The Unmaking of Rabbit Page 8
“Can I have a stamp, Gran?”
“Get one out of my pocketbook,” she answered. “I just bought some. If the postal rates keep going up, I won’t be able to afford to mail letters.”
“Maybe you could join the Boy Scouts and learn how to send smoke signals, Gran,” Paul said.
“Not a bad idea.” She lit a cigarette. “Do you have any homework?”
“I have to write a story for English that has a moral. Miss Olah said we had to have it in on Tuesday. She says she thinks I express myself well on paper.”
“I don’t know why not,” Gran said. “My grandmother on my father’s side wrote beautiful poetry. And my own father worked as a reporter on the Courier until it folded. Then, of course, he went with the gas and electric company, and even though they didn’t pay too well, he got a lovely pension out of them.”
Paul had thought a good deal about what he was going to say in his story. He was going to tell about Freddy, his gang, his proposition, and what had happened. He started to write:
Once there was a boy who had no friends. He got a chance to make some, to be a member of a gang and go on a sleep-out and everything, but first he had to do something bad, namely steal. He decided to do the bad thing. At the last minute he chickened out and said he was going to puke all over everybody. He got this idea from a boy he knew who was older. The gang let him go because they didn’t want to get puked on, naturally. He still doesn’t have any friends, but at least he has a clear conscience and that’s a lot.
The moral to this is: A clear conscience is worth more than friends.
Paul copied this over in his best and biggest handwriting, looking up the correct spelling of conscience. The story took up almost two pages. After he’d read it over, he put at the bottom: (It would be neat to have both.)
Miss Olah collected the papers at the beginning of class. She told them to read chapter twelve in their English books while she read some of the stories. Then she said, “It looks to me as though some of these were written at breakfast this morning. Here’s what looks like maple syrup on this one.” Everybody laughed. Freddy turned around and waved to the class and then put his clasped hands up like a prize fighter. He avoided looking at Paul, which was all right with him.
“Here’s one that I think is particularly good,” Miss Olah said. “Paul, would you read yours, please?”
Startled, Paul walked to her desk. “I-I-I can’t,” he stammered, his tongue catching against the roof of his mouth.
“Yes,” Miss Olah said firmly, “I think you can. Try.”
“Once,” Paul began, “once there was a-a-a boy who had n-n-no friends.” He looked up in desperation and straight into Freddy’s face, which was as impassive as a piece of stone. For some reason, this gave him courage. He read through to the end without much stuttering, and when he’d finished, Miss Olah said, “Very good, Paul. It’s a lesson we all could profit from.”
Paul passed Freddy’s desk on his way to his seat. No cry of “Rabbit, Rabbit,” came. In fact, Freddy kept his head down and turned pages in his notebook with great concentration.
When the bell signaled three o’clock, Paul put his stuff together and got ready to leave. Scott Detmer hissed out of the corner of his mouth, “Freddy’ll get you for that,” and Paul pretended not to hear. His legs started to tremble, and he dropped his pencil case on the floor. If he left by the gym door, they might not find him. What they might do to him was too horrible to contemplate. If only Gran were here, she’d defend him. Gordon and Gran together would fight them off.
But he was Paul, and he was on his own. He went down the hall, whistling quietly to stop his teeth from chattering. He pushed open the door, and there were Freddy and Scott and two others. Freddy said, “Hey, Rabbit. How’s it go? Want to come to our sleep-out? The guys say it’s O.K. with them. No hard feelings, huh, Rabbit?”
Paul felt moisture in his eyes and nose. “One thing,” he said. His tongue caught on the roof of his mouth. He prayed to God, asking Him not to let him stutter. If he stuttered now, everything would be lost. “One thing,” he began again, and his voice sounded strong and clear, even to him, “my name is Paul. It’s not Rabbit. It’s Paul.” His own name had never sounded so good, so right, as it did then. “And don’t you forget it.” He stabbed a finger at Freddy. “Just don’t you forget it.” He felt a terrible weight slip from his chest. No matter what happened, he had done something positive.
He turned away and began walking. Nothing followed him but silence. When he reached home he had a stiff neck, and his shoulders felt as if they were in a vise. Gran looked at him, but she didn’t test him for fever. He was grateful for that. If she had, he might’ve bawled and told her everything.
“There’s a letter for you,” she said. It was from Gordon and written all over the envelope in big uneven letters was “Daliver dis letta da soona da betta.” He’d like Paul to come for a week end on their next vacation, he wrote. He had a friend who had a tree house they could watch birds from. His mother and father weren’t going to take him on the tennis circuit next year. It was too exhausting and too expensive. He was glad he wasn’t going. He signed it, “Your pal, Gordon.” And “P.S. Write soon.”
“That’s the first letter I ever got from a friend,” Paul said. “He couldn’t even have got my letter yet. He wrote to me first.” For some reason this pleased him.
“Yes, I guess it is,” Gran agreed. “Your mother called. She wants to know if you’ll visit her in a couple of weeks. Says she’ll plan something special.” Gran lined the garbage pail with Sunday’s funnies.
“I don’t know,” Paul said. “I’ll see.” He put Gordon’s letter in his pocket. He’d write him tomorrow. “You know that story I told you I had to write? The one with the moral?” She nodded. “Well, Miss Olah had me read mine aloud. I was the only one to read aloud. She said it was good.”
Gran smiled. “I knew it would be,” she said. “You’ve inherited the family talent. May I see it?” she asked.
“Some time,” Paul said. He decided he would show it to her when he was older.
“Do these beans for me, will you?” Gran asked. He was good at doing beans. He nipped the ends off neatly and put them in a pot.
“I saw Mrs. Barker today,” Gran said. “She told me what a nice boy you were, as if I had to be told. She thinks the world of you. Wouldn’t you think she’d do something about those teeth?”
“Mrs. Barker is a nice lady,” Paul said. “I like her teeth. Next to you, she’s my favorite.”
“My, my,” Gran said, smiling. “I never knew you cared.”
After supper, Gran went to listen to what Mr. Cronkite had to say, and Paul did the dishes. He had decided he wouldn’t go to live with his mother. Not that she’d ask him, but even if she did, it was Gran who needed him. His mother had Art. And Gran had said, though not in so many words, that he was better company than Flora. That was something, for Gran to say that.
He went to the door of the living room. “Gran,” he said, “I love you.”
“What’s that?” Gran said above the sound of Mr. Cronkite’s voice.
“I said, ‘I love you,’” Paul practically shouted.
She looked at him. “I heard you the first time,” she said, “but I wanted you to say it again. That’s very nice, Paul.”
“You want your holder?” he asked, embarrassed.
“There’s a good boy.”
About the Author
Constance C. Greene is the author of over twenty highly successful young adult novels, including the ALA Notable Book A Girl Called Al, Al(exandra) the Great, Getting Nowhere, and Beat the Turtle Drum, which is an ALA Notable Book, an IRA-CBC Children’s Choice, and the basis for the Emmy Award–winning after-school special Very Good Friends. Greene lives in Milford, Connecticut.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinaft
er invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1972 by Constance C. Greene
Cover design by Connie Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-5040-0098-7
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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