Jack Strong Takes a Stand (6 page)

She took a deep breath. I think she was exhausted by her speech.

“So, do you play any sports?” I asked.

“I fence.”

That figured. Fencing was like squash, one of those completely weird sports that a lot of parents were starting to make their kids do, because no one else was doing it. Which, when you think about it, doesn't exactly make sense.

“Do you like it?”

She put her fork down and looked directly at me for the first time. “Of course I do. It helps me learn dexterity and discipline. I also figure skate in the winter.”

“Cool,” I said. “Well, if you're as good at sports as you are on the piano, you must be awesome.”

“Thank you,” Lucy said. “I have to go.”

I watched Lucy put her tray away and walk out of the cafeteria. She didn't seem to mind being overscheduled. Why couldn't I be more like her?

Because I couldn't, that's why.

 

15

 

Then came Monday afternoon,
June 13.

When I got home, I threw my backpack down by the front door, got myself a giant bowl of cereal, grabbed the remote, and dove onto the couch.

It was more comfy than usual.

Maddie joined me about five seconds later and started fighting me for the cereal. I won, as usual, but she got her fair share.

I turned on the TV. So much was on. I finally narrowed it down to two of my favorites:
Pencilneck
, a cartoon about a kid who was half human and half pencil, and
Now What?!?
, a reality show where four really good-looking teenagers have to live without their smartphones for a week.

I couldn't decide, so I flipped between the two for about twenty minutes. Then I fell asleep. It was awesome!

Then it wasn't awesome.

I felt a tap on my toe. Then the tap got a little harder. Then someone was shaking my whole foot. Then I was awake.

“Jack? Jack? Come on honey, time to go.”

I opened my eyes unwillingly.

“Go where?”

My mom and Nana were looking down at me, and mom was holding my soccer cleats. I guess that was my answer.

“We don't want to be late.”

I looked at her. “YOU don't want to be late. I want to be extremely late.” I closed my eyes again.

“Jack, seriously.”

I sat up and rubbed my eyes. “Mom, I'm really tired. Really, REALLY tired. Can't I skip soccer just this once? We don't even have to tell Dad.”

“I think that's a fine idea,” said Nana. “Jack and I will sit here and watch a little television. It's too rainy for soccer anyway.”

“It's barely drizzling,” said my mom, but she kind of looked like she didn't have the heart to fight about it. For a minute, I allowed myself to think that I might actually get to spend an entire afternoon just hanging out on the couch!

Then my mom's cell phone rang.

As usual, she couldn't find it. While she was running around looking for it, it rang two more times.

Looking back on it, it's funny to think that if my mom hadn't found her phone, this whole crazy thing might not have happened.

But she found it.

“It's Dad,” she said.

Nana and I sighed.

“Hi, honey,” my mom chirped into the phone. She had a really cheerful phone manner. “What's up?” She listened for a second, then glanced at me. “We're about to,” she said into the phone. “He's tired.” Another beat, then she said, “He doesn't.” Nana and I watched as Mom nodded at something my dad said, then added, “It was a very busy weekend, Richard, busier than usual!” After two more seconds of nodding, she held the phone out to me. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Poor kiddo,” Nana said, shaking her head.

I took the phone as though it were a plate of asparagus. “Hey, Dad.”

“Mom tells me you don't want to go to soccer?” As usual, not a lot of intro chitchat from Dad.

“I'm really tired, and I just want to watch a little TV with Nana today.”

My dad's sigh into the phone sounded like a hurricane. “I get that, Jack, I really do. And you can watch a little TV tonight before homework, I promise. But right now you have to go to soccer. Remember, while you're sitting around, all the other kids are out there, getting better.”

It was my turn to sigh. “Dad, do you really want to know what the other kids are doing? I'll tell you. They're at the party you didn't let me go to because I had to get better at the cello. And they're getting the free ice cream sundaes that I missed because I had to get better at Chinese. And they're celebrating winning the World Series, but they're celebrating without me, because I had to get better at tennis. So don't tell me about the other kids.”

“And
you
don't talk to me that way,” my dad said, in his
watch it
voice. “I let you scream in the parking lot after the baseball game because I knew you were feeling upset that you couldn't go celebrate with the team, and I got that. But that's enough. I mean it.”

Whenever Dad talked to me like that, I usually responded by not responding. But this time—maybe because I was tired, or maybe because I was fed up, or maybe because of the expression on Cathy Billows's face when I yelled at the baseball field—I did respond.

“Whatever, Dad. I'm not going to soccer practice today, and that's final.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my mom shaking her head, and my nana smiling just a tiny bit.

My dad was silent for minute. I think he was trying to decide whether he was going to blow up at me or try to play it cool.

“So what you're saying,” he finally said, playing it cool, “is that you'd rather be one of those kids who just sits on the couch all day long, watching TV, playing video games, doing nothing? Is that what you're telling me?”

I didn't answer.

My dad asked again. “Is it?”

I stared at the phone, thinking about his question. Then I thought about all the times Leo and I would be just starting a video game when I got interrupted because I had to go, and I thought about telling Cathy I couldn't go to her party, and about Lucy Fleck's crazy mother making me drop my bow, and about Lucy Fleck herself, who seemed like she didn't really know how to smile, and I thought about all the things I did every day that I didn't really want to do, and most of all I thought about lying on the couch, relaxing. Just relaxing. It sounded so simple, and yet I'd never really done it. Because even when I was just hanging out, I always had one ear out, listening for the footsteps, the jingle of the car keys, the loud voice I knew was coming, which meant it was time to go to some other activity I really didn't want to go to.

And then I had a sudden flashback to last summer, when my friend Charlie Joe Jackson took a stand at Camp Rituhbukkee when they wanted to add an extra class, and how brave and awesome that was. Why couldn't
I
do something like that?

I looked at Nana. She nodded her head once. “It's totally up to you,” she said.

And I realized she was right. It WAS totally up to me.

Suddenly I knew what I was going to do. What I HAD to do.

“You know what, Dad?” I said into the phone. “I think I do want to become one of those kids who just sits on the couch all day long. And you know what else? I want to become one of those kids who sits on the couch all night long, too! In fact, I want to become one of those kids who sits on the couch all the time! How's that sound?”

My dad didn't say anything, but I could hear him breathing.

“And I'm not getting off the couch ever again, for anything,” I announced, surprising even myself. “EVER,” I repeated, in case he hadn't quite heard me. “Or at least until you let me quit all the stuff I don't like doing.”

I stopped, held my breath, and waited for my dad to say something. It took about eight seconds.

“Put Mom on the phone,” he said.

I handed the phone to my mom, who immediately went into the other room and started whispering like crazy.

Nana looked down at me.

“Really?” she asked.

“Really,” I answered.

She shook her head and smiled, as I flipped on the TV and settled in.

It was official.

I was on strike.

 

PART
2

DURING

 

16

S
TRIKE
—D
AY
1

It took a while
for my parents to realize I was serious.

I spent the rest of that first day on the couch, hanging out with Nana, reading, and watching
Columbo
. When Dad got home, Maddie got off the couch to greet him. I didn't.

He didn't bring up our earlier conversation. All he said was, “Whatcha watching?”

“A bunch of stuff,” I answered.

“Great,” said Dad, heading back into the kitchen for dinner. Nana joined him, as usual. But my parents didn't come in to watch TV and rub each other's feet, which was unusual.

About an hour later, Nana came back in. “I'm heading to bed,” she announced, looking at me. “Are you coming?”

“Nope.”

She smiled. “What are you up to, Jack Strong?”

I looked up at her. “I don't know exactly. But I'm staying here.”

I expected her to tell me I was being silly. Instead, she said, “Let me get you a blanket.”

After another half hour, my parents came in.

“Are you planning on sleeping here tonight?” my mom asked.

“Yup.”

“You're a stubborn one,” said my dad, rubbing my head.

“Wonder where he gets that from,” my mom said, laughing.

“We'll talk about this tomorrow,” my dad said, not laughing.

Mom kissed my cheek. “Sleep well, honey.”

I did.

 

17

S
TRIKE
—D
AY
2

The next morning,
I was still on the couch when my mom came in to wake me up for school.

“I'm not going.”

My mom looked around for help, but there was none. Nana was still asleep, and Dad was long gone. He usually left for work at like 5:45.

It was just the two of us, unless you count Maddie, who had wandered in to see what was going on.

“What do you mean, you're not going?”

I rolled over and dug my head into the pillow. “I mean, I'm not going to school.”

“Are you sick?”

“Sure.”

“Let me get a thermometer.” As she left the room, I sat up and considered my options: Stop the madness and get up and go to school, stall and pretend to be sick, or take a stand.

I looked at Maddie, who was wagging her tail. She looked like she was ready for a little excitement in her life. And you know something? So was I.

When my mom came back with the thermometer, I said, “Actually, I'm not sick, Mom. I'm just not going to school.”