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and was pounding the nails in when Mom, Dad, Betsy, and Pete scrambled into the garage. They stared down on me as if I were some serial killer chopping up another victim.
    â€œYou’re just in time for the funeral,” I announced as cheerfully as I could, and drove in the last nail.
    â€œPete,” I ordered, taking control of the situation, “help me pick up the coffin.” He grabbed the rear pallbearer handle with both hands. I grabbed the front and we lifted the coffin, then marched solemnly around the side of the house.
    â€œPick up the pace,” Dad said. “The Teeters are looking out their window and I’m sure they think we’re burying the baby.”
    â€œGod forbid,” Mom said.
    â€œThey probably think we’re Satanists,” Betsy speculated, and she waved to Mrs. Teeter, who had pulled the picture-window curtain to one side.
    Mom made a big sign of the cross so we’d look legitimate. It probably just made us look more ghoulish.
    When we arrived at the grave site Pete and I set the casket on the ground.
    â€œWould anyone like to say a few words on BeauBeau’s behalf?” I asked, and bowed my head.
    Dad began to laugh. “Look,” he said dryly, “I liked the dog. But keep in mind that he was so dumb he dug his own grave. What more needs to be said?”
    â€œHe barked in French,” Betsy added. “So I hope he ends up on the French side of dog heaven.”
    â€œWith a bunch of French poodles,” Pete said.
    Mom declined.
    â€œAmen,” I croaked, wrapping it up.
    Pete and I bent down and lowered the coffin into BeauBeau’s double-wide hole. Then I grabbed my shovel and sprinkled a load of dirt on the lid. This is the final hole he dug, I thought, and one of the last holes of his I’ll ever fill in. From now on I’m going to be a writer. Not a gravedigger.
    Then I made the sign of the cross and said a little prayer.
    Betsy was watching me closely. “You should be institutionalized,” she proclaimed. “This whole ceremony is the workings of a sick mind.”
    â€œI’ve already been tested,” I said proudly. “And I’m not mentally ill.”
    â€œHe’s just really stupid,” Pete said. “Leave him alone.”
    She left in a huff.
    I gave Pete a dirty look and pointed to an open hole. “You’re next,” I said coldly. “You know what I did to BeauBeau. What makes you think I won’t do it to you, too?”
    He ran.
    â€œDon’t turn your back on me,” I shouted. “I’ve already got you sized up for my next wood project. I’m goin’ for extra credit!”

Six
    Mr. Gilette wasn’t fooling.
    At dinner Dad unfolded a letter and held it up over his head and waved it around as if he were trying to surrender to the enemy. “You’re failing seventh grade,” he announced. “It says right here,” and he slapped the paper for effect, “that you’re getting an F in shop.”
    â€œHow?” I yelped. “Me. How?”
    â€œBrain dead,” Betsy said sadly. “Probably from sniffing too much wood glue.”
    â€œMind yourself,” Mom advised. “Jack’s not challenged because of glue.” She reached across the table and patted me on the head as if I were some drooling cave dweller.
    Betsy reconsidered. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry. It’s not glue. He just naturally doesn’t have a clue.”
    I kept looking back and forth at them as they insulted me. This is what BeauBeau must have felt like around this house, I thought. Everyone talking badly about him right in front of his face and all he could do was look at them with big wet doggy eyes.
    â€œYou do have a way out,” Dad said somberly.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œShop camp,” he replied. “Mr. Gilette runs a private woodworking summer camp in Kissimmee. If you attend it’s