"Maybe I'm shorter than Pritchett," I said, "but I'm just as tough as he is. Maybe even tougher." I punched the air with my fists. Did she think I was Pritchett's helpless victim? "Just let him start something, I'll finish it, I'll—"
Barbara stopped in midstride, grabbed my shoulders, and whirled me around to face her. "If you ever get into another fight with Bobby Pritchett," she said. "I'll put you under house arrest till you're twenty-one years old!"
For the next five minutes, she read me the riot act from A to Z—no more fighting, no more staying out late, no more cherry bombs. She even got in a few licks about Stu's jacket, which she'd found under my bed. My grades had to improve, she said, especially math. My attitude, too.
"You go around with this ugly look on your face," she said. "You blow up at every little thing. What's bothering you, Gordy? Why are you so mad all the time?"
I pulled away from Barbara and kicked a stone hard enough to send it bouncing down the sidewalk. Grandma had asked me the same question a long time ago. I hadn't had a good answer then and I didn't have one now. I guessed that meant I hadn't changed much. Gordy Smith—as mad as ever, as mean as ever, as ugly as ever, as dumb as ever.
"Is it your father you're mad at?" Barbara asked, her voice softer now. "Your mother? The whole world?"
Yes to all three, but what was I supposed to do about it? Mama couldn't help being the way she was. Getting mad at her made no sense. And the old man was gone, I'd never see him again—spilled milk, water under the bridge, that's all he was. No sense being mad at him, no sense being mad at the world either. Nobody in College Hill was going to change. It was stupid to think they would. To them, I'd always be poor white trash from Davis Road.
Anger rose in my throat as bitter as bile. I spat hard, shooting the stuff between my teeth the way Donny had taught me, but I couldn't get rid of the taste. No matter what I did, that anger would always be there, ticking away in my head like a bomb.
"Sometimes I think Stu's just as mad as you are," Barbara said, "but he bottles it all up inside, worries, gets depressed, won't admit what's really bothering him. At the rate he's going, he'll end up with ulcers."
A gust of wind blew her hair forward, hiding her face. We'd reached the corner of Route 1, and the traffic light was red. Cars and trucks rumbled past, making so much noise we couldn't talk without yelling.
When the signal changed, we crossed the highway and turned down a side road leading to the streetcar stop. It was quiet there. The houses reminded me of Grandma's—towers on the side, front porches, fancy trim, shutters, tall trees, big yards. Not a person in sight at this time of day. Kids were in school, husbands at work, mothers inside, cleaning or doing the laundry, maybe listening to soap operas on the radio while they ironed, like William's mother.
I didn't realize Barbara had been crying until she sniffed and wiped her eyes with her coat sleeve like a little kid.
I touched her arm. "I won't go near the professor's house," I promised. "And I'll stay away from Pritchett, too."
Barbara sniffed again. "I don't want to see or hear from his mother again. I couldn't stand her when I was little and I can't stand her now. If you want to know the truth, my mother hated those bridge parties. She thought Mrs. Pritchett was a spiteful old gossip."
"The apple never falls far from the tree, you know," I said, mimicking Mrs. Pritchett's la-di-da voice.
That made Barbara laugh.
When we got to the stop, we sat on the railing and waited for the next streetcar to come around the bend. It was a cloudy day, but the wind had a soft edge. I unzipped my jacket and relaxed. Spring was coming. You could feel it in the air.
Barbara sighed and tipped her head bade to look at the sky. "I must admit it's nice to be away from that typewriter for a while. My fingertips are getting numb—not to mention my rear end."
Numb or not, Barbara had a nice rear end, but I knew better than to tell her that. Instead, I stuffed my hands in my pockets and wished I was older and taller and had a girlfriend like Barbara to talk to.
The streetcar showed up in a couple of minutes. At this time of day, it was almost empty. Barbara and I sat near the front. While she looked out the window, thinking her own thoughts, I entertained myself reading ads: More doctors smoke Camels than any other brand. Pepsi Cola hits the spot, twelve full ounces that's a lot. Doublemint Gum—double the pleasure, double the fun.
Suddenly Barbara nudged me to get my attention. "See those?"
She pointed out the window at a row of houses going up on Rhode Island Avenue. "The one in the middle—right there—that's the one I want."
The house wasn't much more than a brick shell on a muddy lot, but Barbara showed me one on the corner that was nearly finished. "It will be like that," she said.
"It's nice," I said, but I hoped she wasn't expecting the house to solve everything. Unlike a true Smith Barbara still believed she'd be happy someday.
22
THAT AFTERNOON, LIZARD AND MAGPIE SHOWED UP TO take Brent and June to the playground, which was a big relief. The troll had been driving me crazy all day. Read this, Yuncle Poopoo, read that, play horsey, build me a tower, and so on. Barbara never called him off once. She just sat there pounding the typewriter keys.
When I heard the Siamese twins coming up the stairs, giggling at every step, I hid in the bathroom. I had nothing to say to Lizard. She had nothing to say to me either, except her stupid wisecracks. I wasn't in the mood to be insulted. Not today.
When I was sure they'd all left, I peeked out the window. Lizard and Magpie were holding Brent's hands, and June was skipping along beside them, laughing at something Lizard was saying—probably a joke about me. It hurt to see my own sister getting a chuckle at my expense.
Barbara glanced up from her typing, but she didn't say anything. Maybe I had one of those ugly looks on my face. I flung myself down at the other end of the table and opened my notebook. A couple of letters back, William had told me more about the new kid in Grandma's house. Her name was Linda, but he'd said not to get any ideas: "She's not my girlfriend, just a friend."
In my answer, I'd asked him what Linda looked like, especially in a sweater. "Have you ever kissed her? I know you said she wasn't your girlfriend, but that was a couple of weeks ago, maybe now she is."
In his next letter, William said he'd never kissed Linda, though he admitted he'd thought about it once or twice. "Most of the time, we talk," he wrote, "about books and movies and how we feel about things."
As for the way Linda looked in a sweater, he hadn't really noticed. "The same as any other girl, I guess" is how he put it.
The first thing I told him in my letter was,
You need new glasses, William. Believe me, all girls don't look the same in sweaters, some are bigger than others if you know what I mean. If you think about kissing Linda, you should go ahead and do it. She just might like it.
I looked at what I'd written. Who was I to tell William about kissing? The one girl I'd kissed had slugged me so hard she'd made my nose bleed. Maybe he should stick to talking. It was probably a whole lot safer.
So I added, "Maybe you should ask her first and then, if she says yes, kiss her."
Next I told him about my weekend crime spree—stealing the record, getting thrown out of the dance, cherry bombing the professor's house, getting suspended. But when I read it over, it sounded like a big joke. Something to laugh about with Toad and Doug, something to brag about.
"The truth is, I wish I had somebody like Linda to talk to," I wrote.
But Stu's always studying, Barbara's got her hands full, June's too little, and Toad and Doug are just plain dumb. If Lizard was like Linda, I'd tell her stuff I don't tell anybody. Like how mad I am all the time, how everything makes me sore, how—
While I sat there trying to decide what to say next, I heard June and Brent thundering up the steps. I got ready to hide in the bathroom, but Lizard didn't come with them.
June peered over my shoulder. "Is that a love
letter to Elizabeth?"
I covered what I'd written and gave her a dirty look. "Of course not. Do you think I'd waste my time writing to that snob? She hates my guts."
"She asked where you were when we were at the playground," June said. Then she covered her mouth with her hand. "Oops, she told me not to tell you."
I stared at my sister. "What else did she tell you not to tell me?"
June giggled and picked up my pencil. Without looking at me, she started drawing a picture of a horse. "She and Margaret were talking about the trouble you got into at the dance. Elizabeth said Bobby was a jerk, and Margaret said, 'What about Gordy, is he a jerk, too?' Then they both started giggling."
I stared at June, suddenly interested. "Did Lizard say anything else about me?"
June frowned and erased the horse's legs. "They don't look right, do they? I wish horses didn't have such fancy legs. They're so hard to draw."
I took the pencil. "What did Lizard say, June?"
She reached for the pencil. "Nothing. She saw me standing there and told me not to tell you what I'd heard—or else." June ran a finger across her throat like she was cutting it with a knife.
I sighed and handed her the pencil. "The next time Lizard talks about me, don't get caught listening. Come home and tell me every word. Okay?"
"Gordy and Elizabeth sitting in a tree," June chanted, "K-I-S-S-I-N-G." That made her howl with laughter.
When she recovered, she went back to work on the horse. She was right—the legs were all wrong. And so was the neck, but I didn't tell her. No sense hurting her feelings.
After she'd worn a hole in the paper with her eraser, June threw the pencil down and went out to the kitchen to pester Barbara for a cookie.
I sat at the table for a while, thinking about Lizard calling Pritchett a jerk. Though it didn't seem possible, I couldn't help wondering if she'd sent the note to Mueller. But why would she do that? She hated me.
A few minutes later, Stu came home. Without even giving the poor guy a chance to take off his jacket, Barbara launched into a full report of what had happened in Mueller's office. Though Stu was upset at me for being suspended, he was surprised to hear Pritchett had gotten the same punishment. Like me, he'd expected Pritchett to get away with a reprimand at the worst.
"I have news, too," Stu said finally, looking straight at me. "I went to the horticulture department this afternoon and talked to Professor Whitman."
I chewed my thumbnail, too scared to ask if I was going to reform school.
Barbara asked for me. "Is he pressing charges?"
Stu looked at me. "He's decided to put you to work instead, Gordy. Starting Saturday, you'll be doing chores for him. He needs some help building a rock garden. After that, he—"
While Stu talked about turning compost piles, digging a garden, and other fun projects, I let my breath out in a long sigh of relief. Anything was better than reform school I told myself. Even hard labor in Whitman's yard.
23
I SPENT MY TWO DAYS OF SUSPENSION ENTERTAINING THE troll while Barbara caught up on her typing. The morning I was supposed to go bade to school, the kid had a fit.
"But Dordy, who will read me 'tories and play horsey?" he asked.
It was the first time he'd used my real name. Could it be that Brent was finally warming up to his old yuncle? I grinned and gave him a pretend punch on his arm, just like Donny used to do to me.
"Don't worry, Brent," I said. "Sooner or later I'll be under house arrest again."
Barbara glanced at me and I winked, hoping she'd know I was just saying it to get the troll off my back.
I left the apartment, glad to be free, and met Toad and Doug at the streetcar stop. I talked to them, even sat with them on the streetcar, joking, laughing, and cutting up like everything was back to normal. But nothing seemed natural. I was playing the part of this dope named Gordy, mouthing off about all the fun I'd had being suspended, bragging about what I'd do to Pritchett and Whitman when I had a chance, and so on, but what I said and did with Toad and Doug just didn't matter anymore. They'd let me down for the last time. I'd never trust either of them again.
Lizard was sitting a few seats ahead of us. Whenever I laughed or talked loud, she'd glance over her shoulder at me. Then she'd whisper to Magpie. The more she looked, the louder I laughed.
By the time Pritchett and his friends joined the fun. Toad, Doug, and I were making so much noise, the driver was threatening to throw us off. That quieted us down some, but I noticed Pritchett took a seat in the front, well away from both me and Lizard. He didn't look at either one of us. Just sat there talking to his friends and ignoring me and everyone else, the snob.
When I got off the streetcar, Pritchett was halfway to Route 1, and walking fast. "See that?' I said to Doug and Toad. "The coward's scared to meet up with me. Without Jackson to protect him, he—'
"Oh, grow up, G.A.S." Lizard gave me a look and swept past with Magpie.
I watched her march up the street ahead of me. She didn't look back once, no matter how loud I laughed. Girls—there was no pleasing them.
Usually I only saw Lizard at lunch, but that day I ran into her at least three times in the hall. She glanced at me but she didn't speak—just kept going, swinging that hair of hers. In the cafeteria, every time I looked at her, she was looking at me. Even Doug noticed.
Finally I walked right up to her and said, "Why do you keep looking at me?"
She blushed. "I don't."
"Yes, you do. You were staring at me just a couple of seconds ago. I saw you."
"Maybe it's because you're so ugly. Like a dead skunk in the road—you don't want to see it, but something makes you look anyway."
Magpie started snickering, which encouraged Lizard to add, "You look at me too, G.A.S. If you didn't, you wouldn't see me looking at you!"
"I wouldn't ruin my eyesight on you." With that, I walked out of the cafeteria. Behind me, the Siamese twins went on giggling.
That afternoon, I reported to Mueller's office. Pritchett was already there. We exchanged looks but didn't say anything—not with Mueller sitting a few feet away, watching us. We opened our notebooks and did our homework. The only sound was our pencils scratching across the paper.
When we left school, Mueller walked outside with us, making remarks about the weather—warm for March, probably would rain tomorrow, stuff like that. He didn't fool me. He was there to make sure the two of us didn't get into another fight.
No chance of that—Old Lady Pritchett was waiting in her fancy Buick. I noticed she didn't smile or wave at Mueller. No more bridge games, I guessed, no more country dub stuff.
I walked to the streetcar stop and rode back to College Hill all by myself. Read the ads again, stared out the window, and thought about Lizard. Why did she look at me so much? Did it mean she liked me a little bit? Or did she still hate me? How could I tell?
Saturday morning I trudged to the professor's house and rang the doorbell. I'd hoped it would be pouring down rain so I wouldn't have to work on the rock garden, but it was the kind of warm, sunny day that made people shake their heads and say, "When March comes in like a lamb, it goes out like a lion." Meaning if the month starts out good, it will end rotten—like most things.
Mrs. Whitman opened the door and smiled. "Come in, Gordy. Roland will be down in a minute."
I followed her into the living room and took a seat on the edge of the couch. The room reminded me of Mrs. Sullivan's house. China shepherds and shepherdesses perched on spindly tables, the kind that tipped over if you brushed against them. Larger figurines kept watch from the mantel. Doilies covered chair arms and backs. The air smelled of furniture polish and window cleaner. I was afraid to move for fear of breaking something.
Then the professor appeared in the doorway. He was wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of old khakis. His belly hung over his belt. He had on loafers but no socks, and he hadn't gotten around to shaving yet. He looked even more out of place in the living room than I did.
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"Well, Smith," he growled, "you're not as big as I remembered. Let's hope you're stronger than you look."
I forced myself to keep my mouth shut—which was a good thing, because what I wanted to say was so bad it might have made Whitman mad enough to send me to reform school after all.
"Don't give me the evil eye, boy," Whitman said. "When I finish with you, you'll have bulging biceps in those skinny arms. Why, you'll look like Gorgeous George himself."
Without giving me a chance to answer, he led me outside and pointed to a pile of boulders in the backyard. Every one of them must have weighed more than I did. "I had these dumped here last year for a rock garden," he said, "but I haven't gotten around to moving them yet. Bad back, you know. Old war injury."
Whitman pressed his hands to the small of his back and gave me a hard look. "Most Americans were proud to serve their country."
I kept my face as stony as his. "My brother Donny was in the Battle of the Bulge."
"I was in Sicily," Whitman said. "That's where I was wounded. Got a Purple Heart."
I nodded, but I didn't say anything. Every soldier who took a bullet got a Purple Heart. Nothing special about that. Too bad Donny hadn't won the Medal of Honor. That would have shut Whitman's mouth.
The professor went on talking about the war, describing this campaign and that campaign, while I stood there waiting to hear what I was supposed to do with the rocks. It was amazing how boring he made the battles sound.
Finally he handed me a shovel and led me around to the front yard. "Dig up this area first." He pointed at stakes he'd pounded into the ground, marking out an area about six feet square. "Dig down about two feet. Iim over the soil. Get it nice and loose. Then I'll show you where to put the rocks."
I hadn't expected an easy job, but it was even worse than I'd imagined. My own back would be ruined by the time I dug up the ground and hauled the rocks around front. And I wouldn't even have a Purple Heart to show for it.