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Authors: Kathryn Miller Haines
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a lot of homework, don’t you, baby?”
I nodded, uncertain if I’d just damned myself by agreeing with her.
“How come you were staring at my friends?”
Had I been? I followed her gaze to a table near the back wall, where a group of girls in tight sweaters and heavy makeup were conversing with dark-skinned Italian boys with slick ducktails and chains that joined their pocket watches to their waists. How had I missed that Suze was there? What kind of detective doesn’t make note of the one person she knows by name?
“I wasn’t staring at anyone,” I said.
“You sure about that? Rhona said you’ve been watching Tom since he sat down.” She cocked her head toward the table, where Tom Barney sat with the blonde.
“I didn’t mean to stare,” I said. “I was just thinking and that’s where my eyes landed.”
“It’s okay, baby. No harm. You were just making Rhona nervous, you dig? I told her you were copacetic.”
I thought about telling her what Tom had done to me, but it occurred to me that telling her he’d robbed me wasn’t going to help me stay in her good graces. I mean, she knew he was a thief, right?
“Heard from your pop?” she asked.
That’s right—I’d led her to believe he was off being a soldier. “Not a word. What about you? You heard from Bill?”
She beamed, my earlier infraction completely forgotten. “Got a letter yesterday. Course most of it’s blacked out.” She pulled a note from her cleavage and unfurled it. Thick black lines crossed out much of what Bill had written to her. Either he was too free with his information or the war censor was still trying to get a handle on what should be considered sensitive information. “He couldn’t even tell me where he is.”
“It’s to protect them,” I said. “Just in case the wrong person gets ahold of the mail.”
“Who’s going to be reading my mail?”
“You never know,” I said.
She looked back toward her friends. Despite their tough exteriors, they looked like they were having fun.
She knocked on the table with a closed fist, bidding me farewell. “I better evaporate, baby. Be good. Remember: no staring.”
“I will,” I said.
DESPITE MY PROMISE, I couldn’t give up watching Tom. Now that I knew he was part of Suze’s crew, I found myself watching all of them whenever the chance arose. There was no one at P.S. 110 more alive than them, no one more fascinating. The boys were strangely feminine, almost not boys at all. They paid attention to what they wore and moved liked cats, their long graceful limbs working at a pace that seemed slower than everyone else around them. And the girls seemed so old and wise, as though they’d lived a hundred lives before this one and somehow managed to retain the knowledge from those previous lifetimes.
They were a different species than the kids I’d known at the Chapin School. But they were also a different species than most of the students at P.S. 110. In fact, the rest of the school seemed to view them as outsiders, but they didn’t seem to care. They were outsiders by choice, not because someone else had put them in that position. I envied that they didn’t need to belong. I suppose that’s how it was when you had a group. You didn’t need to be accepted by anyone else; you had already found your people.
I had to face it: there would be no group for me. The groups I might’ve been welcomed in—like the one for Jewish students—I didn’t want to join, and the ones I used to belong to were no longer available.
“You had another phone call,” said Mrs. Mrozenski one afternoon just after I’d arrived home from school. “Grace wants you to telephone her.”
It was the third time Grace had called since I’d run into the twins uptown the night I’d followed Mrs. Wilson. Each time I took the message and pretended like I was going to do it right away.
“She say you no call her back before.”
“I have, she’s just never home.”
“She just called,
I nodded, uncertain if I’d just damned myself by agreeing with her.
“How come you were staring at my friends?”
Had I been? I followed her gaze to a table near the back wall, where a group of girls in tight sweaters and heavy makeup were conversing with dark-skinned Italian boys with slick ducktails and chains that joined their pocket watches to their waists. How had I missed that Suze was there? What kind of detective doesn’t make note of the one person she knows by name?
“I wasn’t staring at anyone,” I said.
“You sure about that? Rhona said you’ve been watching Tom since he sat down.” She cocked her head toward the table, where Tom Barney sat with the blonde.
“I didn’t mean to stare,” I said. “I was just thinking and that’s where my eyes landed.”
“It’s okay, baby. No harm. You were just making Rhona nervous, you dig? I told her you were copacetic.”
I thought about telling her what Tom had done to me, but it occurred to me that telling her he’d robbed me wasn’t going to help me stay in her good graces. I mean, she knew he was a thief, right?
“Heard from your pop?” she asked.
That’s right—I’d led her to believe he was off being a soldier. “Not a word. What about you? You heard from Bill?”
She beamed, my earlier infraction completely forgotten. “Got a letter yesterday. Course most of it’s blacked out.” She pulled a note from her cleavage and unfurled it. Thick black lines crossed out much of what Bill had written to her. Either he was too free with his information or the war censor was still trying to get a handle on what should be considered sensitive information. “He couldn’t even tell me where he is.”
“It’s to protect them,” I said. “Just in case the wrong person gets ahold of the mail.”
“Who’s going to be reading my mail?”
“You never know,” I said.
She looked back toward her friends. Despite their tough exteriors, they looked like they were having fun.
She knocked on the table with a closed fist, bidding me farewell. “I better evaporate, baby. Be good. Remember: no staring.”
“I will,” I said.
DESPITE MY PROMISE, I couldn’t give up watching Tom. Now that I knew he was part of Suze’s crew, I found myself watching all of them whenever the chance arose. There was no one at P.S. 110 more alive than them, no one more fascinating. The boys were strangely feminine, almost not boys at all. They paid attention to what they wore and moved liked cats, their long graceful limbs working at a pace that seemed slower than everyone else around them. And the girls seemed so old and wise, as though they’d lived a hundred lives before this one and somehow managed to retain the knowledge from those previous lifetimes.
They were a different species than the kids I’d known at the Chapin School. But they were also a different species than most of the students at P.S. 110. In fact, the rest of the school seemed to view them as outsiders, but they didn’t seem to care. They were outsiders by choice, not because someone else had put them in that position. I envied that they didn’t need to belong. I suppose that’s how it was when you had a group. You didn’t need to be accepted by anyone else; you had already found your people.
I had to face it: there would be no group for me. The groups I might’ve been welcomed in—like the one for Jewish students—I didn’t want to join, and the ones I used to belong to were no longer available.
“You had another phone call,” said Mrs. Mrozenski one afternoon just after I’d arrived home from school. “Grace wants you to telephone her.”
It was the third time Grace had called since I’d run into the twins uptown the night I’d followed Mrs. Wilson. Each time I took the message and pretended like I was going to do it right away.
“She say you no call her back before.”
“I have, she’s just never home.”
“She just called,
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