Veronica Ganz

by Marilyn Sachs

  “I won’t play on his team.”

  Miss Merritt sighed. She told Jack Tar, who was on Harvey’s team, to go over to Peter’s team, and she told Veronica to play on Harvey’s team.

  “I’m pitching,” Veronica said when she joined her new team.

  “Sure Veronica, sure,” said Harvey.

  Peter’s team won 4 to o.

  After the game, Veronica overheard a conversation between a triumphant Peter and a radiant Bertha.

  “What you have to work on now,” Peter was saying, “is to pitch the ball in lower. Then nobody, but nobody, could connect.”

  “Gee,” said Bertha, “I didn’t even know I was so good.”

  “You know what?” Peter said. “How about meeting me this afternoon over at the park—that field outside the tennis court is a good place. We can work on developing your ball.”

  Bertha giggled, and agreed to be there at four.

  Veronica whistled contentedly as she climbed the stairs to her classroom. And later, when the children were playing in the yard after lunch, and Peter began chanting

  “Learn to dance

  Veronica Ganz.

  Because when you pitch

  You look like a witch”

  She could even find it in her heart to smile comfortably to herself. Because he might not be aware of it at the moment, but she would settle the score between them this afternoon at four in the field outside the tennis court.

  Chapter 7

  “Go home, Stanley!” Veronica shouted over her shoulder.

  Stanley stopped walking, and stood sideways, ready to run should she decide to give chase.

  “Listen, Stanley,” Veronica shouted, “you can’t come today. That’s all there is to it! Go home, and tomorrow I’ll take you with me to — to the library.”

  “The library!” Stanley said, wrinkling up his face.

  “Go home!”

  “No.”

  Veronica made a few running jumps in his direction, and Stanley scurried off down the block. Veronica turned, ran around the corner, up the stairs of the first house she came to, and hid in the small vestibule, behind the glass doors. Sure enough, a few minutes later, there came Stanley trotting around the corner. Veronica pressed herself against the wall. Stanley did not see her and continued on his way down the street. As soon as he had passed, Veronica tried to open the inner door that led to the apartments but it was one of those doors that opened only if a tenant inside the building pressed a buzzer. Veronica inspected the mailboxes with the buttons under them, and selected f. Manciewitz— 5e. That would be up on the top floor of the building. She pressed the button, and after a minute or so the buzzer buzzed, and Veronica opened the door and ran inside. At the back of the long hall was a staircase leading down to the yard.

  “Who’s there?” somebody shouted from way up the stairwell.

  Down the stairs Veronica hurried, and tried the door to the yard.

  “Is that you, Jacky?”

  The door opened, and Veronica ran out into the yard. Good! It was the kind of yard that connected with all the others. She had to climb a stone wall, squeeze under a fence, and cut across several other yards, but she came out on Franklin Avenue, which led into the park also. It was quite a bit out of the way, but anything was better than having Stanley along when she was going to be involved in a fight.

  Stanley was no good at all when it came to fighting. Mary Rose at least could be counted on to warn her if any grownups were coming. But Stanley would only stand there hiccuping and yelling, “Help! Help! They’re killing Veronica.” Which was ridiculous, of course, but also distracting.

  Stanley was nowhere in sight when she reached the park. She cut across the bicycle path, jumped over the benches, and hurried along a path that led to the tennis courts. Nobody called her. Nobody made any noise. Nothing dropped. But the warning light flashed in Veronica’s mind, and she knew she was being followed. She turned sharply. Stanley was just bending over, picking up a leaf, about twenty feet behind her.

  “Look at this one, Veronica,” he said happily, holding up a deep red leaf that stood away crisply from his hand.

  “Stanley, I’m going to break your neck!” Veronica shrieked. “If I get my hands on you, you won’t even know what hit you.”

  “Aw, Veronica, don’t be like that,” Stanley said, but he let the leaf go, turned sideways again, and stood poised for flight.

  “For the last time, will you go home?” Veronica thundered.

  “No.”

  “O.K. for you,” said Veronica, with a meaningful shake of her fist. “I’ll get you later, and boy will you be sorry.”

  She turned away from him and began running along the path. What a pest! She didn’t have the time now, but later, after she finished with Peter, she’d attend to Stanley. He’d been getting away with murder lately, but this was the end. She’d fix him so that he’d never follow her again.

  Over the hill, there were the tennis courts. She circled them quickly and paused, gasping for breath, behind the privet hedge that led down to the big field where Peter and Bertha had arranged to meet. Carefully, she parted the bushes and peered down the slope to the field. Yes, there they were, throwing the ball back and forth. But her breath was coming too fast to attempt any charge just at the moment. She sat down in the path and tried to catch her breath, and get rid of that dizzy feeling in her head.

  Behind her in the tennis court there was a couple dressed in white shorts and white shirts playing tennis. Pong went the ball, pong, then pong again. Stanley came slowly around the corner, saw her sitting there, and moved off to a small slope on one side of the tennis court. There were several tall trees on the slope, and the ground was covered with dead leaves. Stanley began walking through the leaves. Grunch, grunch, grunch, went the sound of Stanley walking through the leaves.

  Through a space in the hedge Veronica could see Bertha and Peter throwing the ball back and forth. She couldn’t hear them, but she could see them, and suddenly Peter began jumping up and down, up and down, clapping his hands. The agonizing shortness of breath was gone from her throat, and the sun on her head felt good. It was so warm and good sitting there in the path, hearing the pong, pong behind her, and Stanley’s grunch, grunch from the slope, and seeing little Peter Wedemeyer jumping up and down, up and down.

  Suppose now, just suppose, because that’s not what she had in mind, but suppose anyway she were to get up and walk very slowly and carefully down the field, maybe with a smile to show that she wasn’t sore—just supposing she wanted to, which she didn’t—kind of acting like she just happened to be out walking and just happened to come across them there playing ball. And suppose Bertha—she didn’t really have anything against Bertha. That was a long time ago when she tripped her on the stairs, and sat down on her soft rump. Veronica couldn’t help smiling when she remembered how Bertha had squealed like a little pig—looked up and said, “Hi, Veronica.” Well just supposing she said, “Hi, Bertha.” What then? Maybe Peter might say, “Hey, you want to catch?” Just supposing he did. Well now, he wouldn’t and she was going to beat him up today, wasn’t she? She wanted to beat him up today. She’d gone to a lot of trouble to arrange for this opportunity, but just supposing he said it.

  Peter and Bertha were throwing the ball back and forth again. Pong from the tennis players behind her, grunch from Stanley. Her happiness became almost unbearable. Just supposing now —.

  Carefully, she stood up, and slowly walked around the hedge to the opening that led down to the field. She smiled, and pretended to be looking up at the sky as she started walking toward them. Bertha saw her first. “There’s Veronica,” she shouted. “Run! Run!”

  For such a fat girl, Bertha could run very fast. Dazed, Veronica watched her speeding away as if the cameras had suddenly doubled her normal speed. Then she looked at Peter. He was grinning at her, but as she began moving slowly toward him, he stuck out his tongue and started running.

  When somebody starts to run away from
you, the only thing you can do is run after him. Peter had a head start, and made good use of it. Up the hill, past the tennis courts, around Indian Lake, Peter ran, with Veronica after him.

  Peter paused at the entrance to the playground, looked over his shoulder at Veronica, and began walking slowly toward a building right in the middle of the playground. Veronica raced through the entrance, saw Peter wave a hand in greeting, and then stroll nonchalantly into the side of the building marked boys.

  Veronica shook her head. What a character that Peter was! Very, very clever of him, wasn’t it, to take refuge in a place that she couldn’t possibly enter. However—Veronica leaned comfortably against the front of the building—she had plenty of time this afternoon. And sooner or later, he’d have to come out, and there she’d be.

  After a while, Stanley came hurrying into the playground. He didn’t say a word to her, but just raced into the boy’s room. When he came out, he had a thoughtful look on his face.

  “Veronica,” he said, “who’s that boy in there?”

  “Never mind,” snapped Veronica, “and get away from here!”

  “Veronica,” Stanley said, “that boy asked me if there was a mean-looking girl standing outside, and I said, ‘No, just my sister.’ So he said who was my sister, and I said you. Then he said. ‘Poor kid!’ Why did he say poor kid, Veronica?”

  “Never mind, Stanley,” Veronica said sweetly. Nobody had to feel sorry for Stanley. “Go and play!”

  “Are you going to stay here for a while?” Stanley said, looking anxiously toward the swings.

  “Oh, yeah! I’ll be here for a while.”

  “Well, O.K. then,” Stanley said, walking toward the swings. “But don’t go away.”

  “Stanley!” Veronica shouted after him.

  “What?”

  “Tie your shoelaces!”

  “O.K.”

  “And Stanley!”

  “What?”

  “Wipe your nose!”

  Stanley wiped his nose on his sleeve, and then climbed onto an empty swing.

  “Come and push me, Veronica,” he shouted.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m busy.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m just busy.”

  Stanley flung his body backward and forward on the swing, but he couldn’t really raise himself very high. So he lay down on the swing, with his head dropping down on one side and his feet on the other. After a while he sat sideways in the swing, and pushed himself to and fro sideways until the kids on either side of him told him to stop.

  Then he went over to the slide. The first time he went down just sitting with his legs out in front of him. The next time he went down feet first but lying on his back, then lying on his stomach head first, then feet first.

  Veronica began walking back and forth in front of the building. Poor Peter, she thought almost affectionately, this is really the end of the line for him.

  Next time she looked, Stanley was on the seesaw, sharing one end with another little boy about his size while a bigger, older boy was trying to balance on the other end. It didn’t work. The two small boys together weighed less than the one big boy so their end whizzed high in the air, bumping them into loud delirious giggles. But they couldn’t get his end up very high. After a while, each small boy took a different end while the bigger boy balanced in the center. That worked much better.

  It grew darker, and Veronica reflected that at five the playground would close, and Peter would have to come out. Would he tell the playground attendant about her, she wondered. He might, and perhaps it would be smarter waiting for him outside the playground. He could come out only one entrance, and if she waited behind one of the bushes right outside, that might be the most sensible plan.

  Stanley was sitting in the middle of the monkey bars, looking up at the top. Funny how scared he was about climbing to the top. Why when she was his age she could climb over a schoolyard fence.

  “Go on, Stanley,” she shouted, “climb up! It’s great at the top.”

  “Hold me,” Stanley suggested.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m busy.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Look, Stanley, if you’re not going to climb to the top, come on down, and we’ll go HOME.” She said this in a very loud voice, hoping Peter would hear her, and be deceived about her intentions. “I’m going HOME NOW,” she shouted.

  Stanley climbed down and began heading toward her.

  “Is your name Veronica?” asked a boy, coming over to her.

  “Yeah?”

  “Here!” The boy handed her a paper. “I met a kid down near the lake who said you’d be standing here, and to give you this.”

  Veronica looked down at the paper in her hand. It was a paper towel, and there was something written on it. Veronica held it up close to her face because it was growing almost too dark to see. The message was,

  You don’t have a chance

  Veronica Ganz.

  Peter W.

  “What did he look like?” she shouted at the boy.

  The boy backed away. “I dunno,” he said nervously. “Just looked like a boy.”

  “Was he short? Shorter than you?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Did he have a plaid jacket on?”

  “I guess so.” The messenger began walking away. “He just asked me if I was going to the playground, and said you’d be standing near the boy’s room. That’s all.”

  “STANLEY!” Veronica roared.

  Stanley was standing right next to her. “What?”

  “Go in there, and see if that boy is still inside.”

  Stanley walked into the boy’s room, and quickly returned. “Nobody’s in there,” he said.

  Veronica thought for a moment. “Stanley,” she said, “is there a window in there?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Is it open?”

  “I don’t know. Should I look, Veronica?”

  “Look!”

  Stanley looked. “It’s open,” he said, “up to the top. Will you push me on the swing now, Veronica?”

  “No!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m busy.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m thinking!” Veronica shouted.

  “Oh,” Stanley said, “that’s what you’ve been busy doing all day—thinking.”

  But Stanley was mistaken. Veronica had not been thinking all day, but now she was, and her mind creaked and groaned under its burden. Stanley stood looking up at her tormented face. “Veronica,” he whimpered, “let’s go home, Veronica.”

  But Veronica didn’t hear him. She was fighting a hard battle now, and her adversary was herself. Peter Wedemeyer had eluded her and outfoxed her down the line. It wasn’t enough that she was stronger than he. If she couldn’t outsmart him, the victory would be his. She was going to need a new weapon to beat Peter, and that weapon lay somewhere inside’ her own brain. If she couldn’t find it, then it was all over for her, and Peter could go on teasing and tormenting her forever and ever, and she’d never be able to stop him. Was there any point in going on with this contest, which served only to humiliate her time and again? Should she admit that Peter was just too much for her—too smart for her? Should she forget the whole business, and keep out of his way? Or should she try again?

  “I’m cold,” Stanley whimpered. “I want to go home.”

  “In a minute, in a minute,” she muttered, because there was something bursting into light inside her brain. A trap. Of course. A trap. She’d lay a trap. She’d beat him at his own game, and show him that she was as good as he, and twice as smart. She’d lay a trap for him that he’d walk right into. And how easy it all would be!

  “Come on, Stanley,” she said, taking his hand. “We’ll go home now.”

  A few details would have to be worked out, but Veronica thought triumphantly as they h
urried along through the park that this time she’d get him for sure. The web was spun, and she’d begin tightening the threads in the French Club on Friday afternoon.

  Chapter 8

  “But he says so in the letter,” Mary Rose insisted.

  Mama began pouring the hot water from the teakettle over her feet in the basin.

  “Listen,” Mary Rose continued. “Right here it says.” And she began reading. The letter really belonged to Mama since it had been addressed to her, but Mary Rose had appropriated it, and was keeping it with Papa’s picture. “‘Too bad it didn’t work out, but tell the girls I’ll be in New York for sure around Christmas.’“

  “Aah,” said Mama, handing the kettle back to Veronica, and arching her feet luxuriously in the steaming water.

  “So why do you say he’s not coming?”

  “I did not say he wasn’t coming,” Mama said mildly. “I only said if he comes, and if doesn’t mean he’s not coming. I hope he is able to come, but if he doesn’t. I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

  “But he says right here he’s coming, but you keep on saying if. Why should you say if when he says he’s coming. Right here he says it. ‘Tell the girls I’ll be —.

  “I know, I know,” Mama said, raising one flushed foot above the steam and allowing the other the freedom of the entire basin. “You’ve just read it out loud. I heard you the first time.”

  “So why do you keep saying if?” Mary Rose said angrily.

  “Look, Mary Rose,” Mama said, “all I want to do is soak my feet in peace. Please, be a good girl, and go away.”

  Mary Rose burst into tears. “I hate you,” she cried. “I hate you. You spoil everything!”

  Mama stood up and began climbing out of the basin, and Mary Rose ran, shrieking, out of the kitchen. Mama sat down again. “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “I just don’t know what to do about that child. She was always a problem, always gave me more trouble than anybody else. But lately she’s just impossible.” Mama’s face looked troubled. “I just hope he comes this time.”