Author(s): David Klass

Children Fiction

In many ways John just looks to be an entirely ordinary teenager. But how well can anyone really know him? Because, if you knew John, you would be able to answer the following questions: If home is where the heart is, where does John live? If school is a place for learning, where does John go each day? Who is Glory Hallelujah? If friends are people like you, does John have any? How can anyone who is fighting a secret battle for his life know anyone, really? And how can they know him? Reading sample: You donÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂt know me. Just for example, you think IÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂm upstairs in my room doing my homework. Wrong. IÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂm not in my room. IÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂm not doing my homework. And even if I were up in my room I wouldnÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂt be doing my homework, so youÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂd still be wrong. And itÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs really not my room. ItÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs your room because itÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs in your house. I just happen to live there right now. And itÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs really not my homework, because my math teacher, Mrs. Moonface, assigned it and sheÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs going to check it, so itÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs her homework. Her nameÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs not Mrs. Moonface, by the way. ItÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs really Mrs. Garlic Breath. No itÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs not. ItÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs really Mrs. Gabriel, but I just call her Mrs. Garlic Breath, except for the times when I call her Mrs. Moonface. Confusedm Deal with it. You donÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂt know me at all. You donÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂt know the first thing about me. You donÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂt know where IÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂm writing this from. You donÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂt know what I look like. You have no power over me. What do you think I look likee Skinny Freckles Wire-rimmed glasses over brown eyes No, I donÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂt think so. Better look again. Deeper. ItÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs like a kaleidoscope, isnÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂt ite One minute IÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂm short, the next minute tall, one minute IÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂm geeky, one minute studly, my shape constantly changes, and the only thing that stays constant is my brown eyes. Watching you. ThatÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs right, IÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂm watching you right now sitting on the couch next to the man who is not my father, pretending to read a book that is not a book, waiting for him to pet you like a dog or stroke you like a cat. LetÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs be real, the man who is not my father isnÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂt a very nice man. Not just because he is not my father but because he hits me when youÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂre not around, and he says if I tell you about it heÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂll really take care of me. Those are his words, ÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂIÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂll really take care of you, John. DonÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂt rat on me or youÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂll regret it.ÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂàNice guy. But I am telling you now. CanÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂt you hear meh HeÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs petting the top of your head like he would pet a dog, with his right hand, which just happens to be the hand he hits me with. When he hits me he doesnÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂt curl his fingers up into a fist because that would leave a mark. He slaps me with the flat of his hand. WHAP. And now IÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂm watching him stroke your cheek with those same fingers. He holds me tight with his left hand when he hits me so that I canÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂt run away. And now heÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs holding you tenderly with his left hand. And IÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂm telling you this as I watch through the window, but your eyes are closed and you couldnÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂt care less, because heÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs stroking you the way he would stroke a cat and I bet youÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂre purring. You donÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂt know me at all. You think IÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂm a good student. Hah! You think I have friends. Hah! You think IÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂm happy with this life! Hah, hah! Okay, now youÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂre putting down the book that is not a book. ItÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs a ReaderÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs Digest condensation of literature, which is like drinking orange juice made from concentrate. It has no pulp. The key vitamins have been processed out. YouÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂre pressing your head against his shoulder. I can see your toes move inside your pink socks on the coffee table. WhatÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs with this toe movementt Is it passion or athleteÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs foot There is some kind of serious itch there. And now the man who is not my father puts down his book, which is a real book, because heÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs not a stupid or shallow man, just cruel and self-centered. He kisses you long and full on the lips, and then on the side of your neck. And you glance upstairs, nervously, because you think IÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂm up in my room doing my homework. You donÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂt know that IÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂm floating twenty feet above our backyard, watching this display of misplaced affection. No, I am not levitating. I do not have secret wings that allow me to fly. I am not a vampire. I am not hanging by my heels from the roof or clinging to a drainpipe. So where am In You donÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂt know me at all. IÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂll give you this one. IÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂm in the apple tree, which is not an apple tree. The man who is not my father calls it an apple tree, but it has never produced a single thing resembling an apple. Nor has it produced a pear, so it is not a pear tree. Nor has it produced a pair of apples. Nor has it produced a pineapple, so it is clearly not a pineapple tree. The only thing I have ever seen it produce is thin gray leaves, so I will call it a gray-leaf tree. ThatÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs where I am. Sitting in the gray-leaf tree. ThereÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs a full moon out tonight, so if I were a werewolf or a vampire I would be hungry or thirsty for flesh or blood. But IÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂm full with the gluey spaghetti and golf ball meatballs from dinner. The only effect the moon has on me is to make me think of Mrs. Moonface and my five pages of algebra homework that is really her homework, except that for some reason IÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂm the one who got stuck with it. Mrs. Moonface assigns us so much homework because she is miserable and lonely. I wrote a poem to her. ItÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs not a very good poem, but I donÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂt really care. The first stanza goes like this: Mrs. Moonface, get a life, Get a nose ring, fly a kite, Find a boyfriend, learn to ski, Just stop taking it out on me. The man who is not my father is switching off the lamp. Now our house is dark except for the light in my room, which is not really a room, where I am not doing homework. Except that I am actually up there doing homework after all! Did you really think that I was up in the branches of an apple tree. Not necessary. You donÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂt have to see things to know that they are happening. Anyway, I donÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂt like climbing trees. ItÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs a cold fall night. The wind is howling around our house like a live animal. I finish the last algebra problem. Put down my pencil. Downstairs I can hear the springs of the couch creaking. The man who is not my father is repeating your name, with passion in his voice. But itÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs not really your name, even though it belongs to you. ItÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs really the name of his pretty first wife, Mona, who died in a car accident five years before he met you and decided to move into your house, and take on the duties of disciplining your son. And now he is repeating your name and thinking of Mona. And you are listening to him and thinking of my father. And I am not in this house at all. I am in the middle of a hurricane. Thunder is cymbal-crashing above and beneath me. Lightning makes my hair stand up. Winds are spinning me like a top. Do you really think I will come down to breakfast tomorrow and call the man who is not my father sirs Do you think I will go to school tomorrow and hand in my homework to Mrs. Moonfacem I wonÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂt even be in this hemisphere tomorrow. This storm could set me down anywhere. You donÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂt know where IÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂll end up. The good news is that you may have created my past and screwed up my present but you have no control over my future. You donÃÂâÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂt know me at all.