“Here it is,” she said, “Little Captive Lad, and the author’s last name is Dix. You’ll find it over in the D’s in the fiction section.”
The boy thanked her, and was gone. A few minutes later, the librarian returned with a girl.
“It’s three something or maybe it’s four something. And it has a lot of good stories in it. My girl friend had it out last week.”
“Three ... three ... three,” hummed the librarian, flipping through the cards again. Veronica
unfastened her eyes from the entrance and watched.
“Three ... three ...” said the librarian. “Here we are. Three Boys and a Dog?”
“No,” said the girl.
“Three Cats Go West?”
“No.”
“Three Friends of Long Ago?”
“No.”
“Three Golden Oranges?”
“That’s it, that’s it,” said the girl, nodding.
“The author’s name is Boggs,” said the librarian. “It’s over in the fairy-tale section. Come along. I’ll help you find it.”
Veronica watched them walk off together. The librarian moved quickly to a certain shelf, pulled out a book, and handed it to the girl. Veronica began watching her in between keeping an eye on the door. Back and forth from the catalog to the bookshelves she went, finding books, and acting as if there wasn’t any book in the whole place she didn’t know. Such certainty! Such confidence in her own ability! Such assurance! Veronica took another look at the door, thought for a few minutes, grinned wickedly, and decided to have a little fun while she waited for Peter. The next time the librarian moved in her direction, Veronica stood up and said, “Uh, miss, could you help me find a book?”
“Why certainly,” replied the librarian, her round face confident. “What’s it called?”
“Well, I think it’s called The Mystery of the Hidden Shoes.”
“Mmm ... mystery ... mystery of ...” said the librarian, flipping through the cards. Veronica stood patiently by her side. “Mystery of the Hidden Door, Mystery of the Hidden Treasure, Mystery of the Hidden Villa. I don’t see anything listed called The Mystery of the Hidden Shoes. Are you sure you have it right?”
“Oh yes, ma’am,” Veronica said, taking a quick peek at the entrance. “I think the author’s name is Toes.”
“Toes?” said the librarian. “How do you spell it?”
“T-O-Z-E,” said Veronica carefully.
“That’s an odd name,” said the librarian, but she began looking through the cards in the T drawer.
“I think it’s I. C. Toze,” Veronica said, and waited. The librarian continued flipping the cards unsuspectingly, and said finally that they just did not have that book in the library.
“There’s another one I’d like then,” Veronica said.
“Good,” said the librarian kindly. “Maybe we can find that one for you.”
“It’s called The Crazy Man.”
“I see,” said the librarian. But this time she did not begin flipping through the cards. “And the author? Do you know his name?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Veronica with a serious face. “It’s U. R. Looney.”
The librarian just cocked her head to one side, and looked at Veronica. “I don’t think,” she said crisply, “that you are really in a mood for books today. Why don’t you run along now, and come back another day.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Veronica said agreeably, “but there is another book I wanted. It’s called—”
“Another day,” said the librarian emphatically. “Good-bye.”
Veronica leaped down the stairs chuckling to herself. Now that had been fun, and she certainly would return on another day.
A couple of hours later, after canvassing the park, Peter’s block, the schoolyard, and several other likely spots, Veronica returned home. She hadn’t found Peter after all, but in the park she had found a tennis racket without a handle and a slightly rusted flashlight that should work once she got some new batteries for it. Her new possessions, particularly the flashlight, made her feel that the day had not been completely wasted.
As she opened the door to the apartment, Mary Rose came running out of the living room, her cheeks flushed, a letter in her hand.
“Veronica,” she cried, “See, it’s from Papa. He didn’t forget. Something came up in his business, and he couldn’t leave. In a few weeks, he says. For sure by Christmas.”
Chapter 6
“Mademoiselle Fry,” said Madame Nusinoff, “levez-vous.” ["Stand up."]
Rosalie stood.
“J’ai vingt-et-un fleurs dans mon jardin” said the teacher, “et vous avez quinze fleurs dans votre jardin. Qui a plus de fleurs?” ["I have twenty-one flowers in my garden and you have fifteen flowers in your garden. Who has more flowers?"]
Rosalie blinked. A nervous silence enveloped the rest of the class as each child went over in his mind the teacher’s question, and what the appropriate answer should be. Veronica watched the mole over Madame Nusinoff’s lip twitch.
“Avez-vous étudié la leçon [“Have you studied the lesson”], Mademoiselle Fry?” inquired Madame Nusinoff politely.
“Yes I have but —.”
“En francais ["In French"],” commanded the teacher.
“Oui.” [“Yes.”]
“Eh bien—quelle est la réponse?” ["So—what is the answer?"]
Rosalie bit her lip and looked up at the ceiling.
“Asseyez-vous!” ["Sit down!"] said Madame Nusinoff, putting a mark in the book on her desk. Rosalie sat down. The teacher’s eyes swept over the classroom and rested on Paul Curran. “Monsieur Curran,” she said, “Levez-vous, s’il vous plaît.” ["Will you please stand up."]
Paul cast one last desperate look at the open book on his desk, and very slowly stood up.
“Monsieur Curran,” said Madame Nuisnoff, “J’ai vingt-et-un fleurs dans mon jardin, et vous avez quinze fleurs dans votre jardin. Qui a plus de fleurs?” ["I have twenty-one flowers in my garden, and you have fifteen flowers in your garden. Who has more flowers?]
Paul hesitated, and then said without very much conviction, “Moi —.” ["Me —."]
“Pourquoi?” ["Why?"]
Paul took a deep breath. “Parce que vous avez —.” ["Because you have—"] His vocal chords failing him, Paul’s hands began describing larger and larger arcs in the air. The mole on Madame Nusinoff’s upper lip twitched once again, and Veronica burst out laughing.
“Asseyez-vous [“Sit down], Monsieur Curran,” said Madame Nusinoff, putting another mark in the book on her desk. Then she looked at Veronica.
“Mademoiselle Ganz,” she said, “levez-vous, s’il vous plaît.” [“please stand up."]
Veronica rose, and leaned, smiling against her desk.
The teacher droned again, “J’ai vingt-et-un fleurs dans mon jardin, et vous avez quinze fleurs dans votre jardin. Qui a plus de fleurs? ["I have twenty-one flowers in my garden, and you have fifteen flowers in your garden. Who has more flowers?"] Mademoiselle Ganz, traduisez la question, s’il vous plaît.” ["please translate the question."]
“You said,” Veronica answered, “that you have twenty-one flowers in your garden, and that I have fifteen flowers in my garden. Who has more flowers?”
“Bon!” [“Good!”] said Madame Nusinoff. “Et la réponse?” [“And the answer?"]
“Vous,” [“You,”] said Veronica, grinning.
“Bon! Et pourquoi?” ["Good! And why?"]
“Because,” said Veronica, the grin stretching all over her face, “I don’t have a garden.”
There was a general sucking in of breaths from all corners of the classroom, quickly followed by a rising wave of titters.
The mole twitched again, but Madame Nusinoff just said tonelessly, as if nothing unusual had been said, “En français.” ["In French."]
Feeling a little foolish, Veronica said, “Parce que je n’ai pas un jardin.” ["Because I don't have a garden."]
“Asseyez-vous
["Sit down], Mademoiselle Ganz,” said the teacher, “et restez ici après la classe!” [“and stay here after class!"]
Then Madame Nusinoff proceeded, in French, to tell the class that it was obvious that most of them had not done the homework, that many of them were sure to fail French, and that they must also be going to fail math if they couldn’t answer a simple question in subtraction such as the one she had presented to them. Her specific comments were not completely understood by most of the students, who were delighted to have her talking anyway and were only hoping that she would continue berating them in French or any other language she chose until the bell rang. Unfortunately, with about fifteen minutes to go, Madame Nusinoff resumed the inquisition, and it was not until Peter Wedemeyer was called upon that the question was finally answered to her satisfaction.
Then Madame Nusinoff, in English this time, told the class that the French Club, of which she was the faculty advisor, was going to put on a pageant for Christmas — in French of course. It would include French songs, French dances, and a play. More actors were needed, and she asked if there were any children in the class who would like to join the club and take part in the pageant. Peter’s hand immediately shot up. Madame Nusinoff wrote his name down in her book, and looked around the classroom with one eyebrow raised. Linda Jensen put up her hand, so naturally Frieda Harris raised hers too. Then very slowly the hands of Reba Fleming, Frank Scacalossi, and Lorraine Jacobs floated upward. Madame Nusinoff wrote. Just as the bell rang, Paul Curran’s right hand, which had been held tightly under his desk by his left hand, broke free and jerked up. Madame Nusinoff’s eyebrow rose a little higher, but Paul’s name was duly recorded.
“We will meet Friday afternoon at three-thirty in the auditorium,” said Madame Nusinoff. “If anyone else decides to join us, meet us then.”
Veronica ambled over to the desk, and stood looking out into the hall, and tapping one foot in rhythm to bop de dum dum, dum dum. The teacher had told her to remain after class, and that’s what she was doing. She knew that Madame Nusinoff would just tell her off, read her the riot act, and send her on her way, as she had done so many times before. Madame Nusinoff, for all her grumpiness, never sent people to the principal, which was one reason why she liked Madame Nusinoff better than most of her other teachers.
Paul Curran stopped by the desk, too, and began explaining to Madame Nusinoff that he really had known the correct answer to her question about the flowers in the garden but that he had been thrown by translating “I” and “you.” She had said in French “I have twenty-one flowers in my garden and you have fifteen flowers.” But when he translated it in his own mind, he became the “I” and she the “you.” So that was why he wasn’t sure who had the six extra flowers, although he realized one of them had.
“I see,” said Madame Nusinoff frostily.
Paul looked meaningfully at the record book on her desk, but since she made no move in its direction, he said sadly, “Good morning,” and moved off.
“Veronica,” said Madame Nusinoff when they were alone, “you were very funny today.”
Veronica looked away modestly.
“Very funny,” continued Madame Nusinoff. “Now I hope you’re going to think it’s funny when I tell you that you’ll probably fail French on the next report card period.”
Veronica looked slyly at Madame Nusinoff. She really didn’t think she was going to fail. Madame Nusinoff had threatened this before, but French was the one subject she seemed to do well in.
“You knew the right answer to the question,” Madame Nusinoff said impatiently. “Why didn’t you give it?”
Veronica shrugged.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you even did the homework last night,” continued Madame Nusinoff.
“I did not,” Veronica said, shocked.
Madame Nusinoff laughed. “You see,” she said, “you didn’t even do the homework, and yet you knew the right answer. Just think how much you’d really know if you studied.”
“Sometimes I do the homework,” Veronica said grudgingly.
“I know you do — a lot more often than you want people to know. And I’ll tell you something, Veronica, if you did your work, you could be a very good student in French. You really like it, don’t you?”
As a matter of fact, although she certainly wasn’t going to admit it to the teacher, she did like French, very much in fact. Being able to say words in another language made her feel powerful and important. Sometimes when Mary Rose wasn’t around, she’d close the door to their bedroom, stand in front of the mirror, and speak to her reflection in French.
“It’s all right,” she said.
“With a little time and effort,” the teacher said persuasively, “you could be a very good student, maybe even as good as Peter Wedemeyer.”
“That little runt,” Veronica said scornfully.
“Yes, he is a little runt, isn’t he?” Madame Nusinoff said thoughtfully. “I’d forgotten how small he was. You know, Veronica, you and Peter have something in common, don’t you?”
“What!”
“Your size. You’re taller than everybody else, and he’s smaller. Maybe it makes you both feel different sometimes from other people. But Peter doesn’t let his size stop him. He doesn’t feel he has to be funny all the time, or mean to make up for his size. He’s too smart to let it stop him. And nobody notices after a while how small he is. They see other things about him —important things — and they respect him and like him.”
“I hate him,” Veronica said between her teeth.
“Why?”
“Because he makes fun of me all the time. He sings funny songs about me, and he laughs at me, and — and — he threw old fish bones all over me.”
“Peter Wedemeyer!” said Madame Nusinoff. “I can’t believe that.”
“No,” said Veronica savagely, “nobody believes it. Because it’s not the same thing being smaller than everybody else. It’s easier being smaller. People are always sorry for you when you’re small but when you’re big like me ...”
Madame Nusinoff stood up, and put an arm on Veronica’s shoulder. “I’m sorry for you, Veronica,” she said.
Madame Nusinoff’s mole had two little hairs in it. Veronica had never realized that before. She had never stood so close to Madame Nusinoff before. It was a terrible thing standing so close to a person who was a teacher that you could see those two hairs, and feel so much like crying.
“Leave me alone,” she shouted. “You don’t have to be sorry for me. Just leave me alone.” She broke away from that arm on her shoulder and ran out of the room.
Hurrying along the hall, she thought how much she hated Madame Nusinoff, how much she hated everybody. There was nobody you could trust. Up until today she had kind of liked Madame Nusinoff, kind of enjoyed the French class, too, but here was Madame Nusinoff tormenting her like everybody else. Oh, she couldn’t wait to get out of this school! If it wasn’t for that, she’d get even with Madame Nusinoff. She’d tear up all those papers on her desk, and write dirty words in that precious book of hers. She’d wait for her after school and throw rocks at her. The possibilities for revenge were endless, and maybe after she graduated, she could come back one day and fix Madame Nusinoff real good. This was a comforting thought, and Veronica felt a little easier when she reached her home room. But the class wasn’t there. She’d forgotten that they’d be down in the yard for recess. Good! She was really in the mood for punch ball. Veronica dropped her books on her desk, grabbed her coat, and hurried downstairs.
The children had already divided up into two teams for punch ball when she arrived. Today Peter was the captain of one team, and Harvey Douglas of the other. Miss Merritt told her to join Peter’s team since he had one less than Harvey. Peter had never been captain before, and as she walked toward the team she could hear his excited voice saying, “Oh, we’re going to win! We’ve got the best players on our team.” When he saw Veronica approach, he said, “Hey! Are you going to be on our team to
o?”
“Wasn’t my idea,” Veronica said shortly. “Miss Merritt said I had to.”
“Oh great,” Peter said. “Now we’ll really murder them.”
Veronica acted unconcerned. People always wanted her on their teams.
“Now I’ll take first base,” Peter said, “Jeffrey can take second, Helen third, Veronica can be catcher, and Bertha, you be pitcher.”
“I’ll be pitcher,” Veronica corrected. Lots of kids, she knew, liked to pitch, but that was her position, and whenever she played on a team, it was always understood that she would pitch.
“You’re a good pitcher,” Peter said agreeably, “but I think you’d make a better catcher.”
“I’m pitching,” Veronica insisted.
“Look,” said Peter patiently, “I’ve been kind of studying the way everybody plays. Now Bertha here, she’s sort of a dark horse. Nobody realizes that she’s got a great curve ball.”
“Who, me?” said Bertha, her fat cheeks turning red.
“Yes. You pitched last week on Gloria’s team, and day before yesterday you pitched when Gerald fell down, and you’ve really got a wicked ball there. I’ve been watching you, and I think you’ve really got possibilities.”
“Gee!” said Bertha.
“I’m pitching,” said Veronica.
“Look,” Peter said, “how do you know you won’t like being a catcher unless you try? You’re a good catcher. I’ve been studying the way you play, and you’re kind of a solid fielder—but not too fast—and when you pitch, your balls are a little slow.”
“You’re full of baloney,” Veronica shouted. “And if I don’t pitch, I don’t play.”
“Well,” said Peter, shrugging his shoulders, “Bertha’s pitching, and you’re just being a bad sport. Look —.”
“Drop dead!” Veronica said. “I quit.”
She walked away from the team, and leaned against the fence. Miss Merritt hurried over. “What’s the matter, Veronica?” she said nervously. “What happened?”
“I’m not playing,” Veronica said.
“But what happened, dear?” said Miss Merritt soothingly.
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