Catch You Later, Traitor

by Avi

  That decision made me feel strong, and tough. I was still sitting there telling myself that I was strong when I heard someone straining to get the door open. My toughness turned to tissue.

  I jumped up, rammed Ewing’s cards into my pocket, and crept toward the door. Was the FBI back? Were they breaking in so they could arrest me? My dad?

  With my heart doing backflips, I called, “Who . . . who is it?”

  “Pete! Unlatch the chain.”

  My father’s voice.

  With relief, I cried, “Wait a second.”

  I undid the chain and yanked the door open. My parents stood there, dripping wet, their full paper grocery bags all but bursting.

  Ma said, “Goodness, Pete, why was the chain on?”

  Right then I could have told them about the FBI guy. I didn’t. I had made my decision. I threw a shrug and mumbled, “Don’t know.”

  “I thought you were going to the movies,” Dad said.

  “The rain,” I said.

  Ma laughed. “Afraid you’d melt?”

  “I guess.” To keep from talking, I grabbed a couple of their bags, went into the kitchen, and helped them put food away. Dad lit a cigarette and started to make coffee. I watched him. Could he really be a Communist?

  Ma got on the phone for her weekly long-distance call to her mother in Indiana. I went to my room and hid the two FBI cards in my Black Mask.

  Sitting at my desk, I kept thinking about Dad, trying to remember things he had said, political things. When he talked about politics, he talked about history. And rights. Rights for Negroes. Rights for women. Unions. Sure, there was talk about Communism. But actually, as I thought about it, it was mostly anti-Communism he and Ma spoke about. In the end, I decided that Dad was no more a Communist than a baseball bat. The FBI guy was off base. It was a dumb mistake. Donavan’s mistake.

  On Sunday, I read the sports page predictions about the coming pennant race. Dodgers. Dodgers. Dodgers. And the Yanks. I didn’t care. Then I went through the funny papers. They weren’t funny.

  Flipping through the rest of the paper, I came across a headline:

  NEW SUBVERSIVE BOARD OPENS HEARING ON REDS

  The story below it read:

  Hearings on whether the Communist Party and its members must register as part of a foreign-controlled agency got under way today after the new Subversive Activities Control Board had ruled it had power to handle the case.

  Everywhere I looked, there was Communism. Things were so bad that I did homework to take my mind off it. Then I read some Black Mask, looking for detective tips. I needed them.

  That night the family listened to our favorite comic radio show, Jack Benny. I didn’t laugh.

  When I went to bed, I couldn’t think of the last time Kat and I hadn’t talked over a weekend. Dying to tell her about the FBI visit, I wanted to call her. But she’d been awful on Friday, so I didn’t.

  She didn’t call, either.

  Earlier in the day, I thought I had figured everything out. But as the hours passed, it seemed unlikely the FBI would come just because Donavan told them to.

  There had to be other reasons. But I hadn’t a clue.

  9

  Monday morning I asked Dad if I could borrow a blue necktie.

  “A necktie? That’s a rarity. What’s happening?”

  “Rally for the Dodgers at school. We’re supposed to wear blue.”

  He laughed. “Maybe I should wear something blue too. This has to be our year, right?”

  I was in front of our building before eight, tie in place, waiting for Kat as usual. Though it was April, it felt like March. Over my shirt and tie, I wore the newest sweater my grandma had made me.

  Now that I was about to see Kat, I felt uneasy. But when she finally came, wearing a blue Dodger sweatshirt, I had to smile. At the corner, she dropped a letter into the mailbox.

  “What did you mail?” I called.

  “Box tops for the Secret Code Maker,” she said, which made me feel even better.

  “Got a lot to tell you,” I said.

  Before I could say anything, she said, “Wait. Are you wearing anything blue?”

  “Tie.”

  “Did you go to the Saturday movie?”

  I shook my head.

  “How come? They were showing that detective movie. You love them.”

  “Didn’t want to.”

  She said, “My aunt was boring.” Then she went on about her boring aunt as if she wasn’t boring, as if she didn’t want me to talk about anything else. It was Friday all over again.

  I stopped.

  Kat stopped, too. “What is it?”

  “Friday.”

  She frowned, shoved up her glasses, and started to walk again. Fast.

  I caught up to her. “It was bad.”

  She shook her head.

  “You forget?” I said. “Donavan called me a Commie. Got everyone to think so. The guys wouldn’t let me play punchball. You weren’t so great either.”

  “Sorry,” she said, looking all ways except at me. “I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Why do you think Donavan did that?”

  “How would I know?” she said, and walked faster.

  I grabbed her arm. “Wait a minute. Do you believe him? You think I’m a Commie?”

  She shoved my hand away and kept going.

  “I’m not!” I yelled at her back. She didn’t stop.

  For the rest of the way to school I followed ten paces behind her. I felt lower than a splat of spit on the sole of my shoe.

  In class, after the Pledge, Donavan said, “We need to make a seat change.”

  That was unusual. We’d kept the same seats the whole year.

  “Pete,” said Donavan, “gather your books. I want you to sit over there.” He pointed to the last desk in the far row. Where no one sat.

  “How come?” I said.

  “Because I told you to.”

  “Is it because—”

  “Pete Collison, I’ve asked you to do something.”

  “Sir, I’m not—”

  “You may go there, or to the principal’s office.”

  I looked toward Kat. She didn’t turn around. I sat for a few seconds, wishing I was an ice cube so as not to drip tears. Then I grabbed my books, walked to the back of the room. I dropped into the end desk like an anchor into the ocean.

  The kids shifted around, waiting for Donavan to say more. All he said was, “Joel, you’re doing Norway.”

  Joel clomped to the front of the class and began his report. The only words I heard were “It’s not fair.” They repeated in my head like the slapping of a flat tire on the road.

  During morning recess, I wedged myself into a corner of the schoolyard, hands deep in pockets. On the wall over my head was a sign that read Shelter. It was the place to go if an atom bomb dropped or your teacher had already blown you to smithereens, like mine had.

  I pretended not to watch the punchball game, as if I didn’t care. But I did watch. And I did care. And I was getting madder by the minute. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.

  Back in class, Donavan announced it was time to go into the assembly hall for the Dodger rally. The class moved toward the door, everyone bumping and jostling to be near the front. I stayed in my seat.

  “Move on out, Pete,” Donavan called. “You can’t stay here alone.”

  I plodded to the back of the crowd and followed my excited classmates to the assembly hall. They lined up, me last. No one told me. I just knew it was my new world.

  Once in the hall, we sat on hard folding chairs. I kept my eyes on the low stage up front. To one side stood a black upright piano, which no one ever played. On the stage were flags: U.S., New York State, New York City, and even a Brooklyn Dodgers flag. They hung there lifeless.

  An eighth-grade teacher named Mr. Malakowski—we called him “Mr. Mal”—was in charge of the rally. He was a big guy—kids said he had been an army drill sergeant. His square jaw was always gray, like he ne
eded a shave. He wore double-breasted gray suits with enormous shoulder pads and flashy ties. Today he had on a blue one. Like mine.

  “Okay, PS Ten,” he began loudly. “This is Brooklyn Dodger day.”

  The kids cheered.

  I did, too, a little.

  “We’re all here to root for the Dodgers to win the pennant.”

  More cheers.

  “Against the Giants.”

  Louder cheers.

  “Here’s our team,” said Mr. Mal. One by one, eighth graders ran onto the stage. Each one held a large piece of paper with the name of a Dodger player written on it in blue crayon: Reese. Hodges. Branca, Campanella, Robinson, and so on. Cheers and applause as the kids took center stage.

  “And here are the other teams!” cried Mr. Mal.

  More eighth graders stepped up holding signs for the National League teams: Chicago, Cincinnati . . . until, finally, Giants. Boos and jeers filled the hall.

  Mr. Mal stepped forward: “Remember, kids, this is the year we won’t have to say ‘Wait till next year.’ ”

  With that, the kid with the Giants sign grinned and tore his paper in half. That brought a whoop! The hall went wild.

  That was when I had my big idea. I was like the Giants. The one nobody liked. Kat wouldn’t talk to me. None of the kids would play ball or sit in the movies with me. My class seat was nowhere. Okay. Fine. If I was going to be treated as an outsider, I’d be an outsider. From now on, I’d be a Giants fan.

  On the stage Mr. Mal was shouting, “Let’s stand up and give one last cheer for the Dodgers.”

  All the kids stood up and yelled . . . except me.

  Pete stayed in his seat, his mouth shut tight. Then he yanked off his blue tie and stuffed it into his pocket.

  Pete Collison, the only Giants fan in Brooklyn.

  10

  The only way they could have made the school day last longer was if they had made the clock run backward. But at three, the dismissal bell finally rang. Kat didn’t even pretend to wait for me. I came out of the main doors alone and stood on the top step, watching the other kids messing around with their friends, feeling as empty as a discarded candy wrapper. Loners live alone, I reminded myself as I started for home.

  Passing the newspaper booth, I grabbed a Post for Ma and glanced at the headlines.

  UN GETS PROPOSAL FROM NORTH KOREA FOR PEACE PARLEY

  SYRIA AGREES TO WITHDRAW TROOPS FROM DISPUTED ISRAEL BORDER AREA

  I made up my own.

  PETE COLLISON ACCUSED OF BEING A RED

  KAT BOYER DUMPS BEST FRIEND

  PETE STRIKES BACK BY BECOMING A GIANTS FAN

  BROOKLYN FURIOUS

  PETE DOESN’T CARE

  It was only when I got to the other side of the booth that I saw Kat sitting on the curb. Her tin Nancy Drew lunch box was in her lap; her cowgirl book satchel was by her side. She was eating an apple.

  I stopped.

  When she saw me, she stood up. “Sorry about this morning,” she said. “And school. I didn’t know what to say. Stinks that Donavan moved you.” She held out the apple. “Want a bite?”

  I said, “We still friends?”

  She offered a small shrug and a smile to match. “Hope so.”

  In my whole life, I had never felt like giving any girl a hug. Right then I could have hugged Kat. I did what I could: took a bite of her apple.

  We walked toward home without talking. At first, the silence felt good. But I could tell she wanted to say something.

  Sure enough, she stopped, looked at me, and said, “Okay, still best friends, but I need to know: If the Commies took over America, would your dad be sitting pretty?”

  “You serious?”

  “Come on, Pete. Your dad is a Red, right?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “My father said so.”

  That hit me like a beanball. I wasn’t sure Kat’s father had even met Dad.

  “He really said that?”

  “Cross my heart, hope to die. Donavan told him and Toby’s father that on Parents’ Night.”

  “How come?”

  “I don’t know.”

  We started walking again. I said, “My dad teaches American history at New City College.”

  “So?”

  “What’s my grade in history?”

  “A.”

  “Right. ’Cause my father is always drilling American history into me. Can you say the Declaration of Independence?”

  “Nope.”

  I said, “ ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.’ ”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My dad says that’s the most important sentence ever written.” Then hoping I could put an end to the talk about him, I added, “So my dad knows what America is about.”

  Kat pushed up her glasses and said, “I hate politics. What are we doing today?”

  I said, “I’ll slam you at stoopball.”

  “Yeah, right. I’ll kill you.”

  It was one of the nicest things anyone ever said to me.

  When we got to my apartment, we headed for the kitchen. I took the milk bottle from the fridge, shook it to mix in the top cream, and then poured out two glasses. Added two soupspoons of Ovaltine chocolate powder. Got a couple of Twinkies packets.

  As we ate, I considered telling Kat about the visit from Ewing and what he had said. But I didn’t want to go back to talking Reds.

  Kat took a second Twinkie. “Think you’ll ever get a TV?”

  “Keep asking,” I said, glad we were being normal.

  On the way out the door, Kat glanced at the family photos on the wall and said, “Your parents are so different.”

  “What do you mean?” I said, ready to hit back if she gave me more hard time.

  “My parents fight a lot.”

  “About what?”

  “I . . . I don’t think they like each other.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sometimes,” she said softly, “I like your parents better than my parents.”

  “They’re okay,” I said, but her saying that made me feel good.

  Right down my street was a brownstone house that had a fire hydrant in front of it, so no parked cars. That was where Kat and I always played stoopball. You played stoopball, a kind of baseball, by throwing a rubber ball, a Spaldeen, against the stoop steps. If the other guy caught the ricochet, it was an out. Three outs an inning, nine innings. But if the ball went past the sidewalk and hit the ground once, that was a single; two bounces, a double; three bounces, a triple; over the whole street, a home run.

  We played for an hour. I beat her fifty-two to forty-six.

  “See?” I said as we headed back to my place. “If I was a Commie, how come I beat you?”

  “I never said you were a Commie. Said your dad was.”

  “Okay,” I said, “got something gigantic to tell you.”

  She glanced at me, curious.

  “From now on,” I said, “I’m rooting for the Giants.”

  Kat halted like a bumper car hitting the Great Wall of China. “Are you crazy?” she shouted.

  “Nope,” I said. “Giants fan.” I made a fist, kissed my knuckles, and rubbed them over my heart so she knew I meant business.

  Kat glared at me. “If you aren’t insane,” she said, “you are totally nuts. You live in Brooklyn. Dodger territory. The whole class roots for the Dodgers. The whole school. The whole world. Okay, maybe a couple kids go for the Yanks, but that’s just them being screwy. Nobody is a Giants fan in Brooklyn. It isn’t allowed.”

  I said, “Leo Durocher went from managing the Dodgers to the Giants.”

  “Everybody hates him.”

  “It’s a free country.”

  “Not for Giants fans. I mean it. Why can’t you be like everyone else?”

  “In school Donavan said I�
�m different. And everyone is treating me that way. So I’ll be different. A Giants fan.”

  “Your family roots for the Dodgers.”

  “Only my father and my brother. My mother doesn’t care.”

  “The Giants won’t even get close to the pennant.”

  “Oh yeah, come September, the Giants will win and you’ll be saying what Dodger fans always say, ‘Wait till next year.’ How much you want to bet?” I put out my hand. “Five thousand dollars.”

  She shook it, saying, “Giants—automatic dead last.” She cocked her head to one side and said, “You know what? Since you’ve decided to become a Giants fan, which is, face it, no different than being a Commie, maybe you are a traitor.”

  We both laughed.

  Kat left a little before five. As she headed down the hallway toward the elevator, she called, “Call you tonight for history.”

  “Sure.”

  She smiled. “Catch you later, traitor.”

  I went back to my room. Thinking, I’m the only Giants fan in Brooklyn, I ripped down the Dodger posters and pennant.

  11

  As usual, when dinner began, Ma asked, “How was school?”

  Bobby, thumping the bottom of the ketchup bottle as if he was angry at it, began to talk about which speaker they were going to get for his school’s June graduation. His principal had chosen the president of the Brooklyn Savings Bank.

  “Makes me so mad,” he said. “Bunch of pinko students want to get the head of the Brooklyn Longshoremen’s Union instead. Bet you anything they were paid to do it by Commies.”

  I stopped eating and eyed Dad to see his reaction. He was looking at Ma as if he hadn’t heard Bobby, which told me he had heard.

  Ma said, “Simply because you disagree with people doesn’t mean you have to insult them.”

  “Reds deserve insults,” Bobby replied. “Bunch of traitors. Should be kicked out of the country.”

  I was sure Bobby had no idea what his words meant to me. As for Dad, he stared at his plate of meat loaf as if he’d been served poison. Bobby’s words had upset him.

  I waited for more response from him. It took a bit before he looked up and said, “Insults only get you insults,” which seemed feeble after his reaction.