Don't You Know There's a War On? (9 page)

OKAY
. Next morning, petition in my hand, I set off to school early.

I brought along a fountain pen (my father's good one, which I wasn't supposed to take) so kids could put their names to it. All the same, I was worried nobody would sign. Nervous about Miss Gossim too. What if she found out what I was doing? I'd be in for it. Except I didn't know what else to do. So there I was, doing it.

By the time I reached the school yard, some kids were already there, talking, fooling around. I checked for kids from my class. The first one I saw was Gladiola Alvarez. She was sitting on the ground, her back against a wall.

“Hey, Gladiola!” I called, running toward her. “I gotta talk to you.”

Gladiola was this small dark-skinned girl who had come from Puerto Rico. She had these two brothers. One was in the navy, the other the army. Her father worked in a factory. I never heard her talk about her mother. Her
clothes were always poor looking but clean. In class she was pretty quiet except during math, which she was good at.

“You talking to me?” she said, pointing to herself. I mean, we weren't close friends. She lived over in the State Street projects, where I never went.

“It's about Miss Gossim,” I said.

“Yeah, what?”

I told her everything.

The more I said, the more serious Gladiola looked.

“You saying she's getting fired because she's having a baby?” she said when I was done.

“Yeah.”

“Who's the father?”

“Her husband. Name is Smitty. He's in the air force. Only she doesn't know where.”

“She really marry him?”

Surprised, I said, “You saying she didn't?”

Gladiola shook her hand like it had been burned. “Ooooo, man,” she said. “That Miss Gossim is into some big troubles.”

“That's why I made up this petition,” I said, showing it to her.

“A petition for what?”

“To help her.” I gave it to her.

“Yeah,” she said after reading it. “That's nice. But what am I supposed to do about it?”

“Sign it,” I said. I held up my pop's pen.

She took the pen but held back, looking at me, suspicious. “If I sign, you saying she can stay?”

“I'm just saying if we get the whole class to sign it, she will.”

“I do it,” she asked, “am I going to get in any trouble or anything?”

“Naw,” I said. “See, I already signed it. And like it says in the history book, it's a free country. We can talk what we want. It's what the war's about.”

“Howie, this ain't talking.”

“Come on, Gladiola, you want to help Miss Gossim, or don't you?”

“Yeah, she's a nice lady,” she said, and signed the petition, then handed it back to me. “Hope it works, man.”

“The only thing is,” I warned her, “you can't tell her what we're doing. It's a top war secret.”

“Don't worry. Nobody talks to me anyway. First time you talking to me, right?”

By the time the first bell rang, I had—besides my own—seven more kids' signatures. Only problem was—even though I asked people not to talk—the news about Miss Gossim in the petition was spreading fast.

I didn't get a chance to speak to Denny till we were in class. Then, just when I was about to tell him, Miss Gossim said, “All right children, let's get started. I think Betty Wu is flag monitor this morning. Betty, please come up and lead us in the Pledge of Allegiance.”

I got to Denny during snack time. When I told him what I was doing, he thought it was a great idea. Said he'd help too. Between us, we figured we'd get the rest of the class during lunchtime. We almost did too. Except by then the whole class knew what was going on. They were coming to us to sign.

So far, so good. But what happened next was this: It was almost the end of lunch period. We were out in the school yard. Denny and I were just getting Horace Ducada to sign, when the lineup bell rings.

What you have to understand about this Horace Ducada is this. He was one of those kids who always did what adults told him to do. I mean, right away. No matter who or what. He just did.
Bang!
You'd tell him to do something,
he did it. The kid should have been a windup toy. And see, the school bell meant
get moving
. So what did Horace do? He stuffed the petition into his pocket and marched off.

“Hey, Horace,” I yelled. “Give it back!”

“The bell rang,” he said.

“Horace!”

Next second the second bell went for the end of lunch period. That meant, as we went back to class, Horace had the petition in his pocket.

SOON AS WE
got back to the classroom, Miss Gossim said, “Hurry up now, children. We've a great deal to do this afternoon. No dillydallying.”

The only thing was, Horace
still
had the petition. But what did he do? He went right to his seat.

I had to get the petition back. Fast. Looking round at him from my seat, I made angry wiggles with my fingers. They must have been really angry 'cause this time Horace started to pass the paper on to me—kid to kid.

And then, Betty Wu got it. Problem was, she didn't know how to be sneaky. So next thing,
bingo-be-bop!
Miss Gossim saw it.

“Betty Wu,” Miss Gossim called, “is that a
note
you are passing?”

Now, maybe some other kid would have ditched the paper. Not Betty Wu. Too much the Goody Two-Shoes. She just sat there and hung her head. Like she was in some Greta Garbo movie called
Guilty
. Even worse, the next moment she lifted her hand up. She was holding the petition.

“Yes, Miss Gossim,” she whispered. “I beg you to forgive me. I have done a bad thing.”

I was jumping out of my skin. Remember how I told you how Miss Gossim had this strict rule about not passing notes? Whenever she caught anyone doing it, she read the whole note out loud to the class.

So, sure as the red stop light comes after the green, Miss Gossim said, “Now, Betty, you know the rules we have about note passing. All passed notes must be read out loud so that everyone may know what's been said. We don't want to have secrets in class, do we? Please bring that note to me.”

Betty brought her the petition.

Miss Gossim held it up. “Is this your note, Betty?” she asked.

Betty shook her head.

“I see. Were you just passing it on for someone?”

Betty nodded.

“Do you know whose note it is?”

“Yes, Miss Gossim.”

“Whose?”

Betty looked at her patent-leather shoes, which were shiny enough she could have counted chewing-gum wads on the bottoms of desks.

“Betty, I really need to know,” Miss Gossim said.

After a moment Betty said, “It belongs to Howie.”

“Howie?” Miss Gossim said, and looked around at me. “Howie, is this your note?”

“Sort of,” I said, cracking my knuckles.

The whole class was seat squirming. They knew what was going to happen. And me, I was starting to slide under my desk like the
Titanic
went down after it hit that iceberg.

Didn't matter. Miss Gossim unfolded the petition and started to read it out loud:

Suddenly she stopped reading out loud. I mean,
stopped
. You could hear the brakes. The petition in her hand made this small rustling sound. A kind of shaking.

I could see her eyes reading the rest of it. Including the names, which was everybody in the class. Then, after a while, she slowly lowered the paper. Let me tell you, her face was
red
. She was breathing hard too. And the muscles round her neck were jive dancing.

None of us said nothing. We just sat there, staring at her. Sort of like waiting for the next bomb to drop.

“Howie Crispers,” she finally said, “is this your . . . doing?”

I couldn't say nothing.

“Is it?” she asked again with a whole lot of teacher in her voice.

“Yes, Miss Gossim,” I said.

“Why?”

“You know, like the Declaration of Independence.”

I never saw Miss Gossim's eyes angry like the way they got then. But then—
whoosh!
—all that anger melted like toasted cheese on burnt toast. What came next was a lot worse: tears.

“Howie,” she got out in a busted voice, “I'm . . .
very
disappointed in you.”

It felt like my heart was in my feet and leaking over the floor. Let me tell you, it would have taken a blotter to soak me up.

Miss Gossim wiped away some tears, closed her eyes, then opened them again, and made herself a smile. All lip. No teeth.

“Well,” she said, “I guess you children know all about me and my . . . life. Yes, I am going to have a child. Which I think . . . is a wonderful thing. But . . . yes, because of that, I have been asked to leave. My last day with you will be next Monday.”

There was this low kind of moan from the kids.

Susan Pollador raised her hand.

“Yes, Susan.”

Susan said, “Do you have to?”

Miss Gossim took a deep breath. “I wish it weren't so. But it is.” She looked around the room at us. She could have
been the bearded lady in the circus the way we were staring at her.

“Actually, I shouldn't be angry,” she said. “I'm touched that you all care so much. And I do love you. Each and every one of you.”

She took another deep breath. “Howie, may I ask, what were you going to do with your . . . declaration?”

“Give it to Dr. Lomister,” I got out like a frog with a sore throat.

“I see. Class, to tell you the truth, I don't think this petition would be very helpful. In the world there are many rules—good ones as well as those we don't like. But in a civilized country we must follow them or try to change them democratically. That's the way our nation works. I know you all want to help. And I truly thank you. But it's not possible.” She folded up the petition and put it on her desk.

“Howie,” she said, “you had best stay after school so we can talk.”

“Yes, Miss Gossim.”

The room was like an empty haunted house. No sound. No breathing. Even the ghost had taken a powder. Miss Gossim didn't seem to know what to do. Then, softly, she
said, “Now, class, we are going to turn to our grammar lesson. Is there anyone who can tell me what an adjective is?”

FIVE MINUTES AFTER
three. Up in Classroom Five-B there wasn't nobody but me and Miss Gossim. She was sitting at her desk doing papers, with the petition off to one side. I was sitting at my desk, hands folded, feet together. Now and again I pulled a thread on my red tie. Fiddled with my dog tag. Cracked my knuckles. Meanwhile, George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and President Roosevelt were all staring at me. They didn't look too happy.

Miss Gossim worked for about half an hour. I listened to the pencil scratches. Once and a while she lifted her head. Maybe she looked at me. Only it was as if I wasn't there. I mean, she didn't say or do anything.

About three-thirty she put aside her papers. Folded her hands. Just stared at me. That time—I could tell—she
was
seeing me. She didn't look mad. Just, sad.

She gave off this sigh, reached for the petition, un-folded it, maybe read it through—I don't know. Put it back on her desk.

“Well, Howie,” she finally said, “do you want to tell me about this?”

I was staring into the bottom of my inkwell. Wishing I could hide there.

“I want to believe you were trying to help me,” she said.

“I was,” I said, squirming in my seat.

“Howie, do you remember when I told you about . . . my life, you promised you wouldn't tell anyone?”

“Sort of.”

“We even hooked pinkies. Remember?”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“But what?”

“I wanted to . . .”

“To what?”

“Help you.”

Her smile muscles tightened. “I see,” she said. “But now, because of you,
everybody
knows about my private life. That's not what I wanted. I'm a grown-up, Howie. I can take care of myself.”

“Don't grown-ups need kids—sometimes?” I tried.

She sighed. “I suppose they do.”

“Can't this be one of the times?”

“I don't think so.”

“Miss Gossim,” I said, “I didn't mean nothing bad.”

“I'm sure you didn't.”

The room turned into this zeppelin of silence.

I lifted my head. “Miss Gossim . . .”

“Yes, Howie.”

“Can I say something?”

“You may.”

“I just don't think it's fair, you being fired, that's all.”

She looked at me for this long while. I could see tears in her eyes. “Well, Howie, I don't think it's fair either. But I'm afraid there's not much I can do about it. It's simply the way things are. I have to manage as best I can. And I will.”

“But . . . but,” I cried out, “what's going to happen to you?”

“I'll go back home.”

“To
Indiana
?” I said.

She smiled. “It's a lovely place.”

“But you don't have no money!”

“Howie, please, I can handle my own life.”

I felt like crying. “Will I ever see you again?”

“I don't know. I hope so.”

I was looking at my hands, afraid to look at her, as if maybe—
poof!
—she suddenly would be gone.

“Oh, Howie,” she pleaded. “This is something I have to deal with alone. I'm the adult concerned. You're only a child. In times to come, you'll be able to deal with these problems. And you'll do it well. You're going to be a fine young man. But . . . not yet.”

“Miss Gossim?” I said.

“Yes?”

“Don't you know there's a war on?”

She gave off another sigh and picked up the petition. “Howie, please do
not
give this to Dr. Lomister. He promised to write nice things about me so I can get another job. Indiana, perhaps. Or here in Brooklyn. Howie, I can't afford to anger him. Please, please, don't try to help me anymore.”

“Okay,” I managed.

“Now,” she went on, holding out the petition. “Take this back. I'd rather you threw it away.”

Completely miserable, I got to my feet, came forward, and took the paper.

“Howie,” she said softly, touching my arm, “thank you for trying to be helpful. Now, I will see you on Monday. Remember to study for your math test. And Howie . . .”

“Yes, Miss Gossim.”

“Let's make Monday—my last day—a good one.”

“Yes, Miss Gossim.”

“I know how we can make it really good.”

“How?”

“If you get a hundred percent on your math test.”

I sighed. “I don't think I can.”

“Hey,” she said with a smile that hurt my heart, “don't you know there's a war on?”

Afraid to look back, I stuffed the petition into my pocket, took up my books, and got out of the room as fast as I could go.