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

stupid, and you smell,” he said as he rolled over and pulled the covers across his head.
    I raised my fist in the air. “You’ll die later,” I said. “OnceI figure out a way to dispose of your body.” Then I dressed as quickly as possible and went back into the bathroom. I sprayed myself from top to bottom with Bay Rum cologne. What powerful cologne did morticians use, I wondered. I’d love to get some.
    When I opened the door to the garage the same gamy smell was in the air. It made the inside of my nose sting. There was nothing I could do about it. I put another layer of trash bags around my coffin and then balanced it across the seat of my bike and the handlebars. I walked it to school. If I took the bus, kids would be climbing out the windows to get away from me.
    Mr. Gilette must have thought I would never do what he suggested in order to pass shop. When he saw me drag the coffin through the classroom door he seemed pretty shocked. Then when he smelled me he jumped to action.
    â€œTake that outside,” he ordered, as he marched toward me with his hand over his nose and mouth.
    â€œYes, sir,” I replied. I took it around back where all the scrap lumber was kept and began to unwrap the tape and pull off the plastic bags.
    When he caught up to me he put his hands on his hips and stared down at the coffin. “Did you actually dig up your dead dog?” he asked.
    â€œYes, sir,” I replied. “I didn’t have time to make another coffin.”
    â€œIs the dog still in there?” he asked.
    â€œNo, sir,” I replied.
    â€œWell, it smells like he is.”
    â€œIt’s all the worms,” I explained. “And maggots.”
    I thought he was going to throw up so I got right to the point.
    â€œAre you going to pass me?” I asked.
    â€œYes,” he wailed, pulling the neck of his T-shirt up over his nose as he stepped back. “But not because of your woodwork. Because you’re a sick puppy and I don’t want to have to deal with you again.”
    I smiled. “Thank you, sir,” I replied.
    â€œNow I want you to go home and put your dog back into that coffin and rebury it,” he instructed. “I’ll write you a pass.”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “That was my plan, anyway.”
    I took the long way home. I wanted to make sure everyone was gone by the time I returned. For a moment I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to repeat seventh grade, or go to wood-shop camp. But then I began to imagine what it was going to be like digging BeauBeau back up in the light of day. I could make nose plugs out of Kleenex and cologne, and wear sunglasses. I was going to need rubber gloves to grab him. And I didn’t think I’d ever eat a Slim Jim again.



One
    My dad always said that in order to make a hard job easier you needed the proper tools, like having the perfect three-pound hammer for cracking BeauBeau’s legs into place. So I went on a search until I found the perfect writing tool. It was an old portable Underwood manual typewriter that sounded like a Gatling gun when I really got it going. It came in a square black carrying case with a built-in lock and key, and I could fit it into the big front basket of my bicycle and take it to the library, or the beach, or any other lucky writing spot. Plus, it made me look like a writer. A real writer. Not a scribbler. Not a dabbler. Not some kid with a writing hobby. But a real professional with a novel in his brain just aching to be written. That was me. All I needed was a good story and I was ready to cash in.
    I got the Underwood for a great price at a yard sale. I had been riding my bike down the street when I saw it. Ipulled into the driveway of a very tidy house. Everything the lady had for sale—old photographs, pottery, kitchen utensils, and books—was marked with a little orange price tag neatly stuck to it.
    â€œDoes this still work?” I asked