Veronica Ganz (8 page)

Carefully, she stood up, and slowly walked around the hedge to the opening that led down to the field. She smiled, and pretended to be looking up at the sky as she started walking toward them. Bertha saw her first. “There’s Veronica,” she shouted. “Run! Run!”

For such a fat girl, Bertha could run very fast. Dazed, Veronica watched her speeding away as if the cameras had suddenly doubled her normal speed. Then she looked at Peter. He was grinning at her, but as she began moving slowly toward him, he stuck out his tongue and started running.

When somebody starts to run away from you, the only thing you can do is run after him. Peter had a head start, and made good use of it. Up the hill, past the tennis courts, around Indian Lake, Peter ran, with Veronica after him.

Peter paused at the entrance to the playground, looked over his shoulder at Veronica, and began walking slowly toward a building right in the middle of the playground. Veronica raced through the entrance, saw Peter wave a hand in greeting, and then stroll nonchalantly into the side of the building marked boys.

Veronica shook her head. What a character that Peter was! Very, very clever of him, wasn’t it, to take refuge in a place that she couldn’t possibly enter. However—Veronica leaned comfortably against the front of the building—she had plenty of time this afternoon. And sooner or later, he’d have to come out, and there she’d be.

After a while, Stanley came hurrying into the playground. He didn’t say a word to her, but just raced into the boy’s room. When he came out, he had a thoughtful look on his face.

“Veronica,” he said, “who’s that boy in there?”

“Never mind,” snapped Veronica, “and get away from here!”

“Veronica,” Stanley said, “that boy asked me if there was a mean-looking girl standing outside, and I said, ‘No, just my sister.’ So he said who was my sister, and I said you. Then he said. ‘Poor kid!’ Why did he say poor kid, Veronica?”

“Never mind, Stanley,” Veronica said sweetly. Nobody had to feel sorry for Stanley. “Go and play!”

“Are you going to stay here for a while?” Stanley said, looking anxiously toward the swings.

“Oh, yeah! I’ll be here for a while.”

“Well, O.K. then,” Stanley said, walking toward the swings. “But don’t go away.”

“Stanley!” Veronica shouted after him.

“What?”

“Tie your shoelaces!”

“O.K.”

“And Stanley!”

“What?”

“Wipe your nose!”

Stanley wiped his nose on his sleeve, and then climbed onto an empty swing.

“Come and push me, Veronica,” he shouted.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m busy.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m just busy.”

Stanley flung his body backward and forward on the swing, but he couldn’t really raise himself very high. So he lay down on the swing, with his head dropping down on one side and his feet on the other. After a while he sat sideways in the swing, and pushed himself to and fro sideways until the kids on either side of him told him to stop.

Then he went over to the slide. The first time he went down just sitting with his legs out in front of him. The next time he went down feet first but lying on his back, then lying on his stomach head first, then feet first.

Veronica began walking back and forth in front of the building. Poor Peter, she thought almost affectionately, this is really the end of the line for him.

Next time she looked, Stanley was on the seesaw, sharing one end with another little boy about his size while a bigger, older boy was trying to balance on the other end. It didn’t work. The two small boys together weighed less than the one big boy so their end whizzed high in the air, bumping them into loud delirious giggles. But they couldn’t get his end up very high. After a while, each small boy took a different end while the bigger boy balanced in the center. That worked much better.

It grew darker, and Veronica reflected that at five the playground would close, and Peter would have to come out. Would he tell the playground attendant about her, she wondered. He might, and perhaps it would be smarter waiting for him outside the playground. He could come out only one entrance, and if she waited behind one of the bushes right outside, that might be the most sensible plan.

Stanley was sitting in the middle of the monkey bars, looking up at the top. Funny how scared he was about climbing to the top. Why when she was his age she could climb over a schoolyard fence.

“Go on, Stanley,” she shouted, “climb up! It’s great at the top.”

“Hold me,” Stanley suggested.

“I can’t
.
”

“Why not?”

“I’m busy.”

“What are you doing?”

“Look, Stanley, if you’re not going to climb to the top, come on down, and we’ll go HOME.” She said this in a very loud voice, hoping Peter would hear her, and be deceived about her intentions. “I’m going HOME NOW,” she shouted.

Stanley climbed down and began heading toward her.

“Is your name Veronica?” asked a boy, coming over to her.

“Yeah?”

“Here!” The boy handed her a paper. “I met a kid down near the lake who said you’d be standing here, and to give you this.”

Veronica looked down at the paper in her hand. It was a paper towel, and there was something written on it. Veronica held it up close to her face because it was growing almost too dark to see. The message was,

You
don’t have a chance

Veronica Ganz.

Peter W.

“What did he look like?” she shouted at the boy.

The boy backed away. “I dunno,” he said nervously. “Just looked like a boy.”

“Was he short? Shorter than you?”

The boy nodded.

“Did he have a plaid jacket on?”

“I guess so.” The messenger began walking away. “He just asked me if I was going to the playground, and said you’d be standing near the boy’s room. That’s all.”

“STANLEY!”
Veronica roared.

Stanley was standing right next to her. “What?”

“Go in there, and see if that boy is still inside.”

Stanley walked into the boy’s room, and quickly returned. “Nobody’s in there,” he said.

Veronica  thought for  a  moment.  “Stanley,”  she said, “is there a window in there?”

“Uh huh.”

“Is it open?”

“I don’t know. Should I look, Veronica?”

“Look!”

Stanley looked. “It’s open,” he said, “up to the top. Will you push me on the swing now, Veronica?”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m busy.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m thinking!” Veronica shouted.

“Oh,” Stanley said, “that’s what you’ve been busy doing all day—thinking.”

But Stanley was mistaken. Veronica had not been thinking all day, but now she was, and her mind creaked and groaned under its burden. Stanley stood looking up at her tormented face. “Veronica,” he whimpered, “let’s go home, Veronica.”

But Veronica didn’t hear him. She was fighting a hard battle now, and her adversary was herself. Peter Wedemeyer had eluded her and outfoxed her down the line. It wasn’t enough that she was stronger than he. If she couldn’t outsmart him, the victory would be his. She was going to need a new weapon to beat Peter, and that weapon lay somewhere inside’ her own brain. If she couldn’t find it, then it was all over for her, and Peter could go on teasing and tormenting her forever and ever, and she’d never be able to stop him. Was there any point in going on with this contest, which served only to humiliate her time and again? Should she admit that Peter was just too much for her—too smart for her? Should she forget the whole business, and keep out of his way? Or should she try again?

“I’m cold,” Stanley whimpered. “I want to go home.”

“In a minute, in a minute,” she muttered, because there was something bursting into light inside her brain. A trap. Of course. A trap. She’d lay a trap. She’d beat him at his own game, and show him that she was as good as he, and twice as smart. She’d lay a trap for him that he’d walk right into. And how easy it all would be!

“Come on, Stanley,” she said, taking his hand. “We’ll go home now.”

A few details would have to be worked out, but Veronica thought triumphantly as they hurried along through the park that this time she’d get him for sure. The web was spun, and she’d begin tightening the threads in the French Club on Friday afternoon.

Chapter 8

“But he says so in the letter,” Mary Rose insisted.

Mama began pouring the hot water from the teakettle over her feet in the basin.

“Listen,” Mary Rose continued. “Right here it says.” And she began reading. The letter really belonged to Mama since it had been addressed to her, but Mary Rose had appropriated it, and was keeping it with Papa’s picture. “‘Too bad it didn’t work out, but tell the girls I’ll be in New York for sure around Christmas.’“

“Aah,” said Mama, handing the kettle back to Veronica, and arching her feet luxuriously in the steaming water.

“So why do you say he’s not coming?”

“I did not say he wasn’t coming,” Mama said mildly. “I only said
if
he comes, and
if
doesn’t mean he’s not coming. I hope he is able to come, but
if
he doesn’t. I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

“But he says right here he’s coming, but you keep on saying
if
. Why should you say
if
when he says he’s coming. Right here he says it. ‘Tell the girls I’ll be —
.

“I know, I know,” Mama said, raising one flushed foot above the steam and allowing the other the freedom of the entire basin. “You’ve just read it out loud. I heard you the first time.”

“So why do you keep saying
if?”
Mary Rose said angrily.

“Look, Mary Rose,” Mama said, “all I want to do is soak my feet in peace. Please, be a good girl, and go away.”

Mary Rose burst into tears. “I hate you,” she cried. “I hate you. You spoil everything!”

Mama stood up and began climbing out of the basin, and Mary Rose ran, shrieking, out of the kitchen. Mama sat down again. “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “I just don’t know what to do about that child. She was always a problem, always gave me more trouble than anybody else. But lately she’s just impossible.” Mama’s face looked troubled. “I just hope he comes this time.”

Veronica handed Mama some more newspapers to lay down around the basin where it splashed when she stood up. “Don’t you think he’ll come?” she said curiously. For her own part she didn’t really care so much whether he came or not. She had more important things on her mind.

“Well, it’s not the first time he said he was coming,” Mama said tensely. She shook her head again. “I wish you hadn’t seen the letter. It’s not fair for the two of you to get all excited.”

“I’m not excited,” Veronica said coolly. “If he doesn’t want to come, he doesn’t have to.”

“Oh, I’m sure he wants to come,” Mama protested. “Don’t go thinking he doesn’t want to come, Veronica. After all, he hasn’t seen you since you were babies. But you know how it is — he’s so far away, and it costs a lot of money, and —
.
”

“And you don’t believe he’s coming?”

“Well,” Mama said weakly, “let’s hope he is. He means well. He always did. But — here, Veronica, hand me the kettle again. The water’s cool.”

Veronica handed her mother the kettle, and watched the steam rise again from the basin.

“Mmm, that feels good,” Mama said, leaning back in the chair. “All day long I’ve been looking forward to this.”

“Be back in a minute,” Veronica said. She walked out of the kitchen and into the living room, where Stanley sat at the window, looking out. He was singing very softly and slowly, over and over again, “purplemountedmajesties,” and did not seem to hear her as she passed through the room.

Mary Rose was crying in front of the mirror. She was just standing there, watching two spent-up tears disintegrating near her chin, and trying to force some more tears out from between her lids.

“The face on the bathroom floor,” Veronica remarked pleasantly.

That helped. Two big lustrous tears sped naturally down her cheeks, and Mary Rose, watching them, sobbed, “Leave me alone! Leave me alone!”

Veronica shrugged, and began looking for her French book.

“What are you  doing?”  Mary  Rose  whimpered.

“What do you care?” said Veronica. “You said leave you alone so I’m leaving you alone. Now you leave me alone.”

She picked up the book, walked to the door, and caught a glimpse of Mary Rose’s face as she turned to leave. Mary Rose’s face drooped, from the eyes down, in a funny way. Mary Rose cried a lot, but this time her face looked different, and something twisted inside Veronica’s chest.

“Whatsamatter,  Mary Rose?” she said helplessly.

Mary Rose broke out into fresh sobs and threw herself across the bed.

Veronica hesitated for a second, but then came back into the room, sat down on the bed, and began patting her sister’s back.

“Aw, come on, Mary Rose, you’ll make yourself buggy if you go on like that.”

“He’s got to come,” Mary Rose sobbed into the bedclothes. “He’s just got to come.”

“Well, why should you care so much whether he comes or not?”

“Because I don’t want to stay here any more,” Mary Rose said, sitting up. “I hate it here. I want to go back to Nevada with him.”

“How do you know he wants to take you back with him?”

“He does, he does. I know he does,” Mary Rose said fiercely. “Sure he does. He always did, I bet, but
she
wouldn’t let him. And it’s not because she cares for us. You know she only cares for Stanley. It’s just spite.”

“You’re really a nut,” Veronica said crisply. “Why don’t you leave her alone?”

“Sure, you always take her part,” Mary Rose hissed, “but she doesn’t like you any better than she likes me.”

“Oh cut it out,” Veronica said impatiently.

“Look at this room!” Mary Rose whined.

Veronica looked. “What’s the matter with it?”

“This old bed, that old dresser, that old mirror— everything’s old. Nothing’s pretty.”