listening, having heard, of course, about the pumpkin thieves and their dirty, rotten ways. He said Spider was a good idea and to stay positive. Dennis sauntered by as another boy I didn’t know ran into school and shoved a slip of paper into his hand. He checked it quickly, then stuffed it in his pocket.
“Okay?” the boy asked Dennis.
“Yeah,” Dennis said. “Okay.”
Mr. Soboleski, the baseball coach, walked down the hall, and Dennis scooped up an imaginary line drive and threw it hard over his head, causing Mr. Soboleski to slam him on the shoulder shouting, “Dennis, my man!” and the paper to slip silently from Dennis’s pocket, which nobody noticed except me. I scooped it up.
“Notes,” I explained to Wes. The bell rang, the hall emptied. Wes ran to band, I ran to study hall.
I could do without first-period study hall because it was stupid to take all that trouble to get to school and then do nothing. I covered the paper with my hand and read the short message: “Pool’s. Backfarb. 11 P.M. ”
It did not take a mental giant to figure this out because Cyril Pool lived on Backfarb Road. Cyril
and
Big Daddy. I felt a wave of excitement. Big Daddy was on the hit list. Dennis was the pumpkin thief!
For a few moments I was thrilled. If Big Daddywas stolen, Max would win. Cyril didn’t deserve to win because Cyril was despicable and deeply hated among growers. Pilfering Big Daddy would be the last laugh on a man who had turned the Weigh-In into his own dirty game. By 11:00 P.M. my problems would be over. It was beautifully easy, except for the guilt.
Richard was waiting for me by the giant Thunderbird sculpture Miss Moritz’s freshman class had made in honor of the Native American. Richard said it looked like a diseased turkey and Native Americans everywhere should be insulted. A banana peel was thrown over its beak (yesterday there had been an athletic supporter), giving the bird “a rakish appeal,” according to Mr. Greenpeace. I clenched the note as Richard and I walked home.
“Well,” I said smugly, “you were wrong.”
“I doubt it,” he said.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters,” I insisted, extending the paper. “Read it and weep.”
He read it. “So?”
“It was in Dennis’s pocket.”
“You picked Dennis’s pocket?”
“He
dropped
it,” I explained as Richard’s face darkened. “He’s going to hit Cyril’s tonight.” Richard took this in, examining the note. “It doesn’t matter that he bats .340,” I said. “He’s a lousy thief.”
Richard nodded, shocked and angry. “Have you called the police?”
“I’m sort of thinking about it.”
Actually, I was thinking about calling them after11:00 P.M. After Dennis got Big Daddy. After Cyril got what he deserved. After my problems were over.
“You should call them now,” said Richard.
“I’m thinking about that, too,” I said. Which was partially true. Nana had raised me in the Presbyterian Church with enough guilt to make even petty crime uncomfortable. Nana always said that God sees when others don’t and sends the gift of guilt to keep us on the way.
“If you don’t,” Richard continued, swinging to connect with a speed ball, “it’s like being an accessory or worse. It’s like”—his face grew menacing—“
throwing the game.
”
“Do you have to bring baseball into everything?”
“Baseball
is
everything,” Richard said, taking his ball and glove from his bookbag.
“Look,” I shouted, “Dennis is the bad guy here, not me! You’ve been defending him! You’ve been—”
“I gave him,” Richard interrupted, “the benefit of the doubt.”
“You were wrong!”
“That was then,” Richard said slowly. “Now I think he should be arrested.”
But what, I screamed inside, about
Cyril
? He wouldn’t call the police if my name were on that paper. Cyril wouldn’t bring a cup of water to a dying gourd that wasn’t from
“Okay?” the boy asked Dennis.
“Yeah,” Dennis said. “Okay.”
Mr. Soboleski, the baseball coach, walked down the hall, and Dennis scooped up an imaginary line drive and threw it hard over his head, causing Mr. Soboleski to slam him on the shoulder shouting, “Dennis, my man!” and the paper to slip silently from Dennis’s pocket, which nobody noticed except me. I scooped it up.
“Notes,” I explained to Wes. The bell rang, the hall emptied. Wes ran to band, I ran to study hall.
I could do without first-period study hall because it was stupid to take all that trouble to get to school and then do nothing. I covered the paper with my hand and read the short message: “Pool’s. Backfarb. 11 P.M. ”
It did not take a mental giant to figure this out because Cyril Pool lived on Backfarb Road. Cyril
and
Big Daddy. I felt a wave of excitement. Big Daddy was on the hit list. Dennis was the pumpkin thief!
For a few moments I was thrilled. If Big Daddywas stolen, Max would win. Cyril didn’t deserve to win because Cyril was despicable and deeply hated among growers. Pilfering Big Daddy would be the last laugh on a man who had turned the Weigh-In into his own dirty game. By 11:00 P.M. my problems would be over. It was beautifully easy, except for the guilt.
Richard was waiting for me by the giant Thunderbird sculpture Miss Moritz’s freshman class had made in honor of the Native American. Richard said it looked like a diseased turkey and Native Americans everywhere should be insulted. A banana peel was thrown over its beak (yesterday there had been an athletic supporter), giving the bird “a rakish appeal,” according to Mr. Greenpeace. I clenched the note as Richard and I walked home.
“Well,” I said smugly, “you were wrong.”
“I doubt it,” he said.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters,” I insisted, extending the paper. “Read it and weep.”
He read it. “So?”
“It was in Dennis’s pocket.”
“You picked Dennis’s pocket?”
“He
dropped
it,” I explained as Richard’s face darkened. “He’s going to hit Cyril’s tonight.” Richard took this in, examining the note. “It doesn’t matter that he bats .340,” I said. “He’s a lousy thief.”
Richard nodded, shocked and angry. “Have you called the police?”
“I’m sort of thinking about it.”
Actually, I was thinking about calling them after11:00 P.M. After Dennis got Big Daddy. After Cyril got what he deserved. After my problems were over.
“You should call them now,” said Richard.
“I’m thinking about that, too,” I said. Which was partially true. Nana had raised me in the Presbyterian Church with enough guilt to make even petty crime uncomfortable. Nana always said that God sees when others don’t and sends the gift of guilt to keep us on the way.
“If you don’t,” Richard continued, swinging to connect with a speed ball, “it’s like being an accessory or worse. It’s like”—his face grew menacing—“
throwing the game.
”
“Do you have to bring baseball into everything?”
“Baseball
is
everything,” Richard said, taking his ball and glove from his bookbag.
“Look,” I shouted, “Dennis is the bad guy here, not me! You’ve been defending him! You’ve been—”
“I gave him,” Richard interrupted, “the benefit of the doubt.”
“You were wrong!”
“That was then,” Richard said slowly. “Now I think he should be arrested.”
But what, I screamed inside, about
Cyril
? He wouldn’t call the police if my name were on that paper. Cyril wouldn’t bring a cup of water to a dying gourd that wasn’t from
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