The Struggles of Johnny Cannon by Isaiah Campbell Page B

don’t attract boys or something, sure. But otherwise, no. There’s not any good reason to do a biography on my mother.”
    â€œI’d do one on mine, but she’s dead,” I said. Sometimes, if I played the dead mom card, I could get out of stuff like this interview.
    â€œDon’t even try it, Johnny,” she said. “We’re doing this interview because you want me to get a good grade. Right?”
    I let out a really long, painful sigh.
    â€œFine, fire away. In fact, if you could shoot me in the head, that’d be great. Put me out of my misery.”
    â€œGolly, and they say girls are overdramatic,” she said. She pulled out her notebook and flipped to a page where she’d made up a list of questions. Looked like there was Willie’s handwriting on it too. I was beginning to wonder if he was working with me or against me.
    â€œOkay, I guess let’s start at the very beginning. What’s your earliest memory?”
    â€œWell, there was one time when I got up at four in the morning to go fishing. I think that’s probably the earliest.”
    â€œNo,” she said, and she tapped the pencil on her notebook for a couple of seconds. “What’s the first thing you can remember about your childhood?”
    â€œAin’t I still in my childhood?”
    â€œI’m beginning to think so,” she said. “Look, everybody remembers something from when they were little, and it’s the thing that sort of sets up the stage for the rest of your life. Like, for me, the first thing I remember is when I was three and my cousin’s dogs attacked my teddy bear. My mom saw me crying and she turned the dining room into an operating room. Even had me wear a mask, and she did surgery on my bear. She sewed him back together and even put a Band-Aid on his chest.”
    â€œAnd that set the stage for your whole entire life?” I asked. “A fake surgery?”
    She was getting frustrated, I could tell, ’cause she breathed real hard out of her nose.
    â€œYes, because I always know my mom will fix anything, no matter how big or small it is. Now, what’s yours?”
    I had to think real hard. It was difficult, ’cause my memories wasn’t exactly set out in a proper timeline in my brain, but they was sort of lumped together like a box of photographs that don’t got no dates on the back and you ain’t real sure what order they go in. And, since there wasn’t no way I could figure out which one was the earliest, I just grabbed the first one I could think of.
    â€œI guess it was when Tommy left home in Guantánamo to move up here with Grandma, back around ’53,” I said. “I remember crying real hard about it and running to Ma, and her just crying too. And the whole time, Pa was begging him or anyone to explain why he was doing it, but nobody would. And he left.”
    â€œWow,” she said, and she made a few notes. “Did you ever find out why he left?”
    â€œYeah, he’d figured out that Ma was cheating on Pa.”
    â€œOh, yeah. Right. With Captain Morris.”
    I real quick reached over and turned off the tape recorder and then I snatched the pencil out of her hand.
    â€œHey!” she said. “Don’t be a jerk.”
    â€œYou can’t say that name, the Captain’s,” I said. “And you sure can’t put him in this biography.”
    â€œWhat in the world are you talking about?” she asked. “He’s part of your story, so I have to. Why are you acting so weird about it?”
    I didn’t want to tell her ’cause girls get real scared about things, and plus they can’t keep no secrets.
    â€œIt’s just . . . ,” I said. “I don’t want that part of my story getting told.”
    She studied my face.
    â€œWhat if I don’t use his name?” she asked.
    â€œNope, won’t work. You just got to not tell