by Betsy Byars
“What feet? Turn up the light, Pap.”
“It’s up high as it can get,” Pap said. “Forty watts is forty watts.”
She tried turning the strip of paper sideways.
“Never mind,” Alfie said angrily. He snatched it from her. The paper tore.
“I want to see your drawing,” she said, offering to take it again.
“Never mind.”
“Well, just ’cause I can’t tell which way is up, that’s no reason to get mad, is it, Pap?”
“Getting mad runs in our family,” Pap said, leaning back, getting ready to start a story. “Did I ever tell you about the time Cousin Cooley and me—”
“Yes!”
“I got to study,” Alfie said.
“Leave your drawing or your cartoon or whatever it is, honey, and I’ll look at it in the morning.”
Holding the comic strip to his chest, he went quickly to the ladder.
“Well, the way it started was that Cousin Cooley had got himself what he called an antique can opener, bought it off—”
“Pap!”
“—bought it off Jimmy Hammond at the hardware. Well, soon as I seen it, I knew that …”
Alfie slammed the trap door shut, and he had sat in the attic until they were all in bed. He had heard the water in the basin as Alma washed her hair, the brushing of teeth, the flushing of the toilet, the dropping of bobby pins, and then finally the snores.
He pushed aside his blanket. They were all snorers. Pap was the loudest. Alma was the quietest, with just a ladylike wheeze. He had told her that once as a compliment and she had erupted like a volcano. “Don’t you ever say I snore! I do not snore!” His mom snorted every once in a while as if she had thought of something funny.
Alfie closed his eyes. He suddenly found himself thinking, as he had earlier, of the one and only time he had made his mother laugh.
He and Tree had been coming down Elm Street one evening on their way home from the Fall Festival at school. Tree had been talking about the general sorriness of the booths. “Did you go in the Haunted House, Alfie? It was in Mrs. Lorensen’s room.”
“No.”
“Well, some girl in a witch suit—I think it was Jenny DeCarlo—said, ‘And now you have to feel eyeballs,’ and I knew it was going to be grapes, but, Alfie, these grapes weren’t even peeled—” He broke off abruptly. “Hey, what’s going on at the corner?”
Ahead they could see two people pushing a car down the street. Alfie and Tree edged closer, sensing the two people were not just trying to get the car started. Moving from the shelter of one tree to another, they got closer. When they were almost at the corner, Tree said, “Hey, that’s your brother! That’s Bubba! What’s he up to?”
Alfie ran forward in his concern. “What are you doing, Bubba?” He glanced over his shoulder at the deserted street behind him.
Bubba, smiling, turned to Alfie. The other boy was Goat McMillan.
“Is this your car, Goat?” Tree asked. He was standing apart, keeping himself separated from what might be trouble.
“No, it’s not his car. Goat wouldn’t have a car like this, would you, Goat?” Bubba said.
“Not if I could help it.”
“But whose car is it?” Alfie asked.
“It’s Perry Fletcher’s.” The sound of the name on Goat’s lips caused Bubba to double over the fender with laughter.
“Who’s he?”
Bubba and Goat were laughing too hard to answer. Alfie reached out and touched the sleeve of Bubba’s football sweater. “Who’s Perry Fletcher?”
Bubba straightened. “Perry Fletcher’s this boy, see, and all he can do is talk about his car and his boat and his stereo and how wonderful everything he owns is. So me and Goat see Perry Fletcher park his car in front of Maria Martini’s house and go inside. We know the car’s brand new, see. We know this is the first time he ever drove it.”
“But why are you pushing it down the street?” Alfie asked in a worried way.
“Because we’re going to hide it in somebody’s driveway,” Goat explained.
“Yeah, and then we’re going back and sit on Goat’s porch, see, and watch Perry Fletcher come out and find his new car gone.”
Goat broke in with, “If I know him, he’ll call the fuzz first thing. ‘Officer, Officer, come at once. I’ve been robbed!’”
“Hey—hey—” Bubba was laughing so hard he could barely speak. “Hey, let’s hide it in Big Bertha’s driveway!” Big Bertha was their algebra teacher.
“I don’t think you ought to be doing this,” Alfie said. Again he glanced up and down the deserted street.
“Yeah, we’ll put it in Big Bertha’s driveway,” Goat said. “Hey, this is better than Friday.” He turned to Alfie and Tree. “See, last Friday we let the brakes off Ted Copple’s Buick and pushed it into a tow-away zone because Ted Copple wouldn’t let me copy his math, and then we went in a phone booth and called the police and pretended to be irate citizens—Morrie Hutchinson was the irate citizen—and he demanded that the police do something about illegal parking in front of the high school. Ten minutes later Brant’s tow truck arrived. It made my day.”
“I gotta go,” Tree said.
“Me too,” Alfie said. They turned together and began running up Elm Street.
“Wait, you can help us,” Bubba called.
“Yeah, Alfie, we may need help getting up Big Bertha’s driveway!”
At the top of the hill Alfie and Tree separated without a word. Alfie cut through the park. The swings were moving slightly in the wind from the river. He ran around them. He stumbled over his feet and fell.
On his knees in the dust by the swings he remembered that when Bubba had played in this park, he could swing higher than anybody. And at the peak of his swing he could slide off the seat, easy as grease, fall through the air, and land, catlike, on his feet. Another boy who tried it landed so hard in a stoop that he had bitten a piece out of his knee.
Alfie got to his feet. Running again, he left the park and ran through the Lanleys’ yard. A dog barked. He entered the apartment building where they lived at the time.
He looked so wild as he entered that his mother asked him what was wrong. Gasping for breath, he broke into the story of Bubba and Perry Fletcher’s car.
Halfway through the story he faltered. He realized his mom would be furious with Bubba. She would probably throw on her coat and go looking for him. Bubba would never forgive him.
Instead he saw that his mother was beginning to laugh. He hesitated, puzzled.
“But, Mom, this could be car theft.”
“Not if he doesn’t get in the car,” she said. “Anyway, go on.” She reached forward and turned off I Love Lucy so she could get a real laugh. “Now, start from the beginning and tell me every detail.” Her eyes were shining. “Don’t leave out a thing.”
He told it again, slower, standing as rigid as if he were in front of his class giving a report.
She laughed so hard at this second telling that she had to have a tissue. When she dried her eyes, calm at last, she said, “Do me a favor.”
“All right.”
“Don’t let Bubba know you told me.”
“All right.”
“I want to hear him tell it too. Can’t you just imagine them sitting on Goat’s porch? Can’t you just imagine the expression on Perry Fletcher’s face when he—Hey, get me Bubba’s annual. I want to see what he looks like.” The picture of Perry Fletcher in the annual set her laughing again. “I knew he’d look like that. He’s the only boy on this page who’s got on a tie.”
Alfie shifted in his bed again. On the ceiling the lights of a car passing on the street below reflected, moved, disappeared. In the next room his mother snorted in her sleep.
Maybe he could do a cartoon about it, Alfie thought. That was what artists were supposed to do—turn life’s painful experiences into art.
He imagined two boys pushing a car down the street. It was too real. He imagined an old
man and a woman pushing a funny-looking car down the road. That was better. They would be hot and sweaty. The old woman’s hair would be flying out from her head. The old man’s shirt sleeves would be rolled up. The old woman would be snapping at the man. “Sure you invented the car! I want to know when you’re going to invent the engine!”
Maybe his mother would laugh at that, but he didn’t think so. Planning a better cartoon, he fell asleep.
Chapter Five
AT HIS SCHOOL DESK Alfie was drawing a comic strip about a dog. The rest of the class was working math problems.
Alfie had gotten the idea for his strip that morning during breakfast. Alma was talking about an article she’d read. “It said you shouldn’t buy this kind of cereal, Mom.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s got additives in it. Look on the box—artificial coloring, artificial flavoring—just read what we’re eating.”
Pap said, “It’s better than hot dogs. There’s rat hairs in them.”
“Not at the table, please, Pap,” Alfie’s mother said.
“And where there’s rat hairs, there’s probably rat—”
“Pap!”
“—droppings.”
“Pap!”
“Let me buy the cereal from now on, all right, Mom?” Alma said, getting up from the table.
Alfie was dipping his spoon into his soggy cereal, thinking up a comic strip about artificial flavoring.
“Alfie, are you going to sit there all morning or are you going to school?” his mom said finally.
“Don’t bother me right now.”
“Well, you’re lucky to have somewhere to go, isn’t he, Pap? Don’t you wish you could go to school?”
“No.”
Now Alfie had finished his comic strip. He had intended that as soon as he finished, he would begin work on his math problems, but now he sat admiring his work. His math was forgotten.
In the first square a large dog was reading the label on a can of dog food. “Artificial flavoring.”
In the second square the dog was reading the label on a box of dog biscuits. “Artificial coloring.”
In the third square the dog was reading the label on a dog collar. “Artificial fibers.”
In the fourth square he was howling, “Is everything artificial these days?”
In the last square a little sign comes up from the dog’s fur. “Fleas are still real!”
Alfie was very pleased with it. He wanted to take it up immediately and show it to his teacher, but she would know he had done it during Math.
“All right,” the teacher said, “time’s up. Change papers with your partners and we’ll check our work.”
Alfie looked up, startled. He glanced at Tree. Dutifully Tree was holding out his paper to Alfie. “Go easy,” he said. He waited a minute with his hand outstretched and then he said, “Come on. Give me your paper.” He snapped his fingers with impatience.
“I didn’t do mine,” Alfie whispered back, hiding his comic strip under his notebook.
“Why not?”
“I just didn’t.”
“But then I don’t have anything to check!” Tree complained. He was upset. He loved to grade papers. It gave him a feeling of power. Grading papers made him want to become a teacher when he grew up.
“What’s wrong back there, Tree?” Mrs. Steinhart asked.
“Nothing.”
“Alfie? Anything wrong?”
“No.”
“All right then, we’ll go over the first problem.” Mrs. Steinhart began to put the problem on the board. All the class bent over their papers.
Tree leaned forward too, hunched miserably over his bare desk. He shot Alfie a resentful look. Alfie did not glance at him. He was going over Tree’s first problem.
Tree punched Alfie to get his attention. Then he acted out the difficulty of grading an invisible paper.
“Tree?” Mrs. Steinhart called.
He looked up.
“Is anything wrong?”
“What could be wrong, Mrs. Steinhart?” This was what he always said when something was wrong that he was not free to discuss. He had gotten this from his sister, who had gotten it from soap operas.
“Whose paper are you grading?”
Tree looked down at his bare desk, the pencil in his hand. He sighed. “Alfie’s.”
“Bring it up here, please.”
Tree’s mouth fell open. He stared down at his desk. Finally he looked up at Mrs. Steinhart. “I can’t find his paper, Mrs. Steinhart, that’s what we were muttering about.”
Alfie cleared his throat. “The reason he can’t find my paper, Mrs. Steinhart, is because I didn’t do it. My mind was on something else.”
“Oh.” There was a pause, and then Mrs. Steinhart said, “Well, then we’ll continue without Alfie. Tree, give your paper to Maurice and you can grade Elizabeth’s paper.”
Tree’s face lit up with delight. “Yes, ma’am!” He snatched his paper from Alfie and made the exchange. He took Elizabeth’s paper with a flourish. “Revenge,” he whispered happily. He pantomimed making big X’s beside every one of her problems. “Is she going to be sorry she didn’t take our picture yesterday!”
Alfie sat without moving. He thought about going up to Mrs. Steinhart after class and explaining why he didn’t do his math, but he knew he didn’t have a good enough reason. Not comic strips. She wouldn’t buy that. Maybe he could say he had an attack of something. He sat silent and miserable.
Tree punched him. “She missed number three,” he whispered, his voice rising with delight, “subtracted instead of added.” He bent over Elizabeth’s paper again, pencil poised for action. He began to whistle through his teeth. Alfie slumped lower at his desk.
Beside him Tree straightened abruptly. His hand shot into the air. “Oh, Mrs. Steinhart,” he called, “is that a two or a three on the second line?”
“It’s a three.” She went over the number with her chalk.
“That’s what I was afraid of!” Tree said, singing the words in his joy. He made an elaborate X beside the problem. To Alfie he hissed, “She’s missed two out of five. Bet she’s really sorry she didn’t take our picture!”
Alfie nodded by lowering his head. He lifted his notebook and glanced at his comic strip of the dog. He pulled it into view. It made him happy when one of his cartoons came out just right, but now he didn’t smile.
Tree’s long arm was waving in the air again. “Oh, Mrs. Steinhart?”
She sighed. “Yes, Tree.”
“How many can you miss and still pass?”
“This isn’t a test, Tree.”
“I know, but if it was a test?”
“Well, there are ten problems. Everyone should get at least seven, though I would like to see everyone have a perfect paper.
“Too late for everyone to get a perfect paper, Mrs. Steinhart,” Tree said cheerfully. Tree nudged Alfie. “If she misses one more she’s—” He made a down gesture with his thumb.
Alfie nodded without enthusiasm. He took his comic strip and slipped it carefully in the back of his notebook in a pocket for special papers. When he got home he would put it up on the rafters in the attic. It deserved a place of honor, he thought, even though it couldn’t cheer him up now.
Also in the pocket was a comic strip he had done the day before during English. He pulled it out and looked at it. “Super Giant.”
In the first square the giant was destroying a forest, ripping trees from the earth, crying, “I love violence.”
In the second square the giant was destroying a village. “I love violence!”
In the third square the giant was destroying a farm. “I love violence!”
In the last square the giant was flattened on the ground, being attacked by the villagers, the farm people, and the forest animals. He was saying, “It’s things like this that take the fun out of violence.”
The strip hadn’t come out the way Alfie had wanted it to, and although he had spent most of Eng
lish and Science trying to correct it, he had not succeeded. He saw now that he had failed because he had tried to put too much into each square. Perhaps if he …
Beside him Tree was desperately going over Elizabeth’s paper one more time.
“Give me my paper, Tree,” Elizabeth said. She tried to snatch it from him.
“In a minute, in a minute.” He waved her away with his long arms. “I just want to make sure there aren’t any more mistakes.”
“Tree, give me my paper. Mrs. Steinhart, Tree won’t give me my paper.”
“Tree.”
“I’m just trying to be thorough, Mrs. Steinhart, like you taught us. I know there’s another mistake here. I just can’t find it.”
Elizabeth snatched her paper from him. “I’m rechecking this whole thing, Tree, and you better not have made any mistakes either.”
“Me? Make mistakes?” Tree said. He looked as lofty as if he were in the forest, glancing down at a mere sapling. He took his own paper from Maurice. He fell silent.
“By the way, how many did you miss, Tree?” Elizabeth asked scornfully.
Tree didn’t answer.
“All right, class,” Mrs. Steinhart said, “pass the papers to the front of the room, and, Alfie, I want to see you after school for a few minutes.”
Alfie closed his notebook. He shook his hair out of his eyes. “Yes’m,” he said.
Chapter Six
“WHAT’D SHE WANT?” TREE asked. He had been waiting for Alfie. He was leaning against the lone schoolground tree, his foot propped on a root. He seemed part of the landscape.
“Nothing,” Alfie said.
A line of boys and girls were waiting to board the school bus. One of the boys called, “What’d she do to you, Alfie?”
“Nothing.” He kept walking. All the grass had been worn off the schoolyard, and the dirt was packed as hard as concrete.
Tree fell into step with Alfie. “What did she want?”
“If you must know—”
“I must.”
“—she wanted to tell me I’m flunking Math.”
“That’s supposed to be news?”
“Also she wants a conference with my mom.”
“She must not know your mom.”