Veronica Ganz (7 page)

Veronica looked slyly at Madame Nusinoff. She really didn’t think she was going to fail. Madame Nusinoff had threatened this before, but French was the one subject she seemed to do well in.

“You knew the right answer to the question,” Madame Nusinoff said impatiently. “Why didn’t you give it?”

Veronica shrugged.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you even did the homework last night,” continued Madame Nusinoff.

“I did not,” Veronica said, shocked.

Madame Nusinoff laughed. “You see,” she said, “you didn’t even do the homework, and yet you knew the right answer. Just think how much you’d really know if you studied.”

“Sometimes I do the homework,” Veronica said grudgingly.

“I know you do — a lot more often than you want people to know. And I’ll tell you something, Veronica, if you did your work, you could be a very good student in French. You really like it, don’t you?”

As a matter of fact, although she certainly wasn’t going to admit it to the teacher, she did like French, very much in fact. Being able to say words in another language made her feel powerful and important. Sometimes when Mary Rose wasn’t around, she’d close the door to their bedroom, stand in front of the mirror, and speak to her reflection in French.

“It’s all right,” she said.

“With a little time and effort,” the teacher said persuasively, “you could be a very good student, maybe even as good as Peter Wedemeyer.”

“That little runt,” Veronica said scornfully.

“Yes, he is a little runt, isn’t he?” Madame Nusinoff said thoughtfully. “I’d forgotten how small he was. You know, Veronica, you and Peter have something in common, don’t you?”

“What!”

“Your size. You’re taller than everybody else, and he’s smaller. Maybe it makes you both feel different sometimes from other people. But Peter doesn’t let his size stop him. He doesn’t feel he has to be funny all the time, or mean to make up for his size. He’s too smart to let it stop him. And nobody notices after a while how small he is. They see other things about him —important things — and they respect him and like him.”

“I hate him,” Veronica  said between her teeth.

“Why?”

“Because he makes fun of me all the time. He sings funny songs about me, and he laughs at me, and — and — he threw old fish bones all over me.”

“Peter Wedemeyer!” said Madame Nusinoff. “I can’t believe that.”

“No,” said Veronica savagely, “nobody believes it. Because it’s not the same thing being smaller than everybody else. It’s easier being smaller. People are always sorry for you when you’re small but when you’re big like me
...
”

Madame Nusinoff stood up, and put an arm on Veronica’s shoulder. “I’m sorry for you, Veronica,” she said.

Madame Nusinoff’s mole had two little hairs in it. Veronica had never realized that before. She had never stood so close to Madame Nusinoff before. It was a terrible thing standing so close to a person who was a teacher that you could see those two hairs, and feel so much like crying.

“Leave me alone,” she shouted. “You don’t have to be sorry for me. Just leave me alone.” She broke away from that arm on her shoulder and ran out of the room.

Hurrying along the hall, she thought how much she hated Madame Nusinoff, how much she hated everybody. There was nobody you could trust. Up until today she had kind of liked Madame Nusinoff, kind of enjoyed the French class, too, but here was Madame Nusinoff tormenting her like everybody else. Oh, she couldn’t wait to get out of this school! If it wasn’t for that, she’d get even with Madame Nusinoff. She’d tear up all those papers on her desk, and write dirty words in that precious book of hers. She’d wait for her after school and throw rocks at her. The possibilities for revenge were endless, and maybe after she graduated, she could come back one day and fix Madame Nusinoff real good. This was a comforting thought, and Veronica felt a little easier when she reached her home room. But the class wasn’t there. She’d forgotten that they’d be down in the yard for recess. Good! She was really in the mood for punch ball. Veronica dropped her books on her desk, grabbed her coat, and hurried downstairs.

The children had already divided up into two teams for punch ball when she arrived. Today Peter was the captain of one team, and Harvey Douglas of the other. Miss Merritt told her to join Peter’s team since he had one less than Harvey. Peter had never been captain before, and as she walked toward the team she could hear his excited voice saying, “Oh, we’re going to win! We’ve got the best players on our team.” When he saw Veronica approach, he said, “Hey! Are you going to be on our team too?”

“Wasn’t my idea,” Veronica said shortly. “Miss Merritt said I had to.”

“Oh great,” Peter said. “Now we’ll really murder them.”

Veronica acted unconcerned. People always wanted her on their teams.

“Now I’ll take first base,” Peter said, “Jeffrey can take second, Helen third, Veronica can be catcher, and Bertha, you be pitcher.”

“I’ll be pitcher,” Veronica corrected. Lots of kids, she knew, liked to pitch, but that was her position, and whenever she played on a team, it was always understood that she would pitch.

“You’re a good pitcher,” Peter said agreeably, “but I think you’d make a better catcher.”

“I’m pitching,” Veronica insisted.

“Look,” said Peter patiently, “I’ve been kind of studying the way everybody plays. Now Bertha here, she’s sort of a dark horse. Nobody realizes that she’s got a great curve ball.”

“Who, me?” said Bertha, her fat cheeks turning red.

“Yes. You pitched last week on Gloria’s team, and day before yesterday you pitched when Gerald fell down, and you’ve really got a wicked ball there. I’ve been watching you, and I think you’ve really got possibilities.”

“Gee!” said Bertha.

“I’m pitching,” said Veronica.

“Look,” Peter said, “how do you know you won’t like being a catcher unless you try? You’re a good catcher. I’ve been studying the way you play, and you’re kind of a solid fielder—but not too fast—and when you pitch, your balls are a little slow.”

“You’re full of baloney,” Veronica shouted. “And if I don’t pitch, I don’t play.”

“Well,” said Peter, shrugging his shoulders, “Bertha’s pitching, and you’re just being a bad sport. Look —
.
”

“Drop dead!” Veronica said. “I quit.”

She walked away from the team, and leaned against the fence. Miss Merritt hurried over. “What’s the matter, Veronica?” she said nervously. “What happened?”

“I’m not playing,” Veronica said.

“But what happened, dear?” said Miss Merritt soothingly.

“I won’t play on
his
team.”

Miss Merritt sighed. She told Jack Tar, who was on Harvey’s team, to go over to Peter’s team, and she told Veronica to play on Harvey’s team.

“I’m pitching,” Veronica said when she joined her new team.

“Sure Veronica, sure,” said Harvey.

Peter’s team won 4 to o.

After the game, Veronica overheard a conversation between a triumphant Peter and a radiant Bertha.

“What you have to work on now,” Peter was saying, “is to pitch the ball in lower. Then nobody, but nobody, could connect.”

“Gee,” said Bertha, “I didn’t even know I was so good.”

“You know what?” Peter said. “How about meeting me this afternoon over at the park—that field outside the tennis court is a good place. We can work on developing your ball.”

Bertha giggled, and agreed to be there at four.

Veronica whistled contentedly as she climbed the stairs to her classroom. And later, when the children were playing in the yard after lunch, and Peter began chanting

“Learn to dance

Veronica Ganz.

Because when you pitch

You look like a witch”

She could even find it in her heart to smile comfortably to herself. Because he might not be aware of it at the moment, but she would settle the score between them this afternoon at four in the field outside the tennis court.

Chapter 7

“Go home, Stanley!” Veronica shouted over her shoulder.

Stanley stopped walking, and stood sideways, ready to run should she decide to give chase.

“Listen, Stanley,” Veronica shouted, “you can’t come today. That’s all there is to it! Go home, and tomorrow I’ll take you with me to — to the library.”

“The library!” Stanley said, wrinkling up his face.

“Go home!”

“No.”

Veronica made a few running jumps in his direction, and Stanley scurried off down the block. Veronica turned, ran around the corner, up the stairs of the first house she came to, and hid in the small vestibule, behind the glass doors. Sure enough, a few minutes later, there came Stanley trotting around the corner. Veronica pressed herself against the wall. Stanley did not see her and continued on his way down the street. As soon as he had passed, Veronica tried to open the inner door that led to the apartments but it was one of those doors that opened only if a tenant inside the building pressed a buzzer. Veronica inspected the mailboxes with the buttons under them, and selected f. Manciewitz— 5e. That would be up on the top floor of the building. She pressed the button, and after a minute or so the buzzer buzzed, and Veronica opened the door and ran inside. At the back of the long hall was a staircase leading down to the yard.

“Who’s there?” somebody shouted from way up the stairwell.

Down the stairs Veronica hurried, and tried the door to the yard.

“Is that you, Jacky?”

The door opened, and Veronica ran out into the yard. Good! It was the kind of yard that connected with all the others.   She had to climb a stone wall, squeeze under a fence, and cut across several other yards, but she came out on Franklin Avenue, which led into the park also. It was quite a bit out of the way, but anything was better than having Stanley along when she was going to be involved in a fight.

Stanley was no good at all when it came to fighting. Mary Rose at least could be counted on to warn her if any grownups were coming. But Stanley would only stand there hiccuping and yelling, “Help! Help! They’re killing Veronica.” Which was ridiculous, of course, but also distracting.

Stanley was nowhere in sight when she reached the park. She cut across the bicycle path, jumped over the benches, and hurried along a path that led to the tennis courts. Nobody called her. Nobody made any noise. Nothing dropped. But the warning light flashed in Veronica’s mind, and she knew she was being followed. She turned sharply. Stanley was just bending over, picking up a leaf, about twenty feet behind her.

“Look at this one, Veronica,” he said happily, holding up a deep red leaf that stood away crisply from his hand.

“Stanley, I’m going to break your neck!” Veronica shrieked. “If I get my hands on you, you won’t even know what hit you.”

“Aw, Veronica, don’t be like that,” Stanley said, but he let the leaf go, turned sideways again, and stood poised for flight.

“For the last time, will you go home?” Veronica thundered.

“No.”

“O.K. for you,” said Veronica, with a meaningful shake of her fist. “I’ll get you later, and boy will you be sorry.”

She turned away from him and began running along the path. What a pest! She didn’t have the time now, but later, after she finished with Peter, she’d attend to Stanley. He’d been getting away with murder lately, but this was the end. She’d fix him so that he’d never follow her again.

Over the hill, there were the tennis courts. She circled them quickly and paused, gasping for breath, behind the privet hedge that led down to the big field where Peter and Bertha had arranged to meet. Carefully, she parted the bushes and peered down the slope to the field. Yes, there they were, throwing the ball back and forth. But her breath was coming too fast to attempt any charge just at the moment. She sat down in the path and tried to catch her breath, and get rid of that dizzy feeling in her head.

Behind her in the tennis court there was a couple dressed in white shorts and white shirts playing tennis.
Pong
went the ball,
pong,
then
pong
again. Stanley came slowly around the corner, saw her sitting there, and moved off to a small slope on one side of the tennis court. There were several tall trees on the slope, and the ground was covered with dead leaves. Stanley began walking through the leaves.
Grunch, grunch, grunch,
went the sound of Stanley walking through the leaves.

Through a space in the hedge Veronica could see Bertha and Peter throwing the ball back and forth. She couldn’t hear them, but she could see them, and suddenly Peter began jumping up and down, up and down, clapping his hands. The agonizing shortness of breath was gone from her throat, and the sun on her head felt good. It was so warm and good sitting there in the path, hearing the
pong, pong
behind her, and Stanley’s
grunch, grunch
from the slope, and seeing little Peter Wedemeyer jumping up and down, up and down.

Suppose now, just suppose, because that’s not what she had in mind, but suppose anyway she were to get up and walk very slowly and carefully down the field, maybe with a smile to show that she wasn’t sore—just supposing she wanted to, which she didn’t—kind of acting like she just happened to be out walking and just happened to come across them there playing ball. And suppose Bertha—she didn’t really have anything against Bertha. That was a long time ago when she tripped her on the stairs, and sat down on her soft rump. Veronica couldn’t help smiling when she remembered how Bertha had squealed like a little pig—looked up and said, “Hi, Veronica.” Well just supposing she said, “Hi, Bertha.” What then? Maybe Peter might say, “Hey, you want to catch?” Just supposing he did. Well now, he wouldn’t and she was going to beat him up today, wasn’t she? She wanted to beat him up today. She’d gone to a lot of trouble to arrange for this opportunity, but just supposing he said it.

Peter and Bertha were throwing the ball back and forth again.
Pong
from the tennis players behind her,
grunch
from Stanley. Her happiness became almost unbearable. Just supposing now —
.