Jack's Black Book by Jack Gantos Read Free Book Online

it’s already in the ground,” I stammered. “With a dog in it. A dead dog. My dog.”
    â€œI can’t give you a grade on what I can’t examine,” he said matter-of-factly. Then he grinned with the total pleasureof knowing what he was about to say. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. No coffin, no grade change. It’s your choice.”
    â€œOkay,” I said, and staggered out of school in a daze just thinking about what I had to do. When I got home I stood before BeauBeau’s grave. “I have nothing but respect for you,” I said quietly. “But forgive me, I have to pass seventh grade. I hope you’ll understand.”
    That night I got up out of bed, snuck down to the garage, and got a crowbar out of the toolbox. I hoisted my shovel up over my shoulder and tiptoed around to the backyard. I kept saying to myself, You already did worse to him. Just don’t dwell on it. Now dig him up, open the coffin, flip BeauBeau into the hole, cover him up, and take the coffin to school. Once you pass, you can dig him up again, put him back into the coffin, and everything will be as it was. Now just shut up, turn off your low-level brain, and dig a hole like a big dumb BeauBeau IV.
    I stood on the grave and looked down at the mound of dirt. It was covered with plastic flowers, BeauBeau’s dog toys, his water dish, and a little cross I had made out of Slim Jims. I bent down and carefully removed all the decorations.
    When I was ready, I took a deep breath and pushed the shovel into the soft ground, then tossed the dirt to one side. I stuck the shovel in again, and again, until I heard a hollow thud. Too bad it wasn’t buried treasure. I hit the top of the coffin lid again. At that moment a neighborhood dog barked and I jumped back as though I had stuck myfinger in an electrical socket. I let go of my shovel and ran around to the kitchen door and dashed inside.
    â€œI can’t… do it,” I panted, while standing in the dark. “I’d rather … fail seventh grade … than dig up the dead.”
    Even though I said that, I knew I didn’t mean it. Deeper within me, a stronger voice roared back. “You can’t go to wood-shop camp. You’ll be carving ships in a bottle for the rest of your life. Now get out there and do what you have to do.”
    I took a deep breath, narrowed my eyes, and marched across the yard. Other writers had done what I was about to do. Once I had read about the poet Dante Gabriel Rossetti. When his wife died he put a manuscript of unpublished love poems in her hands just before they closed the coffin. No one in the world would ever read them but her spirit, he thought romantically. She was the love of his life. But a while later he wasn’t feeling too romantic when he had a hard time writing any more good poems and needed money. So one dark night he went to the cemetery and dug up his wife and pulled the poems out of her bony fingers. While he had the coffin open he also took the jewels she was wearing. He later published the book and probably pawned the jewels until the checks on the new book started rolling in.
    â€œIn order to be a writer,” I whispered to myself as I picked up the shovel, “you have to be tough. You have to be willing to dig up the dead for your art. I love you, BeauBeau,” I said. “But a man has to do what a dog can’t.”
    When I cleared the dirt from the top of the coffin I put down my shovel. I bent over and wiggled my hand through the damp soil until I felt the pallbearer’s handle on the front. I got a grip on it and pulled. The coffin wouldn’t budge. I crawled on top of it and began to scoop the dirt out around the sides. I looked over at the house to see if any lights had come on. None. So far, so good. If Betsy came out and saw me she’d call the cops and have me sent to the funny farm, where I’d be hanging out with guys who