all his good points.”
“How many compliments?” Junior Jacobs wanted to know.
“Up to you,” Miss Kemp said.
Alice Wendleken raised her hand. “Would beautiful hair and shiny hair count as one compliment?”
This sounded to me as if Alice planned to compliment herself, which would save someone else the trouble, but Miss Kemp said, “I’m not talking about beautiful hair and nice teeth, Alice. I mean characteristics, personal qualities, something special.”
This could be hard, I thought. Take Albert Pelfrey. When you think of Albert Pelfrey, you think fat. Even Albert thinks fat. It’s hard to think anything else, so I would really have to study Albert to find some special personal quality that wasn’t just about being fat. And besides Albert there were twenty-eight other people, including Imogene Herdman.
“What’s a compliment?” Imogene asked me.
“It’s something nice you tell someone, like if someone is especially helpful or especially friendly.”
Alice looked Imogene up and down. “Or especially clean,” she said.
“Okay.” Imogene frowned. “But mice would still be better.”
Mice would probably be easier for Imogene because the Herdmans always had animals around. As far as I know they weren’t mean to the animals, but the animals they weren’t mean to were mean all by themselves, like their cat, which was crazy and had to be kept on a chain because it bit people.
Now and then you would see Mrs. Herdman walking the cat around the block on its chain, but she worked two shifts at the shoe factory and didn’t have much time left over to hang around the house and walk the cat.
There wasn’t any Mr. Herdman. Everybody agreed that after Gladys was born, he just climbed on a freight train and left town, but some people said he did it right away and some people said he waited a year or two.
“Gladys probably bit him,” my friend Alice Wendleken said.
“Not if she was a baby?” I asked. “Babies don’t have any teeth.”
“She probably had hard, hard gums.” Alice knew what she was talking about, because Gladys bit her all the time. Mrs. Wendleken always poured iodine all over the bites, so Alice had to go around for days with big brown splotches on her arms and legs. Alice was always afraid she would die anyway (of Gladys-bite) and have to be buried looking splotched up and ugly instead of beautiful in her blue-and-white dress with the ruffles.
It wasn’t all that special to get bitten by Gladys. She bit everybody, including my little brother, Charlie. Charlie came home yelling and screaming that Gladys bit him, and Gladys came too, which shows you how fearless they were. Any other kid who bit a kid and broke the skin and drew blood would go hide somewhere, but not Gladys.
“Gladys Herdman!” It’s always your whole name when my mother is mad. “Do you know what I think about a little girl who bites people? I think she ought to have to wear a sign around her neck that says ‘Beware of Gladys.’”
I guess Mother thought that would really put Gladys in her place, but Gladys just said “Okay” and went home and made the sign and wore it for a week. Nobody paid much attention—we didn’t need a sign to make us beware of Gladys.
Besides everything else they did, the Herdmans would steal anything they could carry, and it was surprising what all they could carry—not just candy and gum and gerbils and goldfish. They even stole Mrs. Johanneson’s concrete birdbath, for the goldfish, I guess. And last spring they stole my friend Louella McCluskey’s baby brother, Howard, from in front of the grocery store.
Of course Howard wasn’t supposed to be in front of the grocery store. Louella was supposed to be baby-sitting him, which she did every Tuesday afternoon while her mother went to the beauty parlor. Louella got paid fifty cents to do this, and on that particular Tuesday we were in the grocery store spending her fifty cents.
When we came out—no Howard. The stroller
“How many compliments?” Junior Jacobs wanted to know.
“Up to you,” Miss Kemp said.
Alice Wendleken raised her hand. “Would beautiful hair and shiny hair count as one compliment?”
This sounded to me as if Alice planned to compliment herself, which would save someone else the trouble, but Miss Kemp said, “I’m not talking about beautiful hair and nice teeth, Alice. I mean characteristics, personal qualities, something special.”
This could be hard, I thought. Take Albert Pelfrey. When you think of Albert Pelfrey, you think fat. Even Albert thinks fat. It’s hard to think anything else, so I would really have to study Albert to find some special personal quality that wasn’t just about being fat. And besides Albert there were twenty-eight other people, including Imogene Herdman.
“What’s a compliment?” Imogene asked me.
“It’s something nice you tell someone, like if someone is especially helpful or especially friendly.”
Alice looked Imogene up and down. “Or especially clean,” she said.
“Okay.” Imogene frowned. “But mice would still be better.”
Mice would probably be easier for Imogene because the Herdmans always had animals around. As far as I know they weren’t mean to the animals, but the animals they weren’t mean to were mean all by themselves, like their cat, which was crazy and had to be kept on a chain because it bit people.
Now and then you would see Mrs. Herdman walking the cat around the block on its chain, but she worked two shifts at the shoe factory and didn’t have much time left over to hang around the house and walk the cat.
There wasn’t any Mr. Herdman. Everybody agreed that after Gladys was born, he just climbed on a freight train and left town, but some people said he did it right away and some people said he waited a year or two.
“Gladys probably bit him,” my friend Alice Wendleken said.
“Not if she was a baby?” I asked. “Babies don’t have any teeth.”
“She probably had hard, hard gums.” Alice knew what she was talking about, because Gladys bit her all the time. Mrs. Wendleken always poured iodine all over the bites, so Alice had to go around for days with big brown splotches on her arms and legs. Alice was always afraid she would die anyway (of Gladys-bite) and have to be buried looking splotched up and ugly instead of beautiful in her blue-and-white dress with the ruffles.
It wasn’t all that special to get bitten by Gladys. She bit everybody, including my little brother, Charlie. Charlie came home yelling and screaming that Gladys bit him, and Gladys came too, which shows you how fearless they were. Any other kid who bit a kid and broke the skin and drew blood would go hide somewhere, but not Gladys.
“Gladys Herdman!” It’s always your whole name when my mother is mad. “Do you know what I think about a little girl who bites people? I think she ought to have to wear a sign around her neck that says ‘Beware of Gladys.’”
I guess Mother thought that would really put Gladys in her place, but Gladys just said “Okay” and went home and made the sign and wore it for a week. Nobody paid much attention—we didn’t need a sign to make us beware of Gladys.
Besides everything else they did, the Herdmans would steal anything they could carry, and it was surprising what all they could carry—not just candy and gum and gerbils and goldfish. They even stole Mrs. Johanneson’s concrete birdbath, for the goldfish, I guess. And last spring they stole my friend Louella McCluskey’s baby brother, Howard, from in front of the grocery store.
Of course Howard wasn’t supposed to be in front of the grocery store. Louella was supposed to be baby-sitting him, which she did every Tuesday afternoon while her mother went to the beauty parlor. Louella got paid fifty cents to do this, and on that particular Tuesday we were in the grocery store spending her fifty cents.
When we came out—no Howard. The stroller
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