“Ow. Not so hard,” Amy managed to protest. “There,” said Marla at last, when Amy’s hair was wet and rumpled by the scrubbing. “That ought to get rid of Alan’s cooties.”
Amy was beginning to enjoy being the center of so much concerned attention. She wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist and sniffed. “Th-thanks,” she said to her friends. “Th-thanks loads.”
Marla put her arm around Amy. “Come on. Let’s go to class. Alan’s inside the main building so it’s safe.” She led Amy out of the girls’ bathroom toward their temporary classroom while Bonnie followed with the piñata.
Amy was comforted to know she had such loyal friends, but she was thinking, What about other times when my friends aren’t around? She was sure to run into Alan Hibbler sometime, and what would she do then? A sentence that she had interrupted while her hair was being scrubbed came back to her now. “He used to pick on Amy’s brother, but now….” Amy did not have to hear the rest of the words to know how the sentence would have ended. But now he picks on Amy.
9
Christmas Vacation
By recess Mitchell and everyone else in Miss Colby’s room had heard about Alan Hibbler’s spitting in Amy’s hair, but as soon as their room mother appeared thoughts turned from Alan and Amy to refreshments. They were treated to pink popcorn balls, Hawaiian punch, and cookies, but Miss Colby spoiled the party for Mitchell. Just before she wished the children a merry Christmas and a happy New Year, she reminded her class that their book reports were due the week after Christmas vacation. Mitchell had a feeling that this time he could not slip through with another report on a Dr. Seuss book, because his third-grade teacher had written, “Next time try a harder book,” on his last Dr. Seuss report.
“Mitch, you could lick Alan Hibbler. I know you could,” said Bernadette Stumpf, when the party was over and school had been dismissed. Bernadette was wearing a long string of beads in honor of the occasion.
Mitchell jammed his fists into his pockets, hunched his shoulders, and said nothing, embarrassed because Bernadette liked him and even more embarrassed because he could not share her confidence in himself.
Halfway home Amy caught up with her brother. “Everybody was so nice to me,” she said happily. “They acted as if I were—oh, you know—sort of important.”
“That’s good,” said Mitchell, not sure he meant what he said. He was thinking about Alan Hibbler and how he would like to punch him in the nose, about how he was going to have to punch him in the nose. A boy could not let another boy get away with spitting in his sister’s hair.
That night the wind changed from the north to the southwest, and with it came the winter storms. The Huffs were shut off from their view of the bay by storm clouds that swirled around their house like smoke. Great gusts slammed rain and wet eucalyptus leaves against the front windows and set gravel rattling across the flat tar-and-gravel roof. Eucalyptus trees, like ghosts glimpsed through the clouds, seemed to toss their branches in agony. Mitchell did what any other boy would do under the circumstances. He turned on the television set.
“Now, Mitch,” said Mrs. Huff almost at once. “I don’t want you spending your entire Christmas vacation in front of the television set.”
“But, Mom,” protested Mitchell, “there isn’t anything to do in this kind of weather.”
“You can read,” said Mrs. Huff shortly.
The minute his mother began to speak about reading in that tone of voice, Mitchell balked. He did not want to read. He especially did not want to read when Amy was sitting there with her nose buried in a thick book.
Half an hour later Mrs. Huff snapped off the television set in the middle of one of Mitchell’s favorite commercials. “Hey, Mom!” objected Mitchell.
Mrs. Huff pointed silently at several library books on the coffee table and left the room. Scowling, Mitchell shuffled through the books, looked at the pictures, and put them down again. None of the books appealed to him. One was too thin and babyish-looking. In another the children in the pictures looked too dainty. In the third, Mitchell liked the boys and girls in the illustrations because they looked lively and real, but the print in the book was too small. Mitchell went into his room to play with his little cars.
Wind and rain continued to bluster, clouds continued to swirl, and Mrs. Huff continued to turn off the television set. Mitchell and Amy popped corn, helped decorate the Christmas tree, and chopped celery and onions for the turkey stuffing. When Christmas morning finally arrived, the whole family unwrapped packages under the lighted Christmas tree until the living room was a glorious jumble of torn Christmas wrappings, ribbons, empty boxes, and excelsior.
Mitchell received a big box that contained a dry-cell battery, lots of wire, buzzers, bells, switches, sockets, and little light bulbs. He also received a real basketball, a quilted nylon jacket with a hood that could be zipped out of sight under the collar, and many smaller gifts including four model kits and two books he did not want to read.
After that television seemed less important to Mitchell, because he was busy assembling models or rigging up his buzzers, bells, and switches so that he could buzz, ring, and turn little lights on and off. From Amy’s room came the sound of her new sewing machine. She was making slacks for a stuffed elephant.
Then one morning Mitchell woke up to find that his throat hurt every time he swallowed and in between swallows, too. He said, “a-a-a-a,” while a flashlight was beamed down his throat, his temperature was taken, and his mother announced that he was indeed sick and that he must stay in bed. Mitchell poked at the cereal served him on a tray, nibbled at a corner of his toast, and decided he did not feel like eating anything. His mother brought him a glass of cold apple juice. Mitchell sipped his juice and dozed until lunchtime, when his mother brought him some soup. “Could I have the—” asked Mitchell, not wanting to say the word out loud.
Mrs. Huff smiled ruefully and said with a sigh, “Oh, I suppose so,” before she wheeled the television set into Mitchell’s room.
Mitchell spent a feverish and languid afternoon napping and watching whatever went past on the screen—an old movie, some grown-ups playing a game, a kiddie program with a lot of old cartoons. While he poked at his supper, which Amy had carried in for him, he watched a familiar program about some fishermen catching the wily tuna fish. It was followed by the news and two cowboy programs, the best part of Mitchell’s day. When the good guy fought the bad guy, Mitchell was licking Alan Hibbler.
Next Amy and Mrs. Huff joined Mitchell, and they all watched the French Chef prepare a fish soup, or bouillabaisse, from an assortment of fish, large and small, which involved much whacking and chopping as well as slicing and mincing with knives and cleavers.
“Fish—ugh,” said Mitchell, who had no appetite and did not like fish when he did have an appetite. However, he had enjoyed watching the French Chef whack and chop.
The next morning Mitchell, at Amy’s suggestion, sat up in bed long enough to wire a doorbell to his dry-cell battery so that he could summon his sister when he needed waiting on. Amy was always unusually nice to Mitchell when he was sick, almost as if she felt guilty because he was sick and was trying to make up for all the squabbles over box tops and television programs. Mitchell enjoyed lying in bed and ringing his doorbell whenever he wanted a glass of water or the television set changed to a different channel. He drank a lot of water that day just for the pleasure of ringing for Amy.
By Saturday Mitchell’s temperature had dropped, and he swallowed a few bites of breakfast while he watched a nursery-school program, which was followed by an exercise program, a man interviewing some famous but boring people, and several old comedies. Amy perched on the foot of his bed to watch the comedies, and just at a funny part, where a curly-haired woman was trying on a pair of skis in her living room and was knocking over all the lamps, Mr. Huff stalked into the bedroom with the three library books, which he dropped on Mitchell’s bed.
“Aw, Dad,” said Mitchell, tearing his eyes away from
the television set. “Those are baby books.”
“Mitchell, you have to start reading sometime,” his father began.
Mitchell sighed and thought, Here it comes. Mr. Huff had two lectures that he delivered from time to time. The first lecture had to do with practicing music lessons and began, “You children don’t realize how fortunate you are to have music lessons.” The second lecture, which was always directed at Mitchell, was about to begin.
“Mitchell, you are much too intelligent to waste so much time in front of the television set.” Mr. Huff emphasized his point by switching off the set and silencing the curly-haired woman in skis. “You get nothing from it.”
“Yes, I do,” said Mitchell, propping his head up with his fist. “Some of it is educational.”
“What?” his father challenged him. “What have you watched that is educational in the past twenty-four hours?”
“I learned all about how fishermen catch the wily tuna,” Mitchell informed his father.
“That is one half hour out of an entire day of your life that has otherwise been wasted,” said Mr. Huff.
“We’ve watched that wily tuna program lots of times,” said Amy. “It really is educational. And we watched the French Chef with Mom. Mom always watches the French Chef.”
Mitchell admired Amy’s strategy of bringing their mother into the discussion. “And you watch the news and football games,” he reminded his father.
Mr. Huff went on, ignoring his children’s side of the argument. “A day wasted when you could have been reading—”
Mitchell and Amy exchanged a glance that said, Dad is really wound up this time.
“—good books. How do you expect to get through high school and college if—”
Mitchell slumped down in bed. Years and years of having to read books stretched endlessly ahead of him. That book report. Fifth grade, sixth grade, junior high school, high school, college…
“—you spend every waking minute filling your mind with—”
“Dad!” said Amy.
“—rubbish.” Mr. Huff looked at Amy sitting on the foot of Mitchell’s bed. “Yes, Amy?” he asked, impatient with this interruption when he was warming up to one of his favorite subjects.
“Dad,” began Amy, who was sometimes inclined to be stern with her parents, “I think you are being much too hard on poor Mitch.”
This time Mr. Huff did look amused. “I am?”
“Yes,” said Amy earnestly, and Mitchell began to take an interest in the conversation. “He’s been sick. I don’t think you should pick on him when he’s been sick.”
Mitchell lay back on the pillow and felt thin and pale.
“I’m not picking on him. I am just pointing out—” Mr. Huff broke off in the middle of a sentence and smiled. “Maybe you’re right, Amy. I’ll get down off my soapbox and stop lecturing, at least for a couple of days.”
“Poor little boy,” said Amy sympathetically, when Mr. Huff had left the room.
“Don’t you call me little,” said Mitchell, who was grateful to his sister, but not that grateful.
In the afternoon the family had errands that no longer could be postponed because of the bad weather. Mrs. Huff needed groceries, Mr. Huff needed a new string for his banjo, and Amy had read all her library books as well as her Christmas books. Mitchell agreed to stay alone while his family drove out into the storm. He passed the time watching two silly game programs and an unusually boring old movie about some sailors who were trying to get a song published. He wished he had something to do.
As soon as Mitchell heard the car return and the back door open, he sat up in bed and called out, “Did you bring me something?”
“Just groceries,” answered his mother.
Amy came into Mitchell’s room in her raincoat and laid a library book on the bed. “I brought you something, Mitch.”
Mitchell made a face, but the title caught his eye. Wild Bill Hickok.
“I thought you might like a book about grown-ups with shooting in it,” said Amy.
“Thanks,” said Mitchell, who felt he should be polite even though he did not intend to read the book. When Amy had gone to take off her raincoat, he went back to watching the movie, which was not only boring but confusing. It was full of sailors and girls, who seemed to spend their time tap dancing or jumping into taxicabs. He finally lost interest in it entirely and lay in bed hoping for an interesting commercial, like the one about the lady who used shortening that was so light she had to chase her cake around the kitchen with a butterfly net, but even the commercials were boring. They were mostly about ladies with headaches or ladies who talked to one another about detergents.
Mitchell picked up Wild Bill Hickok and flicked idly through the pages while he waited for the next commercial. The book was thicker than a babyish book yet not so thick it was discouraging. The print in the book was the right size, and a sentence caught his eye. It was about shooting, and there was nothing babyish about it. It reminded him of Westerns he had seen on television.
Mitchell turned to the beginning of the book to see what it was like and suddenly thought, Hey! I can read most of these words! He read half a page and discovered that even if he skipped the words he did not know or did not want to bother to sound out, the rest of the words meant something. He finished the first page and turned to the second. Frontier scouts on horseback were a lot more interesting than tap-dancing sailors.
Mitchell read several pages before he heard his mother coming down the hall and hastily thrust the book under the bedcovers. Naturally he was too proud to let his mother catch him reading after everyone had made such a big fuss about his not reading. He would be too embarrassed. While he drank the juice his mother had brought him, he wondered what happened next in the book, and when he was alone again he pulled it out from under the blanket and read a few more pages.
Mitchell continued to read the book, three or four pages at a time, when no one was looking, and before long he had read two chapters. And it wasn’t half bad, thought Mitchell, shoving the book way down under the bedclothes.
Sunday he managed to read three chapters when no one was looking, and on Monday morning during the nursery-school program, while the children were pounding rhythm instruments and skipping around in a circle, Mitchell’s foot bumped against Wild Bill Hickok, which had slid to the foot of the bed during the night. He dived under the covers after it, and when he had pulled it out, he began to read. He did not want to turn the television set off, because his mother might come into his room to find out if something was wrong. He continued to read, off and on, and to ignore the noise from television.
Not until the middle of the next afternoon, when Mitchell had the television set tuned to a noisy old war movie, did Mrs. Huff catch Mitchell reading the book.
“Mitchell Huff!” she cried, before he had time to shove the book under the covers. “You’ve been sneaking around reading!”
There was such joy in his mother’s voice that Mitchell could not keep from grinning. “Don’t beat me, Mom. Please don’t beat me,” he pleaded, trying not to laugh. “I didn’t mean to do it. Honest I didn’t.”
“And you’re more than halfway through the book!” marveled Mrs. Huff. “Did you begin at the beginning?”
“Of course,” said Mitchell. “Where else would you begin a book?”
“Why, Mitch, I’m so proud of you.” Mrs. Huff sat down on the bed and kissed her son.
“Mom, you’re acting as if a miracle has happened,” said Mitchell.
“It has,” answered his mother, and Mitchell felt that she might be right. He was reading a book and enjoying it, and if he could read this one, he could read others, too. Maybe not as fast as Amy, but he could read, really read, and not just wade through a reader. Mitchell suddenly felt as if he had been relieved of a terrible worry. No longer would he have to dread book reports. No longer would he hope that the day his class went to the library would fall on a holiday.
“I’m going to telephone your fa
ther at the office and tell him,” said Mrs. Huff. “Good news like this can’t wait.”
“Aw, Mom, you don’t have to make such a big thing out of it,” said Mitchell modestly, but just the same he was pleased when his mother insisted on telephoning his father.
“Congratulations, Mitch. I knew you could do it,” said Amy, while their mother was in the kitchen. “Now you won’t have to do book reports on Dr. Seuss books anymore.”
Mitchell grinned and carefully marked his place in the book with a piece of paper. This was one day when he did not feel like fighting with his sister.
By the time Christmas vacation was over, the storms had subsided, Mitchell was fully recovered, and Amy, not going out of her way to be nice to him now, had squabbled with him over the Dear Abby column in the morning paper. Mitchell got it first, and Amy said she always read Dear Abby at breakfast. Mitchell said she did not need to think she was the only member of the family who could read. Mrs. Huff settled the argument by reading Dear Abby herself to see if Abby had any advice for the mother of twins who bickered at breakfast.
Mitchell had finished Wild Bill Hickok and written a book report, which he had then rewritten after his mother had corrected his spelling. Mrs. Huff suggested that he should not begin his report with the sentence, “This is a book about people, places, and things,” her objection being that all books were about people, places, and things. Neither did she think he should end his report by saying, “If you want to know how this book ends, read it yourself,” but Mitchell liked his report the way he had written it and did not change it. He even read one of his Christmas books and decided it wasn’t so bad after all.
And so, when the time came to return to school, Mitchell was feeling good. He was jogging down the hill enjoying the slippery feeling of his new quilted nylon jacket and thinking pleasant thoughts about the finished book report in his hip pocket, kickball games, the possibility of juice bars for lunch in the cafetorium when thump! something struck him between the shoulder blades. This time it was no little eucalyptus bud. It was something big. Mitchell turned in time to see a clump of grass, roots, and dirt flying toward him. He ducked and the grass bomb sailed over him. Mitchell was angry. So Alan Hibbler was throwing grass bombs! He did not want grass bombs muddying his new jacket. This attack was something he could not ignore.
Mitch and Amy Page 10