Pride by William Wharton Page B

prison. We’re all lined up in twos, girls in one line, boys in the other. The little first graders get to go first and then it’s each grade till the eighth graders, who’re last. We have to march with our schoolbags almost like in step at a parade. Anybody who goes to a Catholic school is all ready for the army; they only need to teach you how to shoot a gun.
    I’ve been thinking about Cannibal all day, even during religion. He still bites at my finger when I put it near him but it isn’t as if he wants to hurt me; he’s only holding on. He’s also started wrapping his little body around my hand, holding tight with his paws. Sometimes he forgets to pull in his claws so I’ve got scratches on the backs of my hands. I try not to let Mom see them and she hasn’t said anything yet.
    In our school we have what are called safeties. The top four kids in every class from fourth through eighth grade get to wear a white belt with a white shoulder strap and a badge. These safeties are supposed to help us cross streets so we won’t get killed by automobiles going past our school. Most of the time there aren’t any cars, so it isn’t much of a job. I almost got to be a safety once but the sixty I got in religion kept me out.
    After we get past where the safeties are, we cut loose like wild animals down Lewis Avenue all the way to Long Lane. There’s a lot shorter way for getting to our house than going straight down Lewis but we’re not allowed to go that way.
    Old man Stringle is at Long Lane, where Lewis comes in, and he’s supposed to help us across. There are some cars on Long Lane, practically traffic, almost, but I cross it all the time and I’ve never been killed.
    Mr. Stringle is so old he can hardly see and lots of times, especially in the afternoons, he’s so drunk he can just barely stand up. He walks out in front of cars, without looking, smiling, laughing, and waving us across. He’s big, fat, with fat fingers and flat feet. I think he spends the time between lunch and the time school gets out at the Triangle Café, right up the street.
    When I get across Long Lane, I’m supposed to wait for Laurel. Usually she’s behind me, even though she got out first; the little ones can’t keep up with us when we make the mad dash down Lewis Avenue. It’s actually amazing the first and second graders don’t get smashed into the ground.
    Once, John Williamson stepped off a curb running with us and broke his collarbone. I didn’t even know there was a bone to hang collars on; maybe that’s how big businessmen and people in the movies keep their collars so clean and straight. My collar and necktie always gets wrinkled and sweaty, also the tie works its way around my neck. Maybe I don’t have a collarbone. It’d help explain things.
    I don’t mind waiting for Laurel. We don’t usually talk much walking home but it’s nice walking with her. Laurel and I fight sometimes but mostly we keep each other company and play together a lot. I taught her to read and she could read the first-grade book when she was only four. I don’t know what she’s doing in first grade now where all the other kids are learning to read. She’s probably as bored as I am. The Catholic school doesn’t have a kindergarten; that’s at the public school. So we have one year more freedom than the Protestants.
    We’re walking together along Long Lane when a really gigantic, shiny, fancy car pulls up beside us. It has a running board covered with black clean rubber, almost as if nobody ever stepped on it. There are great extra wheels in metal holders on the running boards set in the front fenders, and it has a slanted windshield. We both stop to look at this car; we don’t usually see anything like this in our neighborhood.
    There are four men in the car. They’re all wearing suits and they look sweaty even though it