Jack's New Power by Jack Gantos

box and attached a bobber to my line, then got my secret weapon, a dragonfly. I put it on the hook and gently cast it out so it floated about twenty feet from the rocks. I was after surface feeders, especially red snapper, which was my favorite. Together we stood there with our rods pressed against our bellies like two guys peeing off a dock.
    Suddenly my bobber went under. I counted. One, two, three. I jerked back on the rod to set the hook, and reeled it in. The fish didn’t put up much of a fight, but it was the first one caught—a bluegill about the size of my hand.
    â€œI won,” I hollered. “I’ll take a Lemon Squash.”

    â€œYou didn’t win,” he replied. “That’s not a fish. That’s bait.”
    â€œYou didn’t say how big it had to be. You just said it had to be a fish.”
    â€œWell, you cheated,” he said. “Anyone can catch a fish like that. I could have just stuck the net in the water and caught one of those. Now you have to get the drinks.”
    â€œNo way,” I said. “I won. You haven’t caught anything yet.”
    â€œDon’t argue with me,” he replied. “You cheated. Besides, I’m paying. Now fetch. I’ll take a Banks in the bottle. And tell the bartender your dad wants it ice-cold.”
    I threw my fish back into the water and took the money from his hand. Bully, I thought to myself. There is no winning with someone who won’t play by the rules.
    By the time I returned he had seen a few of his friends and waved them over. They sat down on the rocks to shoot the breeze and I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
    I recast my line and drank my soda. I should have talked Shiva into running, I thought. It would be a lot more fun than watching Dad and his pals talk. And then I remembered what I told him about the prunes. I hoped he didn’t take my advice. I was sure he knew better. Everyone knew what prunes could do to you.
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    The next morning Betsy and I were standing at the edge of the driveway. I looked up at Dad’s window. It was still broken.
    â€œDon’t you get tired of being treated like a kid?” I asked.

    She frowned. “Nobody treats me like a kid.”
    â€œWell, don’t you hate it when adults say things like, Do as I say, don’t do as I do.”
    â€œI just ignore them,” she said.
    â€œDoesn’t it bug you that you never get a vote on where to live, what to eat, where to go to school, what clothes to buy?”
    â€œWhat are you whining about?” she shot back. “You are always complaining about something. You are the last person I would want making decisions around here. If it wasn’t for Dad, you’d be living in a refrigerator box and raiding garbage cans for dinner.”
    I could tell whose side she was on. I missed Pete already. He usually agreed with me. A month of Betsy and Dad and I’d be a nervous wreck.
    We were standing at the edge of the driveway when a car raced up the street and aimed straight for us. It was a big old American car with a huge hood ornament, and as it got closer it looked like a charging rhinoceros. Betsy stood her ground, but I jumped behind a fence post as it hit the brakes and skidded to a stop.
    â€œGet in,” squeaked a little voice.
    The driver was a bug-eyed maniac. He was skinny, sat on a pillow, and scratched at a bald spot on his head that looked like a rug burn. He smoked unfiltered cigarettes and had a lead foot. Betsy took the front seat and sneered at him. I climbed in the back with two boys who must have been brothers, about my age and Pete’s. They were pale, sweaty, and terrified. We took off with a lurch and peeled rubber up to the corner, where he took the right-hand turn
without slowing to look. The car tilted like a canoe about to flip over. I tumbled across the seat and crunched into the two boys. They both grabbed their crotches and moaned.
    â€œSorry,” I