by Avi
She stood up. “Now what do you want to do?” she asked. “Do you want to go home and fetch some dry clothes? Or come to class? It’s still raining. Perhaps you’d rather sit by the radiator and dry off.”
“I want to stay,” I said, afraid she’d be gone and I’d never see her again.
“Good for you!” she said.
Side by side—closer this time—we went down the hall, heading for class.
I was still dripping, but I was trying to find a way to warn her about what was going to happen. “Miss . . . Miss Gossim,” I said a few times.
“Yes, Howie?”
I couldn’t get it out. “Thanks for . . . rescuing me,” I said.
“You’re quite welcome, Howie.”
“I know.”
Just as we reached the classroom door, she stopped. “Howie, I wish you’d tell me what happened.”
“I’m all right,” I got out.
She opened the classroom door and we walked in. The kids stared at us.
“Class, I’m afraid Howie got a little wet,” Miss Gossim said with a smile. “He needs to sit near the radiator to dry off.”
She took up the chair by her desk and carried it to the back of the room.
Grinning, I sat down by the radiator. It was hot and soothing.
Miss Gossim went back to the front of the room. “All right, class,” she said. “We were just starting the math test. Howie, now that you’re here, I think we should start again. But it might be best if you took the test back there.”
My heart sank. I hadn’t missed the math test after all.
“Denny, please take your friend paper and pen.”
As Denny handed me the paper, his peepers, behind his glasses, were asking me all these questions about what was going on.
“Denny,” Miss Gossim called. “Return to your seat, please.”
Looking back at me over his shoulder, Denny did like he was told.
“All right, class,” Miss Gossim said, “what is five times eight?”
I scribbled 64.
11
WHEN THE MATH test was done, Miss Gossim gave us a stretch time. In the scramble Denny came over.
“What’s your story, morning glory?” he said. “How come you didn’t meet me going to school?”
“My shoelace broke.”
“Horsefeathers,” he said. “How’d you get so wet and dirty?”
“Back to seats, please!” Miss Gossim called from the front of the room. “We have a very busy morning.”
“I’ll tell you during recess,” I said.
“Let’s take out our geography books,” Miss Gossim said. “We were on page forty-two. Argentina. The land of silver.”
I started for my desk.
“Howie, are you dry?” Miss Gossim called across the room.
I said, “My shorts is damp.”
The class laughed. So did Miss Gossim.
“Well,” she said with a big smile, “get your geography book, but stay near the heat.”
12
BY TEN-THIRTY snack time I was still by the radiator, pretty well dried out except for my shoes. They were still a little squashy.
About then Miss Gossim checked the clock, set down her copy of our reader, and said, “Class, you may put your books away and fetch your snacks.” Then, all of a sudden, she said, “Oh! I completely forgot!”
We looked at her.
She went to the map of the world, which was on the side wall. “We forgot to learn what’s happening with our war families,” she said.
So, like she did every couple of days, she went round the class, asking each kid what their family was doing for the war.
Billy Wiggins said his father had gone into basic training in South Carolina.
“The Old South,” Miss Gossim said, and stuck a little paper American flag on the map.
Margaret Hillers said she thought her father was in England.
“That’s Merry Old England,” Miss Gossim said with a laugh. “Then we have to move him there, don’t we?” She shifted one of the little map flags from the middle of the Atlantic Ocean and put it on the spot marked England.
She went through the whole class that way.
Now, there were kids who didn’t have family in the service. Or overseas. Didn’t matter. Miss Gossim made out like everyone was doing something. For instance, when Ronnie Estes said his mother was working at this office helping servicemen find missing families, Miss Gossim said that was very important and put a flag right on Brooklyn.
“Oh, my,” she said, when she’d got an answer from everyone in the room, “this war is so hard on so many.” Then she just stood there, staring at the map, as if she had family in the war. But the next moment she gave us that great smile of hers and dismissed us for morning snack.
Shoving our books away, we made a rush to the wardrobe. Before I got anywhere, Denny got me.
“You going to tell me what happened to you now?” he said.
“Sure.”
“So?”
“I was in a coal pile.”
“A coal pile?”
“Yeah.”
“Whata’ you talking about?” he said.
“I was in someone’s house,” I told him, not sure how much I wanted to explain.
“Whose?” Denny asked, like he was on the Twenty Questions radio show.
I stalled. “Hey, I need to get my snack.”
I got my stuff from where I’d dropped it up by the door. But when I opened my lunch box, my sandwich and graham-cracker snack—everything was black with coal dust.
I was still staring at my lunch box, trying to decide what to do, when the classroom door opened. It was Mrs. Partridge, the school secretary. She was this big happy woman. Little kids loved her because she hugged them a lot. Big kids hated her because she hugged them a lot too.
Except that time when she came in, she wasn’t looking too happy. Seeing her, my heart sank. I knew what was going to happen.
“Hey, secret pact,” I heard Denny say. “You going to tell me what you did?” And he made this mysterious sign we had made up, which was pulling on his right earlobe. It was supposed to mean, “Remember, no secrets.”
I didn’t answer. Cracking my knuckles, I was watching Mrs. Partridge go up to Miss Gossim.
The teacher was sipping a cup of hot tea, which she did during snack time. Kept it in a vacuum bottle. But seeing Mrs. Partridge, she stood up. There was this smile on her face. Like I told you, they were friends.
I couldn’t hear what Mrs. Partridge said. She spoke too low. But the more she said, the more Miss Gossim’s smile faded. A hand went to her heart. She even put her teacup down so quick that tea slopped out.
Clearing her throat, she turned to the class. “Attention, children,” she called. She was trying to smile and use her bright voice. It didn’t work.
“I have to run down to see Dr. Lomister for a moment,” she said. “Please take your snacks to your seats.”
The class did like she told them.
I hung back, not sure where I was supposed to go.
My being there must have caught Miss Gossim’s eye. “Howie,” she said, “will you be class monitor? Class, take out your readers, and turn to chapter fourteen. Everyone will take turns reading out loud paragraph by paragraph. Howie—”
She opened the bottom drawer of her desk, took out her purse, and left the room with Mrs. Partridge.
We watched her go.
Now understand, I might have been the only one who knew what was happening, but the other kids were pretty quiet too. They were looking at each other for answers.
In her loud voice, Lucy Amaldi said, “Maybe her brother was killed in the war.”
Wasn’t dumb. Three times that year kids in the school had been called to the office because of news like that from home.
Then Denny piped up and said, “She doesn’t have a brother.”
That took me by surprise. I didn’t know that. And if Denny knew, how come he hadn’t tol
d me? I mean, what about our no-secrets pact?
“Maybe it was her father,” Marcus Sanders said from across the room.
“Her father died a long time ago,” Denny said.
“Or her sister?” someone said.
“She doesn’t have a sister,” Denny told us.
“How come you’re such an Abercrombie, knowing so much?” Willa DiSouza demanded.
I was thinking, Good question.
Denny said, “I just do.”
The stinker. I was wondering what else he knew. Maybe he knew Miss Gossim’s first name too and hadn’t told me.
Now, I admit, I could have said what was going on. Only I didn’t want to say how come I knew. See, I liked thinking this was something only Miss Gossim and me knew. Understand? Private. Just between us.
Standing in front of her desk, I held up the textbook. “Chapter fourteen,” I said. “We’re supposed to read.”
Denny gazed at me. From his look I could tell he knew I knew more than I was saying, and that my being late that morning had something to do with what I knew. So, staring back, I pulled my right earlobe. Our signal. That way he knew I’d tell him more later. He gave back a pull on his earlobe and turned away.
“Tom Ewing,” I said, trying to sound like a teacher, “start reading.”
The class opened their books. In a singsong voice, Tom began to read:
“Mr. Brown went to the big power station.
It was very large. It was very powerful.
‘Oh, my,’ he said. ‘This building is big.
It is grand. It is good.’”
It wasn’t just boring, it was stupid, that kind of stuff for fifth grade. Even so, Tom and Mr. Brown kept right on going.
13
TWENTY MINUTES AFTER she left, Miss Gossim came back. Right off, you could see something was wrong. Like maybe Joe Louis had just given her a left hook to the head. Sure, she had this smile on, but it didn’t look right. Her eyes were misty too.
Me, I’d have bet the whole Brooklyn Bridge, and the Williamsburg one too, Lomister had just fired her.
Soon as she came in, Linda Franklin stopped reading. We all just sat there, staring at her.
Halfway to her desk Miss Gossim’s smile got turned off. It switched on again when she held out her hand toward me, asking for the reader.
“Thank you, Howie,” she said softly. “I’m sure you did a good job.”
I hustled back to my desk, checking her once, twice, over my shoulder. Not looking where I was going, I banged into Natalie Brickle’s desk. “Sorry,” I mumbled.
The class laughed.
But when I sat down, Miss Gossim was still standing in front of her desk. The look on her face wasn’t what you’d call peachy cream-o. Not that I could tell what she was thinking.
All of us were quiet, watching her close, waiting for her to say something.
She smiled again. Sort of.
“Well, then,” she finally said, “thanks for being such good children. I appreciate that. My meeting with Dr. Lomister was important, but . . .” She stopped. “But . . . now we have to get on with your education.”
She turned to the blackboard and the doings list. “We were going to have music this afternoon. I think we should do it now. I certainly could use some. Please take out your songbooks.”
Everybody knew we weren’t getting the straight skinny. Even so, we did what we were told.
She said, “Let’s start with . . . page twelve, ‘O Bright and Shiny Day!’” She picked up her pitch pipe from her desk and gave this long, high note.
At first we sang quietly. Pretty soon we were tooting along like a bunch of taxicabs in a Times Square traffic jam.
14
BY LUNCHTIME Miss Gossim was acting mostly like her old self again. Full of smiles, you know, pep. Sure, I think we all knew it was phony, but the class went along. You know, pretend normal. We were good at that.
Anyway, about an hour later we were dismissed for lunch hour, which was, actually, only half an hour. The class marched out in line. They followed our monitor, who that day was Billy Leider—the kid with dirty nails. Since it was still raining, we went down to the basement.
On days it didn’t rain, we went out to the yard. But on rainy days some eight hundred kids stuffed themselves in the basement. The place wasn’t big either. But us kids—little bitty kindergartners up to lumpy eighth graders—swarmed in, stinking the place up with sweat, wet wool, and sour milk. We’d play games, eat our lunches, or go tearing around the place like the screaming meemies.
With its cement floor and low ceiling, the place became one big, steamy, smelly, sweat hole. You had to shout to make yourself heard. Kids eating lunches everywhere. Food all over the floor. Boys playing kick ball, tag ball, dodgeball, ring-a-lievo, dump the chump, the regular stuff. A few brave girls played with them. The rest of the girls, if they were playing anything, were jumping rope, doing jacks, hopscotch.
Sure, there were a few teachers trying to keep order. But it was like trying to stop a leaky bucket that had fourteen holes and you had only what? Maybe two fingers.
Okay. Denny and me, we went to our regular eating place. It was up against one of the gray concrete walls, near a storage bin. A good spot ’cause it was hard to play anything there. Quieter too.
“My sandwich got coal dusted,” I told him when we settled in. “You got anything extra?”
He opened his lunch box. He had this apple, and a jelly sandwich that looked like a bad scab, plus a Twinkie and a box of Mason Dots.
“You can go halvsies on my sandwich,” he said. Ripping his scab sandwich in half, he checked sizes and gave me the bigger piece. “You going to tell me what happened now?” he asked.
Mouth full, I said, “Swear not to tell?”
“Sure.”
Now in them days, when you made a swear, you had to do it right. Otherwise, it wasn’t no good. So I made my right hand into a fist except for my pinky, which I stuck out.
Denny did the same, hooking his pinky around mine. “First one who snitches drops dead and no fins,” I said, giving the regular warning against busted swears or behind-the-back crossed fingers—“fins”—which made a swear no good.
“First one who snitches drops dead and no fins,” he repeated. Then he did the formal chop to pull our hands apart.
So I told Denny everything I’d done and heard in the morning.
He listened good, eyes staring at me from behind his specs. A couple of times his bow tie bobbed.
When I was done, he said, “Miss Gossim got . . . fired?”
“Swear to God.”
“When’s her last day?”
“Next Monday.”
“Winkin’ willies.” He fiddled with his suspenders a bit. “But . . . how come?”
I gave him my idea about Lomister being mad at her because she wouldn’t marry him.
“Oh, wow, you really think so?” he said.
“Could be.”
“Think Lomister’s that mean?”
“Yeah.”
“A thing like that, though, you gotta be sure.”
“Well, then,” I said, wanting to show off, “I’ll ask.”
“Ask who?”
“Miss Gossim.”
“No you won’t.”
“Yes I will.”
“I dare you. Double dare! Triple dare.”
“What do you bet?”
“My new Captain America comic book.”
“Done.”
“Swear!” Denny held up his fist again, pinky out. We made another vow.
Then he said, “How you going to?”
“I’m blackboard eraser monitor.”
Being eraser monitor meant you stayed after school a bit.
He looked at me. “You really going to?”
I said, “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
15
BY THE END of the day, Miss Gossim was in a pretty good mood. Ten minutes to three she said it was room-cleaning time.
We packed up, saving the scrap paper for the war effort. Hats, coats, and other stuff was pulled from the wardrobe. Then everybody except me lined up by the door, ready to go.
At the doorway, just before going out, Denny turns back to look at me, pulls his earlobe.
I did the same.
No secrets.
When the final bell rang, the class marched out. The dismissal monitor—Tom Ewing—led the way. I was the only kid left.
While Miss Gossim sat at her desk and went through papers, I got the eraser box from inside the wardrobe, picked up the erasers from the blackboards, and took ’em out to the school yard. The rain had stopped, but it was gray.
A game of baseball was going on with a tape ball and a broomstick. A few girls were doing hopscotch. I joined up with the kids from other classes who were working their classroom erasers.
You cleaned erasers by holding one in each hand. Sticking your arms out as far in front of you as you could, you closed your eyes, then clapped the erasers together to beat out the chalk dust. Like making clouds.
Not wanting to have Miss Gossim walk out on me, I worked fast. I mean, I might have been scared—and I was—but I had to get some answers.
I went back to the class. In the morning I had come in all black. In the afternoon, all white. When I walked in, she was still at her desk, pencil in hand, papers in front. Only she was staring off somewhere. I wondered where.
I went round and put the clean erasers where they were supposed to go, on the ledges at the bottom of each blackboard. Then I just stood by the door, waiting for her to notice me. Finally, I cracked my knuckles.
She looked up, gave me a quick smile, and said, “Thank you, Howie,” before going back to her work.
Now the thing was, I was supposed to leave. Only, see, I didn’t. I kept standing there, halfway between her desk and the door.
Finally, I said, “Miss . . . Gossim . . .”
She glanced around. “Yes, Howie?” she said, surprised, I think, I was still there. “Is something the matter?”
“I . . . I’m . . . I’m sorry about . . .”
“Sorry, Howie? About what?”
“Your being . . . being . . . fired,” I blurted out.
