Suddenly ashamed, I knelt on the floor, half hidden by the table, and tried not to cry. Now Stu knew me for what I was—a worthless, rotten kid, just as bad as everyone thought. I'd never be the well-adjusted boy he wanted me to be. Like Whitman said, Crawford should've hauled me off to jail and thrown away the key. It was what I deserved.
I got to my feet slowly and laid the pile of paper on the table. "I'm sorry," I muttered. "Honest. I didn't mean what I said."
"Yes, you did," Stu said. "You meant every damn word of it."
I looked at my brother and saw Mama, dejected, beaten down, miserable. But then he raised his head and looked me in the eye, and he wasn't Mama after all.
"Some of what you said was true," he said calmly, "and some of it wasn't. You're my brother, Gordy. I love you, you're important to me. But so is college. It's my way of fighting back. It's proof I won't end up like Pop."
I looked at Stu, too surprised to say anything. I'd never dreamed he worried about following in our father's footsteps. They were cut from different cloth, Stu and the old man. But Donny and me—we were a pretty close match.
"Or Mama either," Stu added, just as if he was reading my mind. "I want to leave Davis Road behind. I want our lives to be different."
Barbara put her arms around Stu, and he clung to her for a second. If I'd been a few years younger, I'd have hugged her myself, but I was too big for that kind of stuff now.
"I don't know about you two," Barbara said, "but I'm exhausted. Let's go to bed."
"You go ahead," Stu told her. "I have an English exam Monday, and I haven't had much time to study."
Barbara took the book out of Stu's hands. "No," she said firmly. "You've studied enough."
For once Stu gave in. Maybe he was just too tired to argue. At any rate, he followed Barbara down the hall to their bedroom, and I went to mine.
I thought I'd fall asleep the minute my head touched the pillow, but I ended up lying awake a long time, thinking about the old man. He might be in California, but part of him was still with me, sitting on my shoulder, tempting me to fight, cuss, yell. The devil himself that's who he was. And no amount of studying was going to make him go away. There weren't enough books in the world to wall him out of my life.
20
IT RAINED ALL DAY SUNDAY—A LONG DREARY DAY WITH nothing to do but read and listen to the radio. Not that it mattered. I wasn't allowed to leave the apartment anyway.
Night came and went, and Monday arrived right on schedule. No atom bombs fell while I slept, I didn't wake up with polio, the school neither blew up nor burned down. There was nothing to do but get dressed and walk to the streetcar stop. Like it or not, I'd have to face Mueller.
Toad and Doug were waiting for me, looking a little ashamed, I thought, but not nearly enough.
"What happened at the professor's house?" Toad asked. "We didn't want to run off and leave you there, but—"
"There was nothing we could do, Gordy," Doug added quickly. "Not after he dragged you inside."
I shoved my hands into my pockets and shrugged. "Whitman was full of crap, but Crawford calmed him down."
Toad stared at me. "Lizard was there?"
"Her father, you dope," I said. "The cop."
Doug sneered. "You're so dumb. Auntie Toad."
"Don't call me that," Toad whined.
Doug gave him a little shove. "I'll call you anything I want, Auntie Toad."
The idiots started quarreling like kindergartners. They made me sick. When the streetcar came, I got on first and sat down next to an old lady who gave me a suspicious look. Maybe she thought I was going to steal her purse or something.
Toad stopped beside me. "Aren't you sitting with me and Doug?"
I didn't answer. Jerks—always setting me up and leaving me to take the blame. And then acting like it was nothing for me to be sore at. No need to apologize.
"What's bothering you, Gordo?" Doug asked. "If you think we told—"
Without looking at him, I opened my English book and started reading a dumb poem about some poor chump wandering as lonely as a cloud. I knew what the poet meant—clouds can look pretty lonesome sometimes, floating around in the sky all by themselves, small and gray and sad.
"Sit down, boys," the driver said. "You're holding up the show."
"Oh, leave him be. Let him sulk. Who cares." Doug pushed Toad down the aisle to the seat in the back where we usually sat. I could hear them laughing. Let them. Who cared.
When the streetcar stopped at Garfield Road, Lizard and Magpie got on with some other kids. I kept on reading about dopey daffodils fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Comball stuff, but it saved me from looking at Lizard. I wondered how much she knew about my little visit with her father and the professor—and if she'd told anyone else.
At Cherry Road, Pritchett and his friends boarded in a group, laughing and talking. I felt like sticking my foot out and tripping Pritchett as he passed me, but the pleasure of seeing him fall wasn't worth getting kicked off the streetcar. He didn't notice me anyhow. What bothered me most was he didn't have a mark on his face. Not one. All I'd done was bloody his ugly nose. But look at me—I could hardly see out of my left eye. It wasn't fair.
A few seconds later Pritchett said hello to Lizard. Though I couldn't hear what she said, he must not have liked it because he muttered, "Be that way, Lizzy. See if I care."
I glanced over my shoulder. Pritchett had moved to a seat near the bade of the streetcar. While he joked with his friends. Lizard whispered to Magpie. She caught my eye and leaned even doser to Magpie. If I knew them, they'd soon start laughing like hyenas.
To spare myself the agony, I turned around and went on reading the dumb daffodil poem. It was just the kind of thing Mrs. Ianotti would give a test on.
I walked to school from the streetcar by myself. Not that Toad and Doug seemed to care. Maybe they were tired of me, too. On the school steps. Lizard and Magpie passed me. They both stared hard at me, but neither said a word, just rushed on by like they were in a big hurry to go somewhere.
In homeroom. Miss Sparks called roll, and then we saluted the flag and said the Lord's Prayer. At any minute I expected to be called to the office, but the bell rang for first period without anyone coming to get me. I went to math, where I learned I'd gotten a D on the quiz we'd had last week, and then on to English. I was beginning to think Jackson hadn't reported me after all. Maybe he'd forgotten all about the fight.
I opened my grammar book, but it was harder than usual to keep my mind on it. My thoughts kept drifting—was Mueller going to call me to the office or not?
All around me, pages turned and pencils scratched on paper. Kids coughed, their desks creaked. Mrs. Ianotti droned on and on about gerunds and participles and other boring things. My thoughts drifted further and further away. Why was Lizard mad at Pritchett? Had he gotten fresh with her after the dance? Couldn't blame him for trying—if I ever got Lizard alone and in a friendly mood, I'd give her a squeeze or two myself.
Stupid thought—that kiss I'd sneaked in the snow was probably the only one I'd ever get from Lizzy Lizard. I'd ruined my chances with her a long time ago, starting in kindergarten when I pulled her hair every chance I got It was so pretty, I couldn't keep my hands off it.
"Gordon Smith!" Mrs. Ianotti shouted. "Do you know the answer or not?"
I stared at her, too startled to do more than shake my head. I'd been thinking so hard, I hadn't even heard the question.
"I would appreciate it if you would pay attention, Gordon." Mrs. Ianotti's voice was cold enough to freeze a person's blood. "You may not realize it, but a thorough knowledge of grammar is essential if one wishes to succeed in this world."
"Yes, ma'am," I mumbled.
Behind me, a couple of smart-aleck girls giggled as Mrs. Ianotti made a little mark in her grade book. Then she called on Jimmy Watson, who was waving his hand so hard I hoped it would fall off.
Jimmy knew both the question and the answer. He always did. If Mrs. Ian
otti was right about knowing whether your particles dangled or not, he'd go far in the world. And I wouldn't. Tough for me and good-o for Jimmy.
Just before the bell rang for third period, a student aide appeared at the door and gave Mrs. Ianotti a yellow slip. She read it and called me to her desk. "Mr. Mueller wants to see you in his office, Gordon," she said without a speck of emotion.
Behind me, a ripple ran through the class, but I paid no attention. I knew what I'd done. No terrible news waited for me in the principal's office this time.
Except for me and die prissy senior girl who'd come to fetch me, the hall was empty. Neither her saddle oxfords nor my basketball shoes made any noise. All the classroom doors were shut, but the silence wouldn't last long. In about two minutes, the bell would ring and kids would fill the halls. I picked up my pace—no sense being seen with a student aide. Everybody would know exactly where she was taking me.
When I walked into Mueller's office, I got the shock of my life. Pritchett and his mother were sitting next to each other on one side of the desk. Across from them was Barbara. Mr. Jackson leaned against a wall, his arms folded across his chest. The tension was so thick I could hardly breathe.
Mueller frowned when he saw me. "Sit down beside your sister-in-law. Smith."
I did as he asked. To my surprise, Barbara gave my hand a quick squeeze. "Where's Stu?" I whispered.
"Taking an exam," Barbara whispered back, pressing a finger to her lips to shut me up.
Mueller leaned back in his chair and let his eyes roam around the room, taking us all in. The scene reminded me of a movie I'd seen once where a detective gathered all the murder suspects together and proved which one did it. Only in this case everybody already knew the guilty party—Gordon Peter Smith, aka G.A.S. and Yuncle Poopoo.
Like Jackson, I folded my arms and looked Mueller straight in the eye. Let him paddle me in front of everyone. I wouldn't even whimper.
Mueller cleared his throat. "I've brought you together because I've received several conflicting reports about the incident at the Sweetheart Dance. Frankly, I want to get to the bottom of the matter."
Turning to Pritchett, he said. "You first. Tell me what happened."
"Yes, sir," Pritchett said, pink-cheeked and eager to report. "I was dancing with Elizabeth Crawford, she was my date, and Gordon Smith deliberately bumped into me. He tried to knock me down, sir."
"It's not the first time the Smith boy has bothered Bobby," Old Lady Pritchett put in. "He pushed him in the cafeteria and made him spill spaghetti sauce all over a good pair of trousers, utterly ruining them. Five dollars—that's what it cost me to replace them."
Mr. Mueller shot her a look from under those bushy eyebrows of his. "Please let Bobby give his own account, Roberta."
Pritchett glanced at his mother. If I hadn't hated him so much, I'd have pitied him. You'd think the poor jerk couldn't speak for himself.
"Sorry, Mike," Mrs. Pritchett said. "I didn't mean to interrupt, I just wanted—"
Mueller turned back to Pritchett. "What happened next?"
Pritchett shrugged. "A little while later, Smith threw a punch at me. He was cursing and carrying on like a crazy man. I had to defend myself, sir."
"You know what sort of home the Smith boy comes from, Mike," Mrs. Pritchett added, earning another dirty look from Pritchett. I bet he was dying to tell her to shut up. Anybody could see she was making things worse for him.
"Gordon's father was an alcoholic," Mrs. Pritchett went on. "One brother spent some time in reform school, and the other deserted during the war."
Barbara opened her mouth to speak, but Mueller motioned her to be quiet. "You did nothing to provoke Gordon, Bobby?"
"Well, I might have teased him a little." Pritchett shot me a look of pure disgust. "A person ought to be able to take a joke."
"And what do you call a joke, Bobby?" Mueller asked.
"I don't remember exactly what I said, sir," Pritchett said. "But it was all in fun."
Mueller picked up a sheet of notebook paper and read, "First Bobby made some cracks about Gordy's jacket, then he started insulting his family, saying mean things about Stuart and Gordy's father. It was like he wanted Gordy to hit him, and when he did, Bobby really hurt Gordy. He kept hitting him and hitting him and hitting him. It was horrible. Mr. Jackson blamed it all on Gordy and threw him out of the dance, but he should have thrown Bobby out too. It was his fault, not Gordy's."
"Whoever wrote that is a liar," Pritchett said. "Like I told you, sir, I was defending myself. Smith is nothing but a troublemaker and everybody knows it. I—"
Good old Mrs. Pritchett cut in again. "Surely you wouldn't take the word of a tattletale against Bobby. You've known him since he was a baby, Mike. We've gone to the same church, had the same friends, played bridge together—"
"Roberta," Mueller said, "will you please be quiet?"
Old Lady Pritchett drew in her breath so hard it's a wonder there was any air left for the rest of us to breathe. "Why did you ask me to come if you expected me to sit here silently and listen to you malign my son?"
"I invited both you and Mrs. Smith to be here so there would be no misunderstandings." Mueller leaned toward me. "Gordon, did Bobby insult your family at the dance, or did a friend of yours write this to save your hide?"
"I don't have any idea who wrote it, sir." It was true. While Mueller had been talking, I'd been chewing my thumbnail and trying to figure out who liked me enough to send a note to the principal. It couldn't have been Toad or Doug. They were too afraid of getting into trouble themselves to go out on a limb for me. Was it possible I had a secret admirer? Ha—pretty unlikely.
"But are the allegations valid?" Mueller asked. "Did Bobby provoke you?"
I shrugged. "I don't remember." There was no way on God's green earth I'd rat on anybody, not even Pritchett.
Mr. Mueller sighed loudly. "How can boys so young be afflicted with such severe memory loss?" Turning to Jackson, he said, "What do you think. Earl?"
Jackson shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I must admit I blamed Smith for the fight initially, mainly because of his attitude in my class. He's uncooperative. Mouthy. A poor team player." He shifted his weight back again. "But I might have misjudged—I didn't see how it started."
Pritchett stared at Jackson, obviously surprised. "Smith started it, sir. Ask anybody."
"This is ridiculous," Mrs. Pritchett said. I thought Pritchett was going to kick her if she didn't shut up, but he restrained himself. "We all know what sort of boy Gordon is," she went on. "But Bobby comes from a good home, a fine family. He's not a troublemaker."
"We seem to be overlooking something," Mueller went on. "Take a good look at Gordon's face, Roberta. Your son—who is both taller and heavier—gave him that black eye and those bruises."
The old bag's skin flushed all the way down to her fingertips. "Gordon's brother probably did that. It's no secret their father beat the whole family. The apple never falls far from the tree, you know."
That was all Barbara could take. Riming to Mrs. Pritchett, she said, "If you think you can sit there and insult my husband, you have another think coming 1 Stu has never laid a hand on anyone in his entire life. Violence of any sort is totally and utterly repugnant to him."
"Don't you dare speak to me like that," Mrs. Pritchett said. "I used to play bridge with your mother. What she would think of your behavior I cannot imagine! I swear you're as common as any Smith now."
"Good for me," Barbara said, her face scarlet.
"All right, ladies, all right. I've heard enough." Mueller got to his feet and ran a hand through his hair. "Gordon and Bobby, I'm suspending both of you for three days. When you return to school on Thursday, you will have two weeks of detention in my office. Three-thirty to four-thirty. Be sure and bring plenty of homework."
"But, sir," Pritchett said, "I'll miss basketball practice."
"I'm aware of that," Mueller said. "Mr. Jackson and I have decided to remove you fro
m the team for the rest of the season. A boy with a temper like yours has no place in varsity sports."
"That's not fair!" Pritchett bellowed.
To tell the truth, I was just as surprised as Pritchett. I'd expected to be blamed for everything—like Toad had said, Pritchett would get a Purple Heart and I'd be sent to reform school. But Mueller had been fair. Neither Pritchett nor I had dreamed of such a possibility.
By then, Mueller had had enough of all of us. Ignoring Mrs. Pritchett's protests, he shooed us out the door as if we were a bunch of squalling cats. Miss Greenbaum busied herself typing as we swept past, but the student aide stared goggle-eyed. I bet she could hardly wait to go to her next class and tell everybody Pritchett had been suspended and wouldn't be sinking any baskets for a while. That was definitely N-E-W-S.
21
BARBARA AND I LEFT SCHOOL TOGETHER. ONCE I WOULD'VE been glad to be out of class at eleven o'clock, but not today. Not With Barbara looking even glummer than I felt.
Even though I didn't always see eye to eye with her, I liked Barbara and I wanted her to like me. Now she was mad at me. And who could blame her? She'd had to leave Brent with Mrs. Reilly and come all the way down here on the streetcar just to hear Old Lady Pritchett insult Stu and her both. And all because of me, Gordon P. Smith.
"I'm sorry I put you to so much trouble," I told her, meaning every word of it. "First the professor and now this—I don't blame you for being sore."
Barbara didn't answer right away, didn't look at me either. At first I thought she was giving me the silent treatment. Either that or she hadn't heard me—apologizing didn't come easy for me, so I hadn't spoken very loud.
Suddenly she turned to me. "Who does Mrs. Pritchett think she is? The way she talked to me—I wanted to slap her face! And that son of hers—the big bully. He must be half a foot taller than you, Gordy."