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like going to summer school and you’ll pass into eighth grade.”
    â€œWhat a racket,” I huffed. “What he’s doing is criminal. Can’t you see what he’s up to? He fails me, then he charges us tuition to go to his summer camp.”
    â€œHey,” Betsy said, loving every minute of this, “don’t blame your problems on someone else.
You
are the nimrod who failed
shop.”
    â€œI have big plans this summer. I’m going to stay home and write a book.” I blurted this out. I had no intention of telling anyone. Now I knew they would make even more fun of me. It was bad enough to have told them I was stupid. It was worse to tell them about my dream. “I want to be a writer,” I repeated. “Not a whittler.”
    â€œEven writers have to pass seventh grade,” Betsy started.
    â€œWait a minute,” Dad said, and hushed everyone else who had lined up to take a shot at me. “You want to become a writer? Do you know what the odds are of beinga successful writer? It’s like becoming a pro basketball player. Millions of kids play, but only a few hundred can be pros. And what do the rest do? They end up spending all their time sitting on the couch watching the game on TV. It’s the same with being a writer. What are the odds you’ll ever get published? A million to one?”
    â€œThat’s not the point,” I said. But he wasn’t listening.
    â€œYou might as well sit on your bum all day playing the lottery. No, being a writer is not a career choice. It’s a hobby, something you do after work. What you need for a career is a skill, and I think woodworking is a good place to begin. So I don’t want to hear any more about it. Besides, I already talked to Gilette and it’s settled. He even gave us a discount because of your diminished abilities. So, next month you’re going up to the Kissimmee Wood Shop Camp for Boys.”
    â€œBut I want to write a book!” I said. “Can’t you send me to writers’ camp?”
    â€œDon’t be so lame,” Betsy scoffed, and broke into a laugh. “They don’t have camp for writers. People who want to write just do it. They don’t wait to go to summer camp for scribblers. And they certainly don’t sit around in their bathrobes all day staring toward the heavens while sucking on a piece of brain-damaging lead.”
    I cringed. She must have seen me waiting for my muse. But that muse business was all over with. From now on I planned to write all my ideas in my black book, and not just wait for them to appear on the ceiling. But now that I was going to wood-shop camp, where would I get thetime to write? Especially around guys who carried more penknives than pens in their pockets.
    I had one more chance of getting out of shop camp.
    The next day after school I stayed behind and spoke with Mr. Gilette.
    â€œDon’t fail me,” I pleaded. “My dream is to be a writer, not a woodworker.”
    â€œDream on,” he said. “I checked with Mr. Ploof and he gave me your test scores. Apparently, even woodworking is a stretch for you.”
    â€œReally,” I insisted. “I want to be a writer and I was planning to write a book this summer. And you know I worked really hard on that coffin.”
    â€œI warned you,” he said. “I humiliated you in front of the class. I distinctly said I would fail you if you made that coffin.”
    â€œI know, but give me a second chance. I think you judged me too harshly.” I said this with all the sincerity I could. Then I looked him right in the eyes and added, “Besides, I’m a good kid.”
    It worked. “Okay,” he said reluctantly. “I don’t want to, but I’ll give you a second chance because I’m a decent guy. Bring the coffin in tomorrow morning and if it’s well made I’ll think about giving you a break.”
    I was shocked. “But