7
ON THAT AFTERNOON late in September, Veronica and I were walking home together after school. It was a Wednesday, and Veronica ordinarily had a piano lesson after school on Wednesdays, but Veronica’s piano lesson had been canceled. Mr. Getchel, the music teacher, had not come to school because he had cracked a tooth while using his teeth, as my mother had told me never to use them, in an attempt to remove the cap from a tube of toothpaste.
Veronica was quite nervous about the social studies test that we would have the next day, a test based on the first three chapters of Our Town and Its People, a history of Babbington that all fifth-graders were required to study.
“We can study together,” she suggested.
“All right,” I said.
“I’ll ask you questions that might be on the test,” she said.
“I think I should ask you questions instead,” I said.
“How come?” she asked.
“Because I know the answers better than you do,” I said. “You’re the one who needs to study.”
She burst out laughing. “You’re a funny guy, Peter,” she said.
“I am?” I asked.
“You sure are,” she said. “What’s the sense of asking me the questions if I don’t know the answers? I’ll just sit there saying nothing, won’t I?”
“Well—”
“Or else I’ll just answer them wrong, and that isn’t going to get me anywhere, is it?”
“No, I guess it isn’t.”
“But if I ask you the questions, then I’ll learn the answers from you.”
“I guess you’re right,” I said
“Of course I’m right,” she said.
I didn’t want to argue with Veronica, but in a corner of my mind I was beginning to form a vague hunch about how children came to have the vacant look that Frankie usually wore, and that hunch made me wonder whether any child that Veronica bore might not wind up with a version of Frankie’s vacant look.
We turned the corner of Veronica’s block, and she stopped short. A red convertible was parked at the corner, several houses away from Veronica’s. Veronica held a forefinger to her lips. She leaned toward me and whispered, “That’s Jack’s car.”
“Who’s Jack?” I asked.
“He’s—” she began, but she stopped at once. She looked steadily into my eyes for a moment, and I could see from the way she drew her eyebrows together that she was making a decision. Finally she said, “Come with me, but don’t make a sound.”
She led me to the back door of her house. I stood behind while she opened the door, slowly and silently. We stepped soundlessly into the kitchen, and Veronica began closing the door as slowly and silently as she had opened it. From upstairs, as from a great distance, came a shriek from Mrs. McCall, a squealing, crazy sound that might have been made by a madwoman or a frightened piglet. Veronica and I looked at each other. “You want to see?” she asked, whispering into my ear.
“See what?” I wondered. I wanted to go home. I wanted to stay in the kitchen and ignore any sound that came from upstairs. I wanted to see. I wanted to go home.
Veronica tilted her head to one side and raised her eyebrows, calling for an answer. I swallowed, but I said nothing.
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🎧 165: On that afternoon . . .