by S. Rose
But if it weren’t for my Indian summer, I wouldn’t have known what shallow, backstabbing little bitches they were. That’s when it dawned on me. I knew why Sparrow hadn’t told me about the situation with these girls: she was too decent to stoop to their level and too proud to vie for my friendship. “Go on, if you want to . . . but you don’t have to,” she’d said.
“Listen Amanda Jane, Caroline Rose, Elizabeth Anne,” I pointed to each one in turn as I read their nametags, “Susan, Marylou, and . . . dumb girl who doesn’t know what a chalet is.”
“It’s Lucy,” she informed me, although she apparently answered just as readily to dumb girl. “My nametag fell off.” Amanda glanced at Lucy and rolled her eyes in embarrassment.
“It’s like this,” I continued. “I understand just fine what kind of friends I want to have. So you do what you want, or what your mothers tell you. If you don’t want to be my friends, it’s too bad for you. My parents are planning such a nice party for my birthday later this month . . . inourchalet. All the girls in our grade will be invited because my mother doesn’t believe in leaving anyone out. But Sparrow is my friend, no matter what she wants to call herself; she’s going to be there even if everybody else stays home.”
“Have it your way,” Amanda Jane huffed indignantly, then turned and walked off with her head held high; the other girls fell in lockstep behind her.
“And another thing,” I shouted, aiming my words at her back like a shotgun. “I’d rather have one friend who doesn’t take a bath than a bunch who smell sweet on the outside, but stink like an outhouse on the inside.”
“Oh.” Amanda was so incensed she stopped in her tracks and turned to face me for another go around. “Well, if you want to know what I think . . . ” she began, but I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. I spun on my heel and walked in the opposite direction, leaving her to believe I didn’t give a rat’s ass what she thought.
Only thing is, it wasn’t entirely true.
THAT DAY COULDN’T end fast enough. After her dramatic exit from the auditorium, Sparrow dashed out the front door of the school and never came back.
At first, there was a buzz of admiration in the hallways. Her courageous defiance of The Hatchet had made her a celebrity of sorts. But it quickly died down as a rumor spread that Lisa Schimschack was getting hauled off to reform school. One of those good little girls of the type always chosen to bring the attendance to the office had overheard the principal on the phone with the police.
“What an idiot,” the kids started to say. “The Hatchet’s gonna send her to reform school this time, you betcha.”
Just before lunch, a police cruiser pulled up out front. The boys rushed over to the window first, followed by a few of the bolder girls who dared to get out of their seats without permission. I cautiously stood up when the teacher’s back was turned and tried to see over their heads. My heart stuck in my throat when a uniformed officer with a gun stepped out of the car. The kids started squawking at once, like a flock of geese.
“Ooh, looky there! They’ve come to git ’er!”
“Told ya so.”
“What a dope.”
“She’s going to get arrested!”
“Boys! And young ladies, back to your seats immediately,” Miss Summers commanded. She walked briskly to the windows and drew the metal Venetian blinds with a snap as we scurried to our desks like mice. I’d made sure my heinie was back in the chair a split second before the teacher looked my way and cast my eyes down upon my list of vocabulary words. I shouldn’t have done it, but I snuck a peek at Amanda; just as I predicted, she wore a satisfied smile and basked in the misery I’d tried unsuccessfully to conceal. I had to admit that it was one point for Amanda Jane. Now we were even.
Just when I thought I couldn’t feel much worse, a little boy in a red bowtie announced himself at our classroom door. “Miss Summers,” he piped up. She went to the door. The self-important little prig had been sent with a summons from the principal. Mrs. Moore wanted to see me in her office.
I rose with calm dignity and followed him quietly out of the room while my stomach did backflips. I could feel the collective eyes of my classmates burning a hole in my back. It was definitely one up for Amanda Jane.
“Hey, Billy,” I whispered, as soon as we were around the corner. When he didn’t respond, I grabbed the kid’s shoulder and stopped him in his tracks. Sixth grade is the last year when the tall girls tower over most of the boys, and Billy was one of the smaller fish.
“What?” he stepped back with an annoyed look, brushing off the shoulder of his button-down shirt as if I had cooties.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know . . . and I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”
We happened to be right by the door to the girls’ bathroom. I checked up and down the hall to see if the coast was clear, then grabbed Billy’s upper arm with a grip made strong by a summer of vigorous play—not to mention milking goats—and ushered him through the swinging door before he had time to say boo.
“Hey, hands off,” he protested in vain. “I’m telling.” I noted the fear in his soprano voice as his freckled baby-face flushed pink.
“Really? You’re going to tell that you were dragged into the girls’ bathroom . . . by a girl?” He hesitated. I pushed him over with his back up against the sink and made a mean face. “Listen, Billy, you’d better spill what you know, else I’m gonna splash water on your pants and tell everyone you wet yourself.” I’d never bullied anyone in my life, but had seen it done many times. I was desperate.
“Okay.” He held up his hands in surrender. “Mrs. Moore is worried. She’s been looking all morning for, uh . . . your friend, and she wants to ask if you know where she went. Ol’ Hatchet Face already set the police on her. Told them the girl was wild and dangerous . . . needed to be taken from her no account mother and locked up before she turned criminal. I heard the two of them right through the office door. The Hatchet is waiting to question you . . . she was all riled up, even yelled at the principal,” he gushed excitedly. “There! I kept my part of the bargain. Now, swear you ain’t gonna tell no one about . . .”
“Scout’s honor,” I swore, holding up two fingers. “Thanks, Billy,” I added. I wanted to apologize but decided I’d better hold off and leave a bit of fear in him—might need to use him for future intelligence.
“We’d better go down to the office before you get in more trouble,” he cautioned.
“Right.” I dashed out the bathroom door and down the hall with Billy trailing behind, trying to keep up.
“THANK YOU, BILLY, that’ll be all.” Mrs. Moore dismissed the nosy message boy and gently shut the door in his face; I’d bet anything he was on the other side with his ear pasted to it. She took her seat behind an enormous oak desk, which seemed to swallow her small frame. Miss Hatchet stood by, glowering down upon me with her thick arms folded across her chest, flanked by a burly police officer with a notepad.
“Sit down, Cassandra,” Mrs. Moore said, not unkindly. I sat. She looked as if she were about to say more when The Hatchet lit in.
“I’ll have you know, Missy, that if it were up to me, you’d be in plenty of hot water for the shenanigans you pulled this morning.” I said nothing. “I’m going to give you one chance to tell us where the little scamp ran off to.”
My heart jumped to my throat. “I don’t know where she went,” I blurted. I’d wondered all day if Sparrow had walked the six miles home or was hiding out somewhere in town.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Miss Hatchet,” Mrs. Moore interjected. “There’s no reason to believe that Cassandra is lying.”
“She was in cahoots with that Schimschack girl . . . they had the whole thing planned. Thought you’d make a fool out of me, did you? Well, Officer Jenkins is going to take care of her . . . and if you take one more step out of line, you’ll be next.”
“Mrs. Moore, I didn’t plan anything—honest. I live about a mile away from the
Schimschacks. Timmy is a second cousin or something on my father’s side . . .”
“Who is your father?” The Hatchet demanded.
“George Parsons.”
“Reuben’s boy? Ha. That explains a lot.”
“Sparrow and I became friends over the summer,” I continued, ignoring her and looking directly at Mrs. Moore. “That’s the only name I know her by. Her father really is Chief John Wind . . . I know him too. Sparrow is half Ojibwe.”
“There’s no doubt about that,” The Hatchet interjected with undisguised contempt.
“Lester Schimschack was my father’s cousin, but I don’t understand how Sparrow could be a Schimschack—Lester left her mother a few years before she was even born.”
Ol’ Hatchet Face wrinkled her snout and snorted in disgust. “And your parents allow you to associate with such people? It’s a disgrace.”
Mrs. Moore stood and spoke firmly. “That’s enough, Miss Hatchet.” She emerged from behind her desk and held out her frail hand. “Come along, Cassandra, I’ll walk you back to your class.” Neither of us looked back as she ushered me from the room with a gentle hand on my shoulder.
As we walked down the hallways, I felt my chin quiver. My eyes burned, unable to hold back the tears any longer. “What . . . what’s going to happen to Sparrow?” I asked mournfully. “Is she really going to reform school?”
“Don’t worry dear; we’ll sort it all out. I do have to send Officer Jenkins to the Schimschack’s to see if she got home. They don’t have a phone, and I’m responsible for the whereabouts of all my students.”
“Now I’ll never have any friends here . . . everybody hates me.” I sobbed.
“It’s in the darkest times that we find our true friends . . . the ones worth having. Now you just step into the girls’ room and wash away those tears and leave everything to me.”
After I’d pulled myself together, Mrs. Moore escorted me into Miss Summer’s classroom. As she stepped through the door, the kids leapt to their feet as one, standing at attention in perfect rows beside their desks. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Moore,” they chorused.
“Good afternoon, children,” she said, smiling benevolently. “You may be seated. It’s so good to see you all again. I trust you’ve met our new student, Cassandra Parsons?”
They glanced about at one another, then chorused, “Yes, Mrs. Moore.”
“Cassandra has joined us from the beautiful City of Racine. She and I have been getting to know one another,” she said, smiling upon me for emphasis. “Now, I want you all to show me what good citizens you are and make her especially welcome. I’m sure you’ll all make me very proud this year.”
“Yes, Mrs. Moore,” they sang out again. I took my place in class. As Mrs. Moore turned to leave, she smiled at me once more as if to drive her point home. The girls all looked to Amanda Jane for a cue. I felt as if I were treading a tightrope. At last she smiled, a terse, artificial little smile, but at least she made an effort. I smiled back.
AFTER SCHOOL, I was surprised to find Dad parked right out front, waiting to pick me up in the fire engine red Chevy—as if I hadn’t had drawn enough attention to myself for one day. I must admit, he cut quite a dashing figure, dressed in a new suit and tie with a wide-brimmed hat. He looked like a well-dressed Marlboro man as he leaned casually against the car with a cigarette in his mouth and a devil-may-care expression on his angular face.
“Hi, Daddy!” I shouted and waved as I ran to meet him.
“That’s your dad?” Lucy said with open admiration.
“That’s your car?” Billy’s eyes bugged. “Wowee zowie!” Apparently, they’d both forgiven me.
“Guys, look at her dad’s car,” a boy shouted. The kids stampeded the Bel Air like a herd of cattle.
“Hi, kids,” my father said jovially. Then he stood at attention by the open car door and announced with pomp, “Miss, your carriage awaits.” I was suddenly surrounded by a crush of girls, all peering inside the car.
“Ooh, look at the interior,” Elizabeth Anne said.
“Can I sit inside?” Marylou wanted to know. Dad nodded that it was okay, and I opened the back door. Four girls scrambled inside, giggling and squealing.
“Can we see under the hood, Mr. Parsons? Please?” a boy wheedled.
“Okay, fellas, just a peek, then I got to get back to work.”
“Golly, she’s got an eight cylinder engine,” a big boy named Gunnar announced.
“Your dad’s handsome,” Susan whispered in the backseat.
We rolled away with most of the sixth grade waving us off, as if we were part of a presidential motorcade. Amanda Jane Richards could go suck eggs. My status as a girl of stature and standing looked like a done deal.
As soon as we pulled out of sight, I told my father every detail of the day—except for the incident with Billy in the girls’ bathroom.
“Hester Hatchet is a vile, hateful woman. Shoot. I’ve got a good mind to turn around and go tell the old battleax what I oughta told her a long time ago.”
“Dad, what’s going on? Who the heck is Lisa Schimschack? Why’d Ol’ Hatchet Face write it on her nametag?”
“Lisa Schimschack is her legal name; it’s on her birth certificate. They’ve been having this argument over at the school since she started. Anna told me all about it. Last year’s teacher just let her have her way, so there was a reprieve of sorts. The poor kid’s got enough trouble . . . if calling herself by her Indian name makes her happy, then they shouldn’t make a big deal out of it.”
“But she can’t be a Schimschack—Lester isn’t her father.”
“’Course he ain’t. But her mother was still married to Lester when she was born, so any children Anna had belonged to him. It’s like this: after Lester disappeared, Anna couldn’t remarry until he was either proven dead, or they divorced. There was a law on the books that stated a woman couldn’t declare abandonment and divorce an absent husband until at least three years had passed, probably because of the men who’d gone missing during the World Wars. There were occasions when a woman’s husband went missing in action and was presumed dead too soon. She’d get married again, and then he’d be found alive in some hospital with a head injury or come back a long lost prisoner of war. You can’t blame poor Anna . . . left all alone like that and with a sick little boy. She, uh . . . got together with John Wind, and they had a baby girl. You call her Sparrow, but her Christian name is Lisa. She’s Lisa Schimschack by law—pretty ridiculous if you ask me.”
“Wait a sec, Dad, I just don’t understand. I mean, I don’t see how Anna was married to Lester but had a baby with Mr. Wind . . . ’cause I don’t really know how people get babies,” I admitted bashfully, keeping my eyes on the road ahead.
“Ah . . . well, you’ll need to get the lowdown before long, but I’ll leave the details to your mother. She’ll know the proper way to explain it to a girl. All I can say is that a man and a woman get together . . . real close.”
“How close do they have to get?”
“You’ll have to ask your mother. Anyhow, the right way . . . uh, the best way for the child is if the couple is married first. But people aren’t perfect. Sometimes they love each other but can’t get married for one reason or another . . . and it happens. They make a baby. And most folks’ll stick their noses in the air and look down on ’em when they do. If ya ask me, it ain’t right to judge another like that. I’m not a religious man, but I think that Jesus fella would agree with me. ‘You ought not to cast stones,’ he said, or something of the like.”
“Ya sure, I know the story of Mary Magdalene. They taught us at Sunday school that she was a sinner, and the men were about to throw stones at her. Jesus said, ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’ Nobody budged. Then Jesus forgave Mary’s sins and sent her off . . . but they never did tell us at Sunday school what she did wrong in the first place. Dad, what exactly did Mary Magdalene do?”
“Uh, I think it had something to do with getting too close
to the men. Funny thing is, in order for her to be close to the men, they had to get close to her, too. They were breaking the same rules. And there ain’t one of us hasn’t done something we ought not to have done. As for making a baby out of wedlock, well, I just can’t see that it ranks high on the list of sins . . . believe me, there’re far worse things you can do than love somebody and make a baby. Now, I don’t want you to bring any of this up outside of your mom and me—most people wouldn’t share my views. Besides, you don’t want to embarrass your friend. She’s got a hard enough time. School isn’t a happy place for her, I’ve heard tell.”
“Because of the people who stick their noses in the air,” I said with understanding.
“You betcha they do, and worse,” Dad affirmed. “You may find that you’re on the other side of the fence from some children . . . their parents, too. It ain’t easy, being related to the Schimschacks, but they’re family. You’ll have to make up your own mind, though. I won’t tell you to stand by Lisa . . .”
“Sparrow. Sparrow Flies-in-the-Wind,” I corrected.
“Well, whatever she calls herself, some will call her a bastard and a half-breed to boot. None of us can help what we come from. I respect the Indians, and I think John Wind is a decent man.”
“Wait . . . why didn’t he marry Anna, after all? Sparrow is eleven, so Lester’s been gone . . .”
“Uh, the Chief was already married . . . to an Ojibwe woman. They had two little boys at the time, but I guess it didn’t work out. They’d been living separate. He’s been with Anna for the past eleven years though he doesn’t live with her either.”
