Jack on the Tracks by Jack Gantos Read Free Book Online

in my belly,” he said, “and I pooped it out.”
    “Gross,” I shrieked, and felt my butt pucker up (TOUCH). “What did it feel like coming out?”
    “The only thing I could think of at the time,” he said, “is once I was picking my nose and I got the hard, crusty part of a booger between my fingers and slowly began to pull it out. And as I did so I could feel something tickling me way up behind the corner of my eye. And as I pulled I felt the tail of the booger slide all the way down the inside of my nose till I had it out. It was all jelly white like a squid tentacle and about four inches long. My biggest booger ever. And that is what the worm felt like, a cold tickle.”
    I could hardly believe what he had just said. I stood there looking at his face, and then at the worm, and back at his face again.
    “Wow,” I said. I just didn’t know what else to say. It was all so weird. Then finally I said, “What are you going to do with it?”
    “Eat it,” he replied ghoulishly. “Give it a taste of its own medicine.”
    He took a knife and fork out of his desk drawer and sliced off an inch.
    “Are you joking?” I asked, wide-eyed.
    “No,” he said. “I asked you over so you’d be a witness when I told everyone at school.”
    “Okay,” I said. “I’m watching.”
    He reached into his desk and pulled out a little paper packet of salt. He poured some on, then quickly sucked the piece of worm off the fork and swallowed (TASTE). “Gave him a taste of his own medicine,” he remarked.
    “That is sick,” I said. “Sick, sick, sick.”
    “Excellent,” he said, and grinned. “Just remember, I’m the number-one sicko in this neighborhood.” He held up his pointer finger like a champion. “Number one and don’t you forget it.”
    Suddenly I had an insight. I figured Tack was fooling me. “That wasn’t a worm,” I said. “That was really spaghetti!”
    He smiled. “Good guess, Henry. We have a new pasta machine that can make a spaghetti strand from here to the moon.” He opened another drawer and pulled out a baby-food jar. “This is the real worm,” he said, frowning. “Only about a foot long. But saying it was seven feet and all made for a better story.”
    “Well, a tapeworm is pretty gross no matter how big.”
    “I wanted the world record,” he said. “I was going for twenty feet.”
    “Eat some more raw meat and give it a shot,” I said.
    “Not yet,” he said. “First I’ll have to fatten up, or there will be nothing left of me but a big, drippy worm.”
    THE END
    The next day I walked up to Mrs. Pierre’s desk first thing and turned in the story. “I really worked hard on this one,” I said. “I hope you like it.”
    “I’m sure I will,” she chirped. “You have such good taste.”
    “You smell very nice today,” I said. “Is your perfume French?”
    “It is. Very perceptive of you,” she replied.
    “You have a little lipstick on your teeth,” I whispered, trying to be discreet.
    She slipped her tongue across her teeth and wiped them clean. I was so eager to be polite I said, “You’re welcome,” before she even had time to say thank you.
    When I turned around there was some guy staring at me. I knew the look. It meant, I can’t stand your guts, you low-life teacher’s pet. I used to stare at brownnosing kids exactly the same way. But that was before I changed my tune and started working with my teacher instead of against her.
    All day I kept imagining Mrs. Pierre reading my story and laughing, then standing in front of the class and reading it out loud as an example of “the fruit of the senses.” I even imagined that she would allow me to sit on the girls’ side because I had proven that I was a boy
not
made of snakes and snails and puppy dogs’ tails.
    When it was time for afternoon recess Mrs. Pierre kept me behind. I smiled up at her and got ready to be praised.
    “I read your story,” she said coldly. “And I was appalled. Shocked. Mortified! It is