Chapter 11

It had been another bad night. Head-banging, the telephone, and something new: another neighbor pounded on our living room wall with what sounded like lead boxing gloves–probably, Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings, who had a new baby and lived next door in 6-D.

Pretty soon we would have to either get pillows for everyone on the floor to tie around their heads or furnish Gerri's room with sandbags. While I was lying there, trying to get myself back to sleep, listening to my mother rocking Gerri, I heard my father's voice in the bedroom. He said a bad word. I heard it. Then I heard a CRACK, and I wasn't sure what had made that sound until later, when I heard it again. It was my father's fist, hitting the wall.

When my alarm rang, I didn't hear it. I slept right through, as if it were Saturday. When I did wake up, it was so late I had no time for breakfast and hardly enough time to brush my teeth or comb my hair.

Then I couldn't find my ring-binder notebook. I flew around the apartment like my shoes were on fire; my English reports were in there, both of them! I couldn't show up in Bowring's class without the reports today!

My mother is the best looker-for-lost-things–she always finds whatever is missing. This time though, it was Dad who found it. It was hidden in the piano bench, of all places, and of course, we all knew who'd put it in there. Late as I was, I took a minute to run into Gerri's room to scream my head off at her. She just pulled the covers over her head and pretended she didn't hear me.

In the elevator, I met Mr. Rasmussen, who had his Scottie on a blue leash. "What's going on in your apartment?" he said to me. "What are you people doing in there?" he looked angry. He also looked tired.

I didn't know what to say. It's very hard for me to tell people about Gerri. I just looked down at the dog and I didn't answer.

"You people are making such a racket the whole building's up in arms about it," Mr. Rasmussen said. "Something's going to have to be done," he said.

"Yes sir," I said, and I was really relieved when the elevator stopped in the lobby and I ran out.

I was in plenty of time for Bowring's class, in a seat that wasn't in the back but wasn't really up front either. I still had about two minutes before the period started and Bowring arrived, and although Joe/Jason was calling me to come in back and tell him how the practicing was coming and sit next to him and listen to how he'd memorized some more lines, I decided to look over my report one more time before handing it in.

I opened my notebook, looked at my report, and good, grey grief, I think all the blood ran out of my head. No kidding, I expected to see a red puddle right at my feet on the floor. My report–all that careful work about Canadian spear-fishing and Saturday football that took me forever to put together, which I copied in my best handwriting, which I'd put in the gorgeous blue folder and lettered ENGLISH REPORT in the most careful, indelible-ink letters, measured with a ruler–was covered with the labels from our canned goods!

Gerri! While Dad and I were out having ice cream last night, she must have been busy making a scrapbook by sticking in paper labels that read Tuna, Ravioli, Beets, and Mandarin Orange Sections!

I guess she'd gotten the idea from seeing me paste stuff in my photo album, borrowed my glue and wrecked my report!

In a minute, Bowring would be in here, asking for it, opening the blue cover, seeing the Campbell Split Pea Soup label, the Kernel Corn label, the Green Pea label with the Jolly Green Giant on it. If she looked up and said to me in front of the class, "What is the meaning of this, Neil? Why did you paste green-pea labels in your report?" and if she then held it up for the class to see, turned the pages, squinted at them through her glasses while the class rolled on the floor laughing, it would feel like Gerri had torn me up into little bits.

I couldn't face it. I had only one minute to run, and I jumped up, grabbed the book, and, no kidding, I ran. I flew out of Bowring's class like someone had flung me out the door like a Frisbee. I whooshed through the halls and, not knowing where to go, ducked into the boys' room just as the bell rang. She hadn't seen me. I was safe.

A few East-Enders were in there passing around a cigarette. One of them was from English class, Dick Franzella, who, it was said, only attended classes on Franklin Pierce's birthday. "You cutting Bowring too?" he asked me, and offered me a drag. I didn't like the smell of the cigarette so I shook my head.

"Yeah, I'm cutting Bowring too," I said.

"Join the club," he said.

To tell the truth, this was the first time I'd ever cut a class, and I felt like I felt the first time I'd been out on my uncle's sailboat on Lake Alfred–like I was going to tip over, maybe drown. Any minute I expected the door of the boys' room to open and a teacher to burst in and line us up against the wall and ask each one his name and why he wasn't in class. A few times the door slid open, but it was only some kid or other wanting to go to the bathroom, but each time it was like my heart left my body and just hung in the air waiting to get back in my chest and start beating again. The other guys were just sitting around smoking and rapping and telling dirty jokes; they were used to this and looked like they were having fun.

I just stood around waiting for the period to end; half the time I just sat in one of the cubicles so that if a teacher did come in I wouldn't be caught.

Finally, after what seemed like a longer time than an all-night hike, the period ended. When the bell rang I walked out in the hall and pretended to act normal, although any minute I expected old lady Bowring to pop out in front of me, grab me by the T-shirt, and drag me off to Mr. Guttag's office.

Which never happened at all. I stayed pretty much out of sight, steered clear of the cafeteria, the library, and the central corridor, and it turned out not to be a bad day at all–until last period. I was at my locker getting my jacket when Beef Adams came up.

He made a fist and punched me in the shoulder, which is his idea of a friendly greeting. "Whaddya say, Neil," he said, very friendly.

"Hi," I said. I was kind of surprised, since I never get any attention from Beef unless it's a putdown or an argument. I was alert.

"You cut Bowring, huh?" he said. It was like a compliment. His eyes were shining with new respect.

"Yeah," I said, trying to sound casual. Even the word "cut" makes me think of swords and knives and gives me the jitters. Had anyone heard?

"How come?" Beef asked. No one else was around, but I didn't want to talk about my cutting at all, least of all to Beef.

"She knows you cut, y'know," Beef said. He said it really casual, like he was telling me what size shoes he wears or that it's going to rain.

"She knows?" My own voice went right up, like I was trying out for the seventh-grade choir. "How does she know?"

"When she took attendance, some helpful kid, I think it was Sally Brown-noser Gibbons, yelled out, 'He's here; I just saw him,' like that. Only you weren't."

My heart moved right out of my body again. I just stared at Beef. Of course, I knew I'd be caught. Everybody who cuts gets caught sooner or later (even the bunch in the bathroom, who love being suspended). Still, I thought that maybe I'd get away with it this once.

"Listen, it ain't that bad for a first offender," Beef offered. "Guttag just hangs you by your thumbs for a couple of days, first time around, haha." Beef was practically doubling over at his own joke.

"Problem is, it's not exactly first time around," I said in my own crazy new voice, having to remind him we'd just done a little time in Guttag's office yesterday.

Beef looked thoughtful. "Oh yeah," he said. Then his face brightened. "Don't worry, Neil. I can fix it for you," he said.

"You can?" I said. "How?"

"I've done it a hundred times. I got a friend, works in the guidance counselor's office during his free period. When the cut slips come in, he makes yours disappear, that's all. That way they never get to Guttag's office, and they never get sent home, either."

"No kidding." In spite of myself, I was feeling as if someone had given me a little bouquet of hope.

"Only thing is, I got to give my friend two dollars."

Leave it to Beef to try to make a little money on other people's misfortunes. He was probably going to keep one dollar himself. Maybe both.

I then remembered I didn't have two dollars. "I only have one dollar," I said. If I'd gone to the cafeteria and eaten lunch today, I wouldn't even have had that.

"Okay, just this once, as a special favor to me, maybe he'll do it for only one dollar," Beef said, and he snapped the money right out of my hand the minute I took it out of my pocket.

"Are you sure you can take care of it?" I asked.

"Good as done, Neil, rest your mind and keep cool," he said, and he tucked the dollar into his wallet and pushed the wallet into his back pocket.

"Thanks, Beef," I said, and the truth is, I felt much better. Dummy that I am, I actually trusted him.