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Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: River's Edge
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“Mr. Flanders,” she said soothingly, her voice soft and rich with admiration that just skirted the edge of flattery, “you have already been more than generous. You not only donated this truly magnificent prize”—she smiled as she patted the dictionary that was sitting on her desk—“you've honored us with your time and presence here today. We simply couldn't ask you to do more.” Miss Gleason smiled her broadest and most sincere smile. Mr. Flanders was, of course, completely enchanted and ducked his head and shuffled his shoes with pleasure.
“However,” she continued pleasantly, “it is time for school to be dismissed, so I suggest that the rest of you children go home, and Cookie, Elise, and I will stay here and finish the spelling bee.”
There was a rumble of protest among the students. Ernest waved his hand above his head and said, “Miss Gleason, can't I stay and watch? I don't need to be home at any special time, and I want to see who wins. I just can't go home! It would be like leaving a ball game with the bases loaded in the middle of the ninth inning!”
Miss Gleason's eyes twinkled, and she laughed at Ernest's intensity. “All right, Ernest. We'll take a break and begin again in ten minutes. You may stay if you wish, and that goes for the rest of the class.” Her eyes scanned the faces of her students. “But you certainly don't have to if you don't want to. I'm sure some of you are expected at home.”
At this announcement most of the students scurried to retake their seats, although a few of them headed for the cloakroom. Cookie went out into the hall to get a drink, and I went back to my desk to take a last-minute look at my spelling book. I turned to the back of the book, where the really hard words were, because I reasoned that, in an attempt to finally bring the contest to an end, Miss Gleason would look for the most difficult words she could find.
Jerry Brandt and Homer Miles, John Harkness's flunkies, gathered up their things. Noticing that their leader hadn't moved, Jerry yelled, “Hey, Hark! You're not gonna stay and watch this, are you? I'd just as soon watch paint dry.” He guffawed at his own joke, and Homer joined in.
Hark froze them with a withering look, and they snapped their mouths closed. “Yeah, I'm staying,” he reported and then, looking around and seeing that Miss Gleason had left the room, he got up from his desk. In a voice just loud enough so I could hear, he snarled, “I want to stay to see Miss Smart Nazi here get her tail waxed. She thinks she's really something, coming in here, making up to the teacher, and trying to make everybody look bad. She's nothing! She's going to lose, and I'm gonna stay and see it happen.” He glared at me with a look so full of hatred that for a moment I was truly frightened. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I knew that answering him would just make things worse, so I lowered my head and tried harder to concentrate on the word list in front of me.
He walked up behind me and bent over me so close I could feel his breath. “You hear what I said?”
I ignored him.
“Hey!” he spat, and tugged on my braid to get my attention, but I didn't move. He pulled on my hair again, hard enough to hurt, and raised his voice to a shout. “Hey! Did you hear me? Huh?” He jerked my braid so hard that my scalp hurt. “Hey, Fraulein! Hey, Kraut-Eater! Hey, you Nazi! You deaf or something?”
“John Harkness! That will be enough of that! Sit down this instant!” Miss Gleason shouted with a volume and energy that was astounding. Who knew our gentle, petite, maiden teacher with the breathless voice could yell like that? Her high heels clicked irritation as she came into the room. Cookie was right behind her. Miss Gleason's usually blue eyes flashed violet thunder, and even Hark seemed a bit afraid of her. In any case, he obeyed and sat down in his desk, cowed but still scowling.
Miss Gleason stared at him for a moment. Her breast heaved with poorly suppressed anger. “I will not tolerate that kind of talk in my classroom. Do I make myself perfectly clear, or shall we go to Principal Harney's office and discuss it with him?”
Hark shifted in his seat and mumbled something inaudible.
“I'm sorry?” Miss Gleason barked. “Did you say something, Mr. Harkness? I didn't hear you.”
“Yes ma'am,” Hark said softly but sharply, his voice still tight with anger.
“Yes ma'am what?” asked Miss Gleason with a warning stare.
“Yes ma'am. You make yourself perfectly clear,” he replied flatly.
“Good,” said Miss Gleason. Then, turning to Jerry and Homer, she said, “You boys may go now. Good luck in high school next year,” she said distractedly. “Have a nice summer.”
Jerry and Homer left. Miss Gleason took a deep breath and looked around the classroom at the remaining students, whose eyes were still wide from surprise and seemed to hold a new respect for their teacher. “Cookie? Elise? Are you ready? Good. Everyone else—take your seats. Let's get started.”
I followed Cookie to the front of the room, but I was so unnerved by what had happened that I would have preferred to just withdraw from the contest and let Cookie have the prize and the title of Best Eighth-Grade Speller. In fact, I considered saying exactly that, but every eye in the classroom was now fixed on us, and it seemed too late to do anything but go ahead and finish what we had started. As Miss Gleason was taking her seat at her desk and opening her book, it did occur to me that I could go a couple more rounds, then purposely misspell a word, throwing the contest. Maybe if I did, Cookie and I could finally put this stupid jealousy behind us. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed like the best solution. The idea cheered me, and I stood up a little straighter, waiting to hear the first word.
“Cookie,” Miss Gleason said evenly. “You will go first. Your word is
soiree.
”
Cookie blinked, and I could see a look of panic spread across her face. It was the first time I'd ever seen her look like that. I knew she had no idea of how to spell it. But I did.
Only minutes before, I had been sitting at my desk pretending to study the “For an Extra Challenge!” section at the back of the spelling book, and one of the words on the list was
soiree!
I could scarcely believe it! If you had asked me at the time if I had been able to recall any of the words on that page I would have said no, but now the list was clear in my mind. I could see that one word perfectly as though it was printed on my memory. The room was absolutely silent as everyone waited for Cookie to begin spelling. I could hear the clock evenly ticking off the seconds.
Cookie took a deep breath, closed her eyes and began. “Soiree. S ...” She hesitated and wrinkled her brow. “O-I-R-” I thought that she had it. The first syllable was the most difficult.
“Wait,” she said opening her eyes and looking at Miss Gleason. “May I start again?” Miss Gleason nodded. Cookie closed her eyes and began to spell again with more confidence.
“Soiree. S-O-I-R-E ...” She hesitated again. “Y?” she asked and looked to Miss Gleason for confirmation.
“I am sorry,” Miss Gleason said, and the students exhaled a collective sigh of disappointment. “That is incorrect. Elise, if you can spell the word correctly, you will be our new champion. If not, we will continue with the next word.”
In my mind I had already worked out that I was going to spell it
soiray
and then purposely misspell the next word, no matter how easy it might be, but just at that moment I heard Hark sneer from his seat in the back of the room. “She can't do it! She's a stinkin' Nazi! Her father is a—”
“That's enough!” Miss Gleason barked. “Mr. Harkness, I have lost my patience with you!” She reached for a pad of paper on her desk, scribbled out a note and held it out. “Here. John, take this note and go wait outside Mr. Harney's office. I'll be down later to make sure you are there.”
Hark sat in his chair for a moment, as though daring Miss Gleason to make him get up. She didn't say a word but just continued to hold out the slip of paper, her arm as straight and unwavering as an iron rod and her eyes like steel. Finally, Hark slowly got up, walked to Miss Gleason's desk and took the note, crumpling it in his hand as he did. Miss Gleason whispered in a steely voice. “Go, John. Now!”
He did, but he took his time going to the door. Miss Gleason, her nostrils still flared with anger, composed her voice and turned her attention to me. “Elise? Are you ready? The word is
soiree.
”
I squared my shoulders and bit my lip in mock concentration, fully prepared to make my error look convincing. As I was about to begin, I heard a short, hacking sound. Hark approached the door and pretended to cough again, barking an unspeakable insult into his fist. Then he clicked his heels and raised his hand in a mocking German salute before opening the door.
It happened so quickly that Miss Gleason didn't really have a chance to respond. He shot me a final look of utter hatred, and I hated him back. I would show him! Without thinking I opened my mouth and fairly shouted, “Soiree! S-O-I-R-E-E!”
Chapter 10
M
iss Gleason's heels clicked urgently behind me as I trudged down the hallway of the empty school building toward the main doors. The wood floors shone shiny and slick between the scuff marks left by the shoes of children anxious to begin an entire summer of vacation. The halls were empty. Cookie had run out of the building as soon as Miss Gleason had presented the dictionary to me, her eyes filled with tears. The other children were gone just as quickly. I lingered behind as long as I could, not really wanting to go home.
Rays of afternoon sun spilled in through the high, transomed windows. The corridor smelled pleasantly of beeswax and pencil shavings, ink and rubber balls. It was the schoolhouse smell, the same the world over—in America or in Germany, there is no difference. Normally I found the aroma comforting, but not today. Nothing had turned out as I had hoped, even though I'd gotten everything I'd hoped for. The beautiful blue dictionary, still wrapped with ribbons, was heavy in my arms. For weeks it had sat on the edge of Miss Gleason's desk, and I had admired it, imagining how wonderful it would feel to carry it home, solid and sure with the weight of victory. Now that the prize was mine, I felt no pride in my accomplishment or satisfaction in the settling of scores, just the weight of a guilty conscience.
When I opened the door and walked down the steps into the playground I saw little Curt lying facedown on his stomach over the hard seat of a wooden swing, swaying idly back and forth, and looking at the ground as though deep in thought.
“Curt? What are you doing here?”
At the sound of my voice, his head lifted and he grinned at me, showing a row of shiny baby teeth and a space in front where one was missing.
“Waiting for you,” he replied happily. “Cookie ran out and didn't even see me. Can I walk home with you?”
Curt always walked home with Cookie, but she must have been so wrapped up in the results of the contest that she had forgotten all about him. So had I. The poor little thing must have been waiting for at least an hour.
“I'm sorry, Curt. You must be so tired of waiting!”
“Naw,” he said dismissively. “I been playing.” Noticing the prize dictionary tucked under my arm, his eyes grew wide with admiration.
“Is that it?” he asked with a touch of awe in his voice. “Did you win?”
“Yes.”
“It's beautiful! Can I hold it?”
I handed him the book, slipping the ribbon off the binding so he could see the pictures. He turned the pages reverently, admiring the illustrations and pointing to some of the longer words and asking me how to pronounce them. After a few minutes he looked up from the pages and beamed at me again, but something in my face must have concerned him, and his smile faded.
“Don't you like it?” he asked.
I thought for a moment. “Not as much as I thought I would.”
“Well, you should,” he said practically. “It's the best book I ever saw.”
“Would you like to have it?” I asked. “I'll give it to you.” It seemed like a wonderful idea to me. The elegance and symbolism of the prize had been spoiled for me, but maybe by giving it to Curt I could redeem something of its value.
Rather than looking pleased by the offer, Curt seemed bothered. His cheeks flushed bright red, and his eyes darted away from mine as he answered. “No ... no thanks.”
“Why not? Really, Curt. Go ahead and take it. It's all right,” I assured him, wondering if he doubted my sincerity.
“I can't.”
“Yes, you can! It's just a book. Of course, it is a very nice volume, and you must take good care of it, but you are always so careful with your things that I'm sure—”
“I can't read it!” he blurted out. “I can't read anything!”
I was confused. “Of course you can't read all those big words yet. You're only in the second grade, after all. You'll see—before long you'll be able to read every word in this dictionary! In the meantime, you can always ask me to tell you any of the words you don't know.”
Curt's eyes welled up with tears, and he tried to blink them back as he spoke. “You don't understand. I c ... ca-can't read any of the words. Not any of them!”
“What are you talking about? I've seen you read many times. Just last week I was listening to you as you were reading ‘The Three Bears' out of the big fairy-tale book we have at home.”
“No. I know all the words. I can t-t-tell the story, but I can't read the words,” he explained.
Suddenly I understood. He had memorized the stories, word for word, but he didn't recognize the arrangement of letters that made up the individual words. Night after night of listening to the same twenty or thirty children's stories had allowed him to remember them perfectly, and by acting like he was reading the words and turning the pages in the proper places, he had convinced all of us that he could read.
I simply didn't know what to say. Curt hung his head low, and I heard him sniff. “Oh, Curt,” I murmured inadequately, putting my hand on his shoulder. He mumbled something unintelligible, and I had to ask him to repeat himself.
He lifted his head, his eyes full of tears. “I said, I'm the only one in my class who can't read. I'm stupid,” he said softly.
“ Curt! You mustn't say that! You're a very, very smart boy.” It was true. He was bright. He was able to build complex and detailed model cities out of old cardboard boxes, cans, bottles, empty spools of thread, or anything else he could find. His creations were truly ingenious. He had fashioned a hand-cranked elevator for his model skyscraper, and he had painted and carefully joined tiny bits of cellophane to create a stained-glass window for his church. Any seven-year-old who could think up and actually construct such complicated designs was obviously very clever. So why couldn't he read?
Curt wiped his nose on the sleeve of his coat. “Mrs. Halvorsen says I have to give this note to Papa and Mama,” he said, dejectedly holding out a folded piece of notepaper. “I guess I'm in trouble.”
I took the paper from him and read it. “You're not in trouble, Curt.” The teacher's note said that she wanted to meet with the Mullers to discuss having Curt repeat the second grade, but I couldn't bring myself to tell him that. “It just says here that you're having some trouble in class and that Mrs. Halvorsen wants to see Mama and Papa.”
“Then I'll be in trouble,” he said gloomily.
“Don't be silly! Are you trying your best in class?” Curt nodded his head.
“Do you behave yourself in school?” He nodded again.
“Then there's nothing to worry about. It just sounds like you need some extra help. Once you get it, I'm sure you'll be able to read.”
He wasn't convinced.
“It's true. Look at me,” I reasoned. “I am good at schoolwork, but cooking is very hard for me. Now that I am getting some extra help from Mrs. Ludwig, I'm improving.”
Curt's eyes grew wide with fright. “I won't have to go to Mrs. Ludwig's house for help with reading, will I?”
“Of course not,” I said, smiling. “But she really isn't that scary once you get to know her. I go to see Mrs. Ludwig for extra help with cooking because she is a good cook. You'll need to get help with your reading from someone who is good at reading.”
Curt paused for a moment as he considered this line of reasoning. “Well, then, why don't you help me? You're good at reading.”
“I'm not a proper teacher,” I demurred. “I'm sure Mrs. Halvorsen will have some kind of plan to help you. Maybe by spending some extra time after school.”
“Well, Mrs. Halvorsen is a proper teacher, and she hasn't been able to teach me to read no matter how hard she tries,” Curt replied logically. “Maybe it's time to try something else. You couldn't do any worse than her.”
He had a point. Mrs. Halvorsen hadn't been able to help him. Maybe someone else could. Maybe me. I still had my doubts, but one look at Curt's pleading blue eyes convinced me that I at least owed it to him to try. “All right. I don't know if it will do any good, but if you really want me to, we can work on your reading together.”
“That's great, Elise! When can we start?”
“Soon,” I said. “Give me a day or two to think about what we should do. All right?”
“All right,” he agreed. “I really do want to read, Elise.”
“You will,” I said, hoping that I wasn't lying to him. “Now let's go home. It's late.”
“You know, I'm really good at math,” he said earnestly as we trudged along.
“I know you are. I've seen your math papers. You can do very hard problems.”
“Ask me what five times five is, Elise. Go ahead! Ask me,” he urged.
I obliged, and he gave me the answer. We walked on for some time playing this game, with Curt supplying both the questions and the answers while I served as narrator. Occasionally, I posed a couple of my own problems, and he was able to answer those just as quickly and accurately as the others. He had a good memory for figures, and, of course, he'd memorized all the stories he'd convinced us he was able to read. He really was a bright little thing. I wondered if it wouldn't be possible to take advantage of his remarkable memory in helping him learn how to read.
I considered all this as we plodded down the hill toward the house. Curt jabbered on, happily tossing out more equations, and I repeated them automatically, my mind so absorbed by my thoughts that when Hark stepped out from a big oak tree, it took me completely by surprise.
“Look at what we got here,” he sneered, planting himself firmly in the center of the path, dropping his satchel of books by his side. “H ... h ... h-how y ... y ... you doin', C ... C ... Curt? What's the matter, Shrimp? Cat got your tongue?”
Curt was frozen with fear. His big eyes silently begged me to do something, but I was frightened, too. When we were in the safety of the schoolroom, I found Hark merely irritating, because I knew that Miss Gleason would intervene if necessary. Now, caught here, still a good half a mile from home and with no other houses nearby, I was scared. He saw the dictionary tucked under my arm. His eyes narrowed. I looked away, not wanting to provoke him. The important thing was to get Curt home as safely and quickly as possible.
“Come on, Curt.” I whispered out the side of my mouth with studied calm, as though Hark were an agitated animal that I was trying to back away from. I took Curt's hand and stepped off the path, trying to break a new trail around Hark, who seemed suddenly enormous in comparison to myself and Curt. Hark barked out a short, quick laugh and moved directly in front of us, even closer than before.
“Hey! I asked you a question, Shrimp. Answer me!” he demanded, ignoring me completely and turning the full weight of his ire on Curt.
Clutching Curt's hand even more tightly, I tried once more to dodge past the bullying Hark, but he blocked us again.
“Huh? Did you hear me, dummy?”
he screamed at the terrified Curt, who began to cry. “Are you deaf as well as stupid?
Answer me!”
He shoved Curt as hard as he could. Curt collapsed onto the ground, sobbing. I was furious! Without a thought for what I was actually doing, I pulled my arm back, doubled up my fist, and threw a punch that landed squarely on Hark's nose, which began to bleed.
“Ow!” he cried. His hand flew up to his nose. He pulled it away, and inspected the blood on his fingers. For a moment he seemed surprised, but his expression of shock was quickly replaced by one of anger.
“Nobody hits me and gets away with it,” he growled menacingly. “Not my dad. Not any stupid ‘teacher's pet.' I don't care if you are a girl.” He took a step toward me and grabbed my shoulder, pinching his fingers into my flesh. I winced with pain, and reached back with my fist preparing to throw another blow at his face. He grabbed my wrist before I could land the punch, then quickly wrenched my arm behind my back and twisted it hard, making me cry out.
Curt was still crying but, seeing how Hark was hurting me, climbed to his feet and jumped on Hark's back and started throwing punches of his own, pounding the big bully on his shoulder and yelling for him to leave me alone. Another voice joined in with his.
“John!”
Papa shouted.
“John Harkness, stop it! Right now! Let her go!”
I felt Hark's grip on me loosen and looked up to see Papa pulling him back and shaking him. Cookie came running up a few steps behind him and leaned against the oak tree, puffing from the effort of running.
Papa's eyes were full of fire. He spoke in a voice thick with anger, one I'd never heard him use, not even during his most fervent preaching. “What the hell do you think you're doing?” he shouted. “What are you doing? Hurting a girl? Pushing down a little kid half your size? What's the matter with you?”

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