runway out back and we need that field so we can fly anywhere we want at any time.”
    “Cool,” I said. “What about the bomb shelter?”
    “We’ll get to that later,” he said dismissively. “We’ll start the