“So do you really like that Gil
kid?” Harriet asked. She was washing the yellow bowl after making—and
eating—the dozen or so pancakes that remained.
“He’s nice,” I said, not really
committing myself.
“He must be.” She sprayed the bowl, rinsing it. “Because
you really spend a lot of time with him.”
“We have to do your science project
together,” I said, feeling a little defensive. Where did Harriet get off
criticizing me for how I spent my time?
“I guess you want to go on that
stupid field trip.”
“Stupid? Any field trip is
better than being in school,” I countered.
Harriet couldn’t answer right away:
She was draining a large glass of orange juice. She finished it, wiped her
mouth, put the glass in the dishwasher, and slid into one of the chairs at the
kitchen table. “True,” she said, “but you don’t have to get all defensive about
it.”
Harriet was really getting annoying. She came barging in my house, began eating
all our leftovers, then criticized me for working with Gil. She didn’t make me
angry very often, but that Saturday she was getting close, very close. I sat
down across from her, trying to control my temper.
“So,” said Harriet after a few
moments, “do you think you have a chance of getting a Superior?”
“Who knows?” I replied. “Anything
is possible.”
“I was just wondering a couple of
things,” she said.
“Like what?”
“Well, for one, I was wondering why
you’re working so hard on this project. You don’t usually try your hardest on
school things.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked. I was surprised; I’d had
no idea that Harriet was aware that I usually took it easy.
“Come on, Vickie,” she said softly.
“I know how smart you are—how really
smart you are. You fool most people, but you don’t fool me.”
I didn’t say anything.
“And the other thing I was
wondering,” she went on.
“Yes?”
“I was wondering if, you know, you
could help me a little bit on my project.”
I just sat there in what I can only
call a “stunned silence.” For the life
of me, I couldn’t remember a single occasion when Harriet had asked me for
anything—except food, of course.
“Why, sure,” I stumbled. “I mean,
whatever you want … if I can help …”
“You know who my partner is, don’t
you?”
I did.
“Eddie Peacock,”[i]
we said simultaneously, then laughed explosively, our tension forgotten.
“I don’t know why I’m laughing,”
Harriet finally managed. “I mean, I can see why you are … but you don’t
have to work with him.”
“Gil Bysshe looks pretty good right
now, doesn’t he?”
“Bysshe? Is that really his last
name?”
“Uh huh.”
“Rhymes with fish,” said Harriet. She
seemed to ponder that a moment. “And fish would be good for lunch, wouldn’t
it?”
[i]
Thomas Love Peacock (1785–1866) was a poet and friend of Mary Shelley’s
husband. Peacock never liked Mary.
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