“I know. I will.” I run to my desk before she has a chance to try and jam the book in my hands again.
The nervousness that Piper was feeling over the weekend is now jumping in my stomach. What if people get bored with writing about Inga? Who will be next?
The last thing in the world I want to do is go sit beside Inga. Still, that’s the safest place, because everybody has to be at least a little careful around her, or the whole secret about the slam book will be blown to smithereens.
Inga’s leaning over the aisle asking Mike a question and doesn’t even look up when I sit down. It’s like there’s a cold war between us. No bombs. No smiles. Just a frigid silence.
Later that morning, while Mrs. Kirk’s writing this week’s spelling words on the board with her back turned, I see Jodi pass the slam book to Piper. And then during silent reading, Piper passes it to Gloria Brown.
How did Gloria get in on this?
Pretty soon, it becomes apparent that all the girls are in on the slam book. On her way to the pencil sharpener, Bernadette drops the slam book on my desk. Right under Inga’s nose. Luckily, her name is written on the inside. But it’s clear to see that someone’s drawn a head with braids and horns on the cover.
Quickly as I can, I slip the book into the cubbyhole under my side of the desk.
But Inga sees. She raises one eyebrow.
“It’s nothing,” I whisper. These are the first words I’ve said to her in over a week. She just stares at me for a second and turns her eyes back to the board.
Inga’s smart. She’s going to figure out what’s going on in no time, if she hasn’t already. And I know at some point, I am not going to be able to duck out of contributing to the slam book. Before recess, I pass the book to Mary Virginia just to be rid of it.
At recess, a group of giggling girls forms behind the school. They are circled around an open notebook, and I know exactly which one. Are they laughing at what’s in the book, or at the fact that I haven’t written anything so far?
I decide it’s a good day to help Kirk clean erasers and go back inside.
Friday, on our way to school, Bernadette makes a big show of being disgusted with me, huffing and snorting. I want to ask her if she’s trying to do an imitation of Ferdinand the Bull or just acting that way by accident.
“What’s the matter?” I ask. As if I don’t know.
She stops, feet planted. “Look, I know what you’re doing.”
“What?” I ask, pushing forward, keeping myself focused on not stepping in any puddles from the melting snow.
“You’re not writing what you honestly think in the slam book, that’s what.” Bernadette says. Then she has to rush to catch up to me because I refuse to stop walking just so she can lecture me.
“How do you know?” I ask. “It’s anonymous.”
“Don’t try to be cute. I know your handwriting as well as I know every freckle on your nose, and I went through this book page by page last night, and you haven’t written a single question or answer in the whole book. You better write something, or everyone’s going to know.”
“Know what?” I ask.
“That you’re a Nazi lover. Are you dense? I can’t protect you from this, Marjorie. You have to do it or people are going to be out for you. Stop being such a fraidy-cat.”
I can’t think of words to say back. Is that what she really thinks? That I’m a target and she’s my defense system? We reach Billy’s busy corner, traffic whizzing by, sending up slush balls. I close my mouth tight, partly because I don’t want to make her madder than she already is, but mostly because I don’t want to wind up eating gray snow.
“Wait,” Billy holds out his arms as we pause for traffic to clear.
“She’s not some bird with a broken wing you need to protect, you know.” Bernadette hisses at me, “For all we know, her dad ran a concentration camp and her mother was a spy.”
“Her mother was not a spy,” I say, finding my voice. “That’s crazy cakes.” I don’t mention the black cap I saw hanging on the hook at Inga’s house, or how I’m pretty sure it was her dad who was staring at us at the snow fort.
“Maybe you should read the slam book before you stand up for her.”
“That stuff’s all made up. What am I going to learn from that?”
“You won’t know until you read it.”
“But none of it’s true.”
“It’s what people believe. That part is true. And she needs to know what people are thinking. The whole point of this slam book is to help her. Do you want to show her how to be a real American or not?”
Before I have a chance to tell her that I don’t think made-up questions and answers are going to help anything, Billy puts his arms down and turns to look at us. For an instant our eyes connect.
“Good morning, Billy.” Bernadette throws her shiniest smile in his direction, but he doesn’t look at her. He just looks at me. And then barely, just barely, he shakes his head.
Or I think he shakes his head. It looks like a little head shake, but I’m not sure.
We step into the crosswalk. I look over my shoulder at him when we’re halfway across the street, but he’s busy watching for cars and holding back another group of kids.
“Don’t be so obvious,” says Bernadette.
“What?”
“Everybody knows you are goners over Billy. Even he knows it. You’ll never make anything happen with him until you learn how to play hard to get.”
“Did you talk to him about me?” I stop in my footprints.
It’s Bernadette’s turn to keep on walking. “I didn’t have to, silly. It’s written all over your face. Hurry up, or we’re going to be late.” Bernadette keeps talking the rest of the way to school about all the things different girls have written in the book. Questions about Inga’s stockings, why her mother picks her up from school every day, and (didn’t I see this coming?) how she holds her mother’s hand. Bernadette thinks that’s hilarious.
“This slam book is really going to help Inga fit in, since she obviously doesn’t know how to be an American on her own. But then what can you expect from a DP, anyway? She’s going to thank us for this book when we give it to her, you’ll see.”
I am hardly listening to Bernadette because my thoughts are caught up in a spider web of confusion. What was Billy’s little head shake all about? Is Bernadette right? Am I that obvious? Was Billy giving me a signal not to look at him?
Bernadette just keeps quoting things from the book and explaining who wrote what. Clearly there is nothing anonymous about any of it. Finally, after I’ve been silent for a whole block, she asks, “Why’s your face all squinched up like that?”
“It’s cold,” I answer.
“Liar.” Bernadette says, pulling her mouth to one side. “Sometimes I wonder if you and I even speak the same language. You’re so dense.”
Bernadette’s right. No way are we speaking the same language if she thinks a spiral full of mean questions translates into being helpful. Am I supposed to believe that if the slam book hurts Inga a lot, that means she’ll be helped even more? What kind of language is that?
“Newspeak.” The word just pops out of my mouth. “What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“You better get with it, Margie. Nobody likes a stick in the mud. Remember that.” And right before we walk into school, she lifts my mittened hand up and puts the book in it. “It’s your turn.”
I jam the book into my cubby and take out a piece of paper, but as hard as I try, I cannot make sense out of the morning math problem. The words are swimming in circles, doing a water ballet on the board.
Maybe Billy was just looking into space, and I walked in the way of his eyes. Did he hear us talking about the slam book? Does he know what it’s for?
“Marjorie? Would you like to come to the board and write the answer to this morning’s word problem? No? I didn’t think so. Extract your head from the clouds, Miss Campbell, and focus on your schoolwork. W
ho can help me out here?”
I feel Inga’s hand shoot into the air.
“Miss Scholtz? Well, well. Let’s see what you have, dear.” Inga stands tall when I let her out of the desk. As she walks to the board, I can hear snickering behind me, and I know she must hear it, too. But that doesn’t keep her from writing the right answer on the board. “Very good, Miss Scholtz. Maybe a little of your perseverance will rub off on your desk mate.”
At that moment, I am tempted to whip out the slam book and write, Why is Inga such a show off? But I don’t.
At the end of the day, I still haven’t written anything. I lie and tell Bernadette that I have to take Carol Anne to her friend’s house and that we can’t walk home together.
“Where’s the slam book?” is all Bernadette wants to know.
“I have it in my book bag,” I say. “I’ll work on it over the weekend.”
“Yes, you will,” she says, and runs off to join Mary Virginia and Piper.
CHAPTER 28
“Ouch,” I say, looking at Frank’s still beat-up face as he sits down across the table from me. It’s not time for dinner yet and we are both just in from school.
There hasn’t been that much improvement in Frank’s face in a week. His left eye has faded from red-purple to a sick shade of orange-purple. The huge bandage has shrunk to a piece of adhesive tape with scabs and stitching growing out of it. His arm is in a sling and his shirt won’t quite button because of all the bandages on his chest.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says, wincing as he slumps into a dining room chair. “Want to feel how my ribs shift when I move?”
“No.” I don’t want to touch Frank ever in my entire life, let alone feel his broken ribs.
Dad let him stay home on Monday and Tuesday, but the rest of this week he’s been at school, though I don’t know why. He can’t carry books or hold a pencil. Dad says it’s his responsibility to make sure that Frank graduates. “After you get the piece of paper,” Dad says, “you can do as you please.”
“Come on now.” Frank gently touches his shirt. “Girls at school can’t get enough of it. I got them running their hands up and down my side in every class.”
“Right,” I say. My book bag’s splattered open on the table, the contents sliding out. I’m supposed to be reading the chapter on Ancient Rome in my social studies book, but decide to have some graham crackers and peanut butter first. Frank and I sit looking at each other.
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything too interesting.” Frank smiles as he glances at what I’m reading.
“Not really.” I have four squares of graham crackers counted out, and peanut butter spread all the way to the edges, exactly the way I like them.
“What you got here?” Frank reaches up with his good arm and pulls at the slam book, which is now covered with drawings and doodles, pictures supposed to represent Inga. In big red letters it says, Go Home.
I try to pull it toward me, but it sticks underneath his fingers.
“Man, you girls start early on this stuff, don’t ya?” He pulls his hand back.
“What stuff?” I jam the spiral notebook back in my shoulder bag, but it doesn’t want to stay inside.
“You know, boys’ll pound on each other, but I swear, girls are nastier.”
Surprised? Angry? Invaded? I am not sure how to feel about Frank looking at the stuff in my book bag and at the slam book, even from the outside. Mostly, I feel embarrassed.
“It’s not mine.”
“Never is. Those things belong to no one and everyone at the same time. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.”
In a few months, Frank will graduate and be out of my life. He’s supposed to go in the army. Or maybe the Marines. He hasn’t decided, but he can’t stand the thought of being cooped up on a ship for months, so the navy’s out. Looking at him all bashed up, he doesn’t look like he’s old enough to be a GI. He looks like a little boy with messed-up hair and a boo-boo. He licks his lips and closes his eyes, letting out a small moan.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Will be, I guess. Nothing that won’t heal. Guess I’m better off than whoever that book is for.”
“Ugh,” I groan and rest my head on my hand. “I have to think of something to write in there, and I don’t want to.”
“Have to?”
“Well, I’m supposed to. Everyone else did. It’s my turn.”
“Next there might be one a these with your name on it.” Frank taps the book with one finger.
My worst nightmare. Wide eyes betray my horror.
“Relax. I’m just saying that’s how these things work. It’s an intimidation game. You don’t have to play, ya know.”
“I really don’t want to hurt her feelings.” I don’t stop to tell Frank he’s defending the Kraut girl who had him all upset.
“This isn’t about some other girl. This is about you, see? Whoever started this is trying to control you. Control all of yous. You gonna let that happen?”
“But everybody … I don’t know.” I’m nibbling my graham cracker into smaller and smaller pieces and licking my finger to collect the crumbs.
“Sure, you do. You know. Evil is as evil does. Don’t matter if everybody else is doing it. Like your dad says, right is right and wrong is—”
“Wrong is nobody, I know.” Dad’s been telling me that for as long as I can remember. “You think slam books are evil?”
“Don’t you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
This is my cue to scream, you don’t know me, and stomp out of the room. But instead I just lower my head.
“You know what my pop used to say? Charles and I would be whaling on each other, fighting. Man, we would really get into it. We broke the dining room table and tore the light right out of the ceiling once. Another time we barrel-rolled right through the front-room window and didn’t even pause to pick the glass out of our teeth, we just kept up pounding on each other. Pop took us both by the ear, and I thought he was going to clap our heads together, but he didn’t. He was burned up, don’t get me wrong. My pop was a powerful man and he could’a taken us both to the woodshed. But this time he had a different look, practically had tears in his eyes. I can see his face clear as day. His cheeks was quivering. Said we didn’t have to act that way. Said that we was safe, and when people’s safe, they got room to be kind to each other.”
I don’t correct his grammar. “So you stopped fighting?”
“Nah. But he gave me something to think about. Some things are just too puny to fight about, you know? Like, if I’m safe, then why do I need to be mixing it up with some guy who looked at me wrong? Ain’t worth it. See what I mean?”
I lick the last of the graham cracker crumbs off my finger. “So are you saying I’m safe?”
“Ain’t you?” Only he really says, “Ain’t chew?” That makes me think of Inga, who taught me to notice how people turn the word you into chew.
In a world with slam books, the H-bomb, commies and Nazis, and a box of books under my bed that could get Mom and me sent to jail, am I safe? I don’t have the Thought Police looking in my windows like that guy Winston in 1984. No one’s actually dropping bombs on my head.
It could be I’m safe. It’s hard to be sure.
Mom’s moving around in the kitchen, so I whisper, “If you want another book, you know,” I roll my eyes upward to point at my room, “ask me. You don’t have to snoop around.” Frank nods and gives me half a smile, which is probably all he can manage, given his banged-up face. Then in a loud voice I ask, “You want me to pour you a glass of milk?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” says Frank. “Unless you pouring something stronger.”
“I heard that,” Mom calls from the kitchen. Frank and I look straight at each other. He nods at the book bag and I hurry to stuff all the contents back inside before I have to explain the slam book to Mom. She comes in and Frank and I both smile up at her like nothing’s goin
g on.
“Oh, cripes, Frank. Every time I look at you, all I can think is how close you came to—oh, never mind. I’m just glad you’re on the mend.” Mom stands over us, drying her hands.
“Marjorie, would you run the vacuum around the living room for me, quick like a little bunny? Mrs. Kovacs won’t be here until next week, and I want the place to look nice when that man visits your father. He’s coming first thing Sunday morning. No time for cleaning tomorrow. Full day—the auto show, then Greektown Pizza.”
Tomorrow is opening day of the first Detroit Auto Show since the war, and it’s a big deal. Fifty thousand people are supposed to be there. All the auto companies will be showing off their new designs. The papers and television have been full of stories on what to expect. Dad has free tickets through his work.
“And put this book bag up in your room. There won’t be any homework until Sunday. I don’t want to look at that on the table.”
“What man is coming by?” asks Frank.
I know the man Mom’s talking about. Mr. Scholtz, Inga’s father. Tomorrow is Saturday. The next tomorrow is Sunday.
“Maybe the man forgot,” I offer.
“Probably he didn’t forget, Marjorie, so make your mother happy and vacuum, will you?”
“What man?”
“Oh, some man Jack thinks he might have maybe, I don’t know exactly, might have known in the war, I guess.” Mom twists a dish towel in her hands, and I am thinking that maybe this conversation is less about the vacuuming than it is about preparing Frank for Mr. Scholtz’s visit.
“Some guy from the VFW? Big Daddy don’t hang out there.”
“Oh, not exactly. It’s just a man he thought he might like to have a conversation with.”
“A man from where? Work? The hardware store? Under the bridge?” Frank turns in his chair and tries to casually put his broken arm up on the table, but he can’t lift it that high and gently puts it back down. His lips are curled up either from pain or frustration with Mom’s hedging around.
“Oh, you know that little girlfriend of Margie’s who came from Canada?” Mom reaches into the china cabinet and pulls out some of the good coffee cups and starts to wipe the dust out of them with her towel. She doesn’t look directly at Frank, but takes little side-glances at him as she works. “Her father is stopping by on Sunday morning.”
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