Read Online Outside In by Karen Romano Young - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karen Romano Young
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announced that there was gimp.
“Oh! I love gimp! Don’t you?” she squealed to Rosa and me.
I looked inside the cardboard box of gimp. Big spools, thick and tightly wound with the flat plastic string: sea green, pale blue, white, pink, red, royal, purple, black, yellow. Fantastic.
“Micky’s real name isn’t Micky,” Joanie confided. I shrugged. “He looks like Micky Dolenz from the Monkees,” she went on. “That’s why we call him that. And that’s Bunny and Pie—” She pointed out the two girl counselors. One had white-blond hair and big teeth. Bunny. I couldn’t imagine why the other girl, a friendly-looking college girl with a ponytail, big blue eyes, and freckles, should be called anything weird like Pie.
“What about Pete?” I asked.
“Him? The new guy! You’re right! Thanks! Hey!” Joanie waved a hand in Pete’s face. “Chérie here is right. You need a nickname. All the counselors have one.”
“Pete
is
a nickname,” said Pete stiffly. I didn’t dare laugh.
“Oh, come on! There’s got to be something else we can call you. I’ll help you think of one. What’s your last name again?”
He told her.
“Your initials are PA! Like the PA system at school!”
Pete looked at her blankly. “The public-address system, dopus,” Joanie explained. “You’re going to be making a lot of announcements, right?” She laughed a long bubbling laugh. “So we’ll call you PA.”
“He’s got the mouth for it,” I said. Pete glared at me but stayed on his best behavior. He wanted
this
job.
“He’s so cute,” Joanie whispered as he walked away.
“You!” Dave now said every time he saw me. He said it with his finger pointed at me, from his front steps, from his bike, from the car window. It made me feel lonely. He said “You” to me, but he didn’t say anything else. Ever since school had ended, there hadn’t seemed like any reason to go for walks in the woods. I guess the book Dave had in his bike basket—
The Outsiders
—wasn’t something he wanted to act out.
“Pete’s been teasing him,” Aunt Bonnie said. She was on her way home from painting our house to painting her painting. I was folding and banding my papers on the front Steps: HUBERT H. HUMPHREY HEADED FOR DEMOCRATIC CONVENTION . Humphrey wasn’t Kennedy. That’s what the grown-ups said.
I looked questions at Aunt Bonnie, but she just shook her head and kept going home. Her painting was coming along. The pine trees were becoming more detailed, with some pinecones glinting dimly under the moon, but the house in the center was still shadowed, with just the outlines of windows.
I used Aunt Bonnie’s pastels to draw my mother as she planted pachysandra around the yew bushes by our front porch, her stomach like a ball she held in her lap as she reached toward the ground.
I saw Pete come walking along Marvin Road. But instead of coming toward his lemon yellow house he walked up the path of the cherry red house and started helping my mother plant. It froze me for a minute. Ishould have been doing that. But I stayed where I was, pasteling. When I saw Pete hug my mother and turn to cross the road, I quickly closed the pastels and tucked them into Aunt Bonnie’s shelf. She was already downstairs, starting dinner.
I scooted down the stairs, yelled, “Bye! Thanks!” in my cheery-fake voice, and whisked past Pete.
“Hey, Pete,” I said, “I know who likes you.” Even to myself I sounded like Pammy—or like Joanie Buczko herself.
“Yeah? Give me some news.” He kept going, sounding grumpy, as if he already knew all the females who were mad for him.
I rapidly folded my papers. I brought my mother a beautiful, big glass of ice water. Then I took off on Beshna to deliver papers whose headlines did not tell me that Wendy Boland had been found and was well and happy. SEARCH CONTINUES , the
Bell
said.
Joanie kept on flirting with Pete and didn’t seem to figure out that she was wasting her time. Maybe she just
“Oh! I love gimp! Don’t you?” she squealed to Rosa and me.
I looked inside the cardboard box of gimp. Big spools, thick and tightly wound with the flat plastic string: sea green, pale blue, white, pink, red, royal, purple, black, yellow. Fantastic.
“Micky’s real name isn’t Micky,” Joanie confided. I shrugged. “He looks like Micky Dolenz from the Monkees,” she went on. “That’s why we call him that. And that’s Bunny and Pie—” She pointed out the two girl counselors. One had white-blond hair and big teeth. Bunny. I couldn’t imagine why the other girl, a friendly-looking college girl with a ponytail, big blue eyes, and freckles, should be called anything weird like Pie.
“What about Pete?” I asked.
“Him? The new guy! You’re right! Thanks! Hey!” Joanie waved a hand in Pete’s face. “Chérie here is right. You need a nickname. All the counselors have one.”
“Pete
is
a nickname,” said Pete stiffly. I didn’t dare laugh.
“Oh, come on! There’s got to be something else we can call you. I’ll help you think of one. What’s your last name again?”
He told her.
“Your initials are PA! Like the PA system at school!”
Pete looked at her blankly. “The public-address system, dopus,” Joanie explained. “You’re going to be making a lot of announcements, right?” She laughed a long bubbling laugh. “So we’ll call you PA.”
“He’s got the mouth for it,” I said. Pete glared at me but stayed on his best behavior. He wanted
this
job.
“He’s so cute,” Joanie whispered as he walked away.
“You!” Dave now said every time he saw me. He said it with his finger pointed at me, from his front steps, from his bike, from the car window. It made me feel lonely. He said “You” to me, but he didn’t say anything else. Ever since school had ended, there hadn’t seemed like any reason to go for walks in the woods. I guess the book Dave had in his bike basket—
The Outsiders
—wasn’t something he wanted to act out.
“Pete’s been teasing him,” Aunt Bonnie said. She was on her way home from painting our house to painting her painting. I was folding and banding my papers on the front Steps: HUBERT H. HUMPHREY HEADED FOR DEMOCRATIC CONVENTION . Humphrey wasn’t Kennedy. That’s what the grown-ups said.
I looked questions at Aunt Bonnie, but she just shook her head and kept going home. Her painting was coming along. The pine trees were becoming more detailed, with some pinecones glinting dimly under the moon, but the house in the center was still shadowed, with just the outlines of windows.
I used Aunt Bonnie’s pastels to draw my mother as she planted pachysandra around the yew bushes by our front porch, her stomach like a ball she held in her lap as she reached toward the ground.
I saw Pete come walking along Marvin Road. But instead of coming toward his lemon yellow house he walked up the path of the cherry red house and started helping my mother plant. It froze me for a minute. Ishould have been doing that. But I stayed where I was, pasteling. When I saw Pete hug my mother and turn to cross the road, I quickly closed the pastels and tucked them into Aunt Bonnie’s shelf. She was already downstairs, starting dinner.
I scooted down the stairs, yelled, “Bye! Thanks!” in my cheery-fake voice, and whisked past Pete.
“Hey, Pete,” I said, “I know who likes you.” Even to myself I sounded like Pammy—or like Joanie Buczko herself.
“Yeah? Give me some news.” He kept going, sounding grumpy, as if he already knew all the females who were mad for him.
I rapidly folded my papers. I brought my mother a beautiful, big glass of ice water. Then I took off on Beshna to deliver papers whose headlines did not tell me that Wendy Boland had been found and was well and happy. SEARCH CONTINUES , the
Bell
said.
Joanie kept on flirting with Pete and didn’t seem to figure out that she was wasting her time. Maybe she just
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