Jack on the Tracks by Jack Gantos Read Free Book Online Page A

in the
worst
taste possible.”
    I was shocked too. “What’s wrong with it?” I asked.
    “It is everything—the beginning, middle, and end. Simply, it is bad manners to write such a story. You should be ashamed.”
    She thrust it back toward me as if it were a pair of smelly socks.
    “I’m going to be working late tonight,” she said. “I would very much like to discuss your inappropriate work with your parents.”
    “I’m not sure I can get them to come,” I said, worried.
    “Well, see what you can do,” she pressed. “Otherwise I will have no choice but to grade your story harshly.”
    “Okay,” I said. And because I was still trying to please her I added “goodbye” in French.
    She didn’t answer.
           We were sitting at the dining-room table. My plate was piled high with fish sticks floating in a puddle of creamed corn. I was nervous because I knew I was going to have to ask Mom or Dad to meet with Mrs. Pierre.
    “You haven’t touched your food,” Mom observed. “Looks like you lost your best friend.” She must have seen the stunned expression on my face.
    “My teacher hated my story,” I said quietly.
    “Why, honey?” Mom asked.
    “She said it was in bad taste,” I replied.
    “Bad taste?” Betsy asked, incredulous. “You get graded for bad taste? I’d love to have your teacher. I bet she failed you for something because you have the worst taste of anyone I know.”
    “Well, what did you write about?” Mom asked.
    “Tack’s tapeworm,” I said, and shrugged. “No big deal.”
    “Gross!” said Pete.
    “Hey, tapeworms are not in bad taste,” Dad said. “I could tell you some stories that are in really bad taste.”
    “Let’s not,” Mom said, giving him the evil eye.
    “The point is,” Dad said, “there are good stories and lousy stories. Taste has nothing to do with it.”
    “Writing about gross things shows bad judgment,” Mom continued with me, ignoring Dad. “There is no reason you have to discuss this issue in class when there are so many uplifting stories to tell. Why not write about how your sister won that beauty contest in North Carolina.”
    “That would just be
had
writing,” I groaned. Pete laughed.
    “No kidding,” said Betsy. “You couldn’t possibly capture my beauty with the way you butcher the English language.”
    “She wants a parent meeting tonight to discuss it,” I said, finally getting to the point.
    “I just got home from work,” Mom said. “Can’t Mrs. Pierre do it some other time?”
    “I’ll take you,” Dad said. “I have to swing by the Elks Club anyway, so we can drop by the school first.”
    “Thanks,” I said.
    On the way over in the car Dad quietly worked a toothpick around between his teeth.
    “Hey, Dad, did you ever have an insight about life?” I asked.
    “Yeah,” he replied. “I had one. And that was all I needed. When I was about your age I figured out that I could either do and say the things I thought of. Or I’d end up doing and saying the things other people thought of for me. It was that simple.”
    I knew just what he was talking about. And suddenly I had an insight. Dad said what he said because he knew just what I was going through and he was coming to the rescue. I reached over and gave him a tap on the shoulder.
    Dad smiled. “You’re a chip off the old block,” he said. “Now don’t worry about tonight. You just let me do the talking and watch how
a pro
handles this situation.”
           When we came marching through the classroom door Mrs. Pierre had just finished putting on a fresh coat of lipstick and was slipping the tube back into her purse.
    “Nice to meet you,” Dad said, and pointed directly at her mouth. “You got some lipstick on your teeth.” Then, before she could say a word, he got right down to business. “Now what is the problem with Jack’s story?”
    Mrs. Pierre hesitated. I could tell she felt awkward talking about me in front of my face.
    “I’ll be