Harriet the Spy (19 page)

When she finished reading, Harriet had a wide grin on her face. She ran upstairs holding the letter like a treasure found on the beach. She ran into her room, sat at the desk, and read it over twice. Then she took out some clean paper and a pen. She sat holding the pen over the paper. Nothing happened. She referred to her notes. Still nothing happened. Then she jumped up, ran down to the library, and lugged her father’s typewriter up the steps. With a great deal of effort she hoisted it up to her desk. The first piece of paper she tried to put in got jammed and too wrinkled to write on. She tore it up and put in another. Then she started to type furiously.

Harriet went back to school the next day. It felt like the beginning of term again. She strolled down the empty halls, considerably late because she wanted to make a grand entrance. Her mother and father hadn’t been there when she got up, so she decided to sneak off to school. Enough is enough, she thought to herself as she was walking past the principal’s office. She decided suddenly to make a note of how she felt, so she wedged herself into a little niche usually reserved for a piece of sculpture.

ENOUGH IS ENOUGH. IT IS TIME TO RISE AND SHINE. WAIT TILL THE
NEW YORKER
GETS A LOAD OF THAT STORY. IT WAS HARD MAKING UP HIM FINDING THE CAT BUT I THINK I MADE UP A GOOD MORAL—THAT IS THAT SOME PEOPLE ARE ONE WAY AND SOME PEOPLE ARE ANOTHER AND THAT’S THAT.

The door to the principal’s office opened and Harriet looked up. To her horror she saw her mother and father walk out. She ducked back into the niche. Maybe, she thought, if I don’t breathe, I’ll look like a statue. She held her breath and her mother and father walked past without seeing her. They were laughing and looking at each other, so that even though she rolled her eyes at them they didn’t notice.

“Boy, wait’ll she hears that!” her father was saying.

“She’ll be, I’m afraid, impossible to live with,” her mother said, grinning.

“You know what?” said Mr. Welsch. “I bet she’ll do a good job.”

They went out the front door and Harriet let out a huge breath. I almost burst, she thought. She scrambled down and ran for her classroom. When she got there everything was in total confusion because Miss Elson wasn’t in the room. Everyone was throwing things at everyone else, including wads of chewing gum, and Marion Hawthorne was at the front desk screeching herself blue for order. No one paid the slightest bit of attention to her but went on with such chaos that Harriet was able to slip gratefully into her seat unnoticed. At home she had thought about making some spectacular entrance, perhaps in a funny hat, but when she got to the door she had been stricken with terror and now was glad she hadn’t. She sat there quietly looking at everyone screaming and running around like nuts. She wrote in her notebook:

I AM GOING TO WRITE A STORY ABOUT THESE PEOPLE. THEY ARE JUST RATS. HALF OF THEM DON’T EVEN HAVE A PROFESSION.

Miss Elson came in and there was instant silence. Everyone trooped to his desk. Sport looked like he would faint when he saw Harriet, and Janie smiled an evil smile at her. No one else seemed to notice. Miss Elson stood up.

“Well, I’m glad to see that you’re back with us, Harriet.” She smiled sweetly in Harriet’s direction and ten necks swiveled like keys turning in locks. Harriet tried to smile at Miss Elson and glare at the others, but this being impossible, she got an idiotic look on her face.

“I’m particularly glad,” continued Miss Elson, “because I have a special announcement to make about a change in school policy.”

What in the world, thought Harriet, does that have to do with me?

“You are aware that we have always let you elect your class officer and that the class officer has always automatically been the editor of the Sixth Grade Page. However we have decided that this is too much work for one person…”

Marion Hawthorne gasped audibly.

“… and have therefore decided that hereinafter the teacher will select someone else to be editor.

“We have made this choice on the basis of ability. In looking over all the compositions handed in by the class, Miss Whitehead and I have decided that several of you have a flair for writing and that these few should take turns having the editorship. The selection has been made, and the editor from now on for this half year”— she paused dramatically and smiled—“will be Harriet M. Welsch.”

You could have heard a pin drop. Harriet stared at Miss Elson in disbelief. They all looked at Miss Elson. No one looked at Harriet. “Harriet has been chosen,” she continued, “for the first half of the year and Beth Ellen for the second half. That means Harriet will write the page for this semester and Beth Ellen next semester. The others will have their chance next year.”

Beth Ellen turned beet-red and almost passed out. Harriet looked around her. Everyone was looking around at either her or Beth Ellen, which was causing Beth Ellen untold embarrassment. There seemed to be a general uneasiness in the room.

Miss Elson looked unconcerned, and picking up a textbook, she said, “And now today, children, we have studied—”

“Miss Elson”—Marion Hawthorne was on her feet —“I want to register a protest with the school on behalf of a group which I happen to be president of and which, by general agreement, has decided that this decision is unfair to the class, the great majority which belong—”

“
Of
which, Marion,” Miss Elson corrected.

“—to this club OF which I am president. Now, therefore—”

“That’s enough, Marion, sit down. I think you have made yourself clear. I would like to know when you have had the time, however, to amass this great tide of public opinion. I didn’t see you asking anyone after I spoke.” Marion sat there unable to think of a thing.

“I think, therefore, just to enlighten you as to the opinions of your following, and for no other reason, that we should take a vote. I want to make it perfectly clear that the only thing this vote will elicit is a talk with Miss Whitehead. I doubt very seriously that it is at all possible to change the decision. I am sure it is too late. But I do think we might make this an interesting experiment in terms of democracy. It has long been my opinion that one
never
knows the outcome of a vote no matter
how
sure we think we are. And Marion seems terribly sure. I think we should see, therefore. Now I want hands raised on how many want Harriet and Beth Ellen to take over for this year.”

Marion and Rachel clenched their hands firmly to their sides as though they might rise of their own accord. Marion actually sat on hers.

Harriet and Beth Ellen naturally voted for themselves, Harriet’s arm flying up like a Nazi salute and Beth Ellen’s creeping tentatively and trembling as though she were waving.

Two and two, thought Harriet.

Sport’s hand went up. He thinks what Marion writes is stupid, thought Harriet; it has nothing to do with being on my side. Janie’s hand went up. Same for her, thought Harriet; she just wants to be able to read the paper.

Laura Peters, Pinky Whitehead, and The Boy with the Green Socks did not have their hands up.

Uh-oh, thought Harriet, that makes five to four. Or have they just not decided? Where is Carrie Andrews? Absent today.

Very slowly, and in his own particular creepy way, Pinky Whitehead put his hand up. Well, thought Harriet, I never thought I’d see the day when Pinky Whitehead would save my life. He looked back at her. She gave him a radiant smile and felt like a first-class hypocrite.

“That,” said Miss Elson, “decides that. I think we can learn from this, children, and particularly Marion, not to count your eggs before they vote for you.” Beth Ellen giggled helplessly, then stopped and looked around at everyone as though suddenly aware of her responsibilities.

H
arriet got out the first edition in record time. When she took in her finished page, the senior who was chief editor said that it was the fastest she had ever seen anyone write.

On the day the paper appeared, Harriet was horribly nervous. Suppose, she thought on her way to school, I stink? Suppose everyone looks at each other and says, Why did we ever get rid of Marion Hawthorne? Maybe she wasn’t Dostoievsky, but she was readable at least. Suppose—Harriet bit her lip in her musing—they insist on a recount. She was trembling by the time she got to class.

Everyone at every desk had a paper. Everyone had his nose buried in the Sixth Grade Page. Harriet couldn’t bear to look around. She slid into her seat and guiltily started looking at her own copy which had been put there.

She read her own printed words with a mixture of horror and joy.

MRS. AGATHA K. PLUMBER IS A RICH LADY ON EAST END AVENUE WHO THOUGHT SHE HAD FOUND OUT THE SECRET OF LIFE WHICH WAS TO STAY IN BED ALL THE TIME. SHE IS A VERY STUPID LADY. THEN LO AND BEHOLD THE DOCTOR TOLD HER SHE HAD TO STAY IN BED AND SHE FAINTED AWAY IN SURPRISE. THEN HE TOLD HER HE HAD MADE A MISTAKE, AND SHE HASN’T HIT THE BED SINCE. I THINK HE TRICKED HER BECAUSE SHE THOUGHT SHE WANTED TO STAY IN BED WHICH IS STUPID. WHICH GOES TO SHOW YOU TWO THINGS—THAT WHAT YOU WANT IS MAYBE STUPID AND THAT DOCTORS ARE FINKS.

Harriet felt in rereading that it had a strong ring to it. She looked around at everybody reading. They are only looking for mistakes, she thought. I wonder what each one is reading. I wonder if writers ever see anyone reading their books, on the subway maybe. She turned back to the paper. She had had a hard time deciding between a story about Fabio and a story about the Robinsons. She had finally decided to do a story about Franca Dei Santi because she was closer in age to the class and therefore might interest them more.

FRANCA DEI SANTI HAS ONE OF THE DUMBEST FACES YOU COULD EVER HOPE TO SEE. I DON’T KNOW HOW SHE GETS THROUGH THE DAY. SHE EVEN HAS TO LEAN ON THINGS ALL THE TIME. SHE IS ABOUT OUR AGE AND GOES TO PUBLIC SCHOOL WHERE SHE IS ALWAYS FLUNKING THINGS LIKE SHOP THAT WE DON’T HAVE. MAYBE THEY TEACH THEM HOW TO RUN A SHOP THERE. ANYWAY IT WON’T DO FRANCA A BIT OF GOOD BECAUSE SHE WON’T EVER LEARN ANYTHING ANYWAY. HER FATHER OWNS A STORE ON EIGHTY-SIXTH AND ANYONE WHO WANTS TO CAN GO ANY DAY AND LOOK THROUGH THE BACK WINDOW AND SEE FRANCA. SHE IS THE SHORTEST GIRL THERE AND IS ALWAYS MOONING AROUND. YOU WOULD KNOW HER ANYWHERE. ONE DAY I SAW FRANCA ON THE STREET. SHE WAS WALKING ALONG IN FRONT OF ME DRAGGING HER FEET. I KNEW IT WAS HER BECAUSE SHE ALWAYS HANGS HER HEAD OVER TO ONE SIDE. I DON’T KNOW WHY. MAYBE IT’S TOO HEAVY. ANYWAY I WATCHED HER AND SHE DID THE DUMBEST THING. SHE WENT INTO THE PARK AND STRAIGHT OVER TO SOME PIGEONS. THEY LOOKED LIKE THEY WERE EXPECTING HER. THEN SHE HAD A LONG CONVERSATION WITH THOSE PIGEONS. I HID BEHIND A TREE AND I STILL COULDN’T HEAR A WORD BUT FRANCA LOOKED LIKE SHE WAS HAVING A GOOD TIME. SHE DOESN’T HAVE A GOOD TIME AT HOME BECAUSE EVERYONE KNOWS HOW DUMB SHE IS AND DOESN’T TALK TO HER.

By the time Harriet finished reading, Miss Elson had walked in. Harriet watched everyone put their papers away. Each one looked at Harriet surreptitiously as they did so, but she couldn’t tell anything by their faces. They just looked at her curiously.

She noticed, however, that at lunchtime all the noses were stuck in the paper again.

That night at dinner Harriet suddenly felt like one big ear. Every single thing her mother and father said seemed to be important. Some of the things she didn’t understand, but they were none the less intriguing.

“I really don’t understand Mabel Gibbs. She starts out with this big thing about the kids going to dancing school—you’d think from the way she talked that they would be absolute apes in the drawing room if we didn’t send them—and I told her at the time, of course, that I thought Harriet was too young.
Naturally
, she’s
going
to dancing school but I think twelve is perhaps a better age, that’s all. Well, then, after all that, Mabel says to me ever so calmly the other day, ‘I just don’t think that Janie is ready yet.’ Can you imagine?”

“She wants to save the money,” interjected Harriet.

“Harriet, you mustn’t say such things,” said Mrs. Welsch.

“Why shouldn’t she? It’s the God’s truth,” said Mr. Welsch.

“Well, we don’t
know
that. She said, in fact, that she couldn’t do a thing with Janie and she just didn’t want the job of having to force her into a black velvet dress every Friday night. It just wasn’t worth it. She’s hoping Janie will change suddenly—”

“Into a pumpkin,” said Harriet.

“Into a lady,” continued Mrs. Welsch.

“Time enough for that,” said Mr. Welsch.

“You know, I was thinking the other day”—Mrs. Welsch seemed to be changing the subject—“that Milly Andrews really hasn’t got good sense. Did you see her at the Peters’ party? Well, I don’t know what
you
were doing.
Everybody
was talking about it. Jack Peters was stoned out of his mind and falling off the bar stool, and there was Milly Andrews just smiling at him like an idiot.”

Mr. Welsch said nothing. He was swallowing. He was about to speak, when the phone rang. He threw his napkin down and stood up. “That better be from the
Times
. If they don’t print that retraction tomorrow I’m going to be mad as a hornet.”

He stormed angrily to the telephone.

“What’s a retraction?” asked Harriet.

“Well, it’s like this. If a newspaper makes a mistake and they are told about it, then they print the fact that they have made a mistake and at the same time they print the correct information.”

“Oh,” said Harriet. That night when she went up to bed she took copious notes. Later, under the covers, she read a book on newspaper reporting that she had found in the school library.

In the next edition of the paper the Sixth Grade Page carried the following items:

JANIE GIBBS HAS WON HER BATTLE. THIS SHOULD BE A LESSON TO ALL OF YOU IN COURAGE AND DETERMINATION. IF YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT, THEN ASK HER.

JACK PETERS (LAURA PETER’S FATHER) WAS STONED OUT OF HIS MIND AT THE PETERS’ PARTY LAST SATURDAY NIGHT. MILLY ANDREWS (CARRIE ANDREWS’ MOTHER) JUST SMILED AT HIM LIKE AN IDIOT.

FOR ANYONE WHO DOESN’T KNOW IT, A RETRACTION MEANS THAT A NEWSPAPER IS CORRECTING ITS MISTAKES. SO FAR THIS PAGE HASN’T MADE ANY MISTAKES.

During the ensuing weeks the following entries held the class enthralled.

MR. HARRY WELSCH ALMOST LOST HIS JOB LAST WEEK FOR BEING LATE. HE IS ALWAYS SLOW IN THE MORNING.

ASK CARRIE ANDREWS IF SHE FEELS ALL RIGHT.

And a week later:

ASK LAURA PETERS IF ALL IS WELL AT HOME.

MISS ELSON WAS TRAILED HOME FROM SCHOOL THE OTHER DAY AND IT TURNS OUT SHE LIVES IN A REAL RAT HOLE OF AN APARTMENT. MAYBE THE SCHOOL DOESN’T PAY HER ENOUGH MONEY TO LIVE IN A GOOD PLACE. THERE WILL BE A SIZZLING EDITORIAL ON THIS NEXT WEEK.

A very hot item was:

THERE ARE CERTAIN PEOPLE IN A CERTAIN CLUB WHO OUGHT TO WATCH OUT BECAUSE THERE ARE CERTAIN OTHER PEOPLE WHO WANT TO TAKE OVER FROM CERTAIN OTHER PEOPLE BECAUSE CERTAIN OTHER PEOPLE DON’T WANT TO SPEND ALL AFTERNOON DRINKING TEA AND PLAYING A CERTAIN GAME.

After this last item Harriet watched the group very carefully. She detected a touch of uneasiness, but nothing actively happened at school.

She went therefore that afternoon to spy on the clubhouse. She was completely gratified by what she saw and heard. Marion, Rachel, Laura, Carrie, The Boy with the Green Socks, and Pinky Whitehead were all there by the time she got there. A discussion was in progress.

“Well, it’s just outrageous,” said Marion in a huff.

“Scandalous,” echoed Rachel.

“The things she writes anyway are just absurd,” continued Marion. “Whoever heard of such a thing in a newspaper? When I ran that paper no one read things like that. Things like that don’t belong in a paper. She should be stopped.”

“I like reading them,” said Pinky.

That’s Pinky, thought Harriet.

“She can’t be stopped,” said Carrie. “She’s the editor.”

“Even so,” said Marion, “somebody should.” She paused dramatically. “We should.”

“But what was she talking about? About the club, I mean,” asked Pinky.

Marion, Rachel, Laura, and Carrie all looked into the distance. Obviously, thought Harriet, those four play bridge.

“Uh-oh,” said Marion, “here comes trouble.”

Sport and Janie appeared at the back door. They were both furious. They walked across the yard like a pair of Gestapo agents come to question.

“I think,” said Janie, “that we had better have this out.”

“This has gone far enough,” said Sport and looked at Pinky and The Boy with the Green Socks. “I can’t imagine what you MEN think you’re doing here.”

“What? What?” said both boys together.

“Well, think about it,” continued Sport. “How many men play bridge in the afternoon?”

“My father plays bridge,” said Pinky defensively.

“But not in the afternoon,” sneered Janie. “He plays bridge at
night
.”

“When he’s
forced
to,” said Sport.

“What”—Marion stood up—“are you two talking about?”

“You know perfectly well what,” said Sport. “You’ve been rattling around here with tea cups and packs of cards for two weeks now, and why we even listened to you for one minute I don’t know because we have just as much right in this club as you do.”

“Well, I am PRESIDENT.”

“Oh, no, you’re not, as of now,” said Janie.

Beth Ellen sidled in. Janie flung her a long look.

“And you’re not secretary-treasurer either.”

Beth Ellen spoke up suddenly. “I don’t give a hang. I never wanted to be and besides I
hate
bridge.”

Everyone stared at her because it was the longest sentence she had ever been heard to say.

“People,” said Marion in a slow, hard way, “who do not belong, can LEAVE.”