He shifted in his chair. Not so long ago, he recalled, Friend had seemed like a pretty good idea. The way toys like G.I. Joe seem great when you see six kids playing with them on TV, laughing, having a wonderful time with about a hundred dollars’ worth of extra equipment and perfectly formed little hills and cliffs and sand dunes. You don’t even realize that you’ll be playing on the sidewalk, probably by yourself, with no extra equipment at all. Or the way games on TV seem so much fun because they’re being played by one of those TV families that do nothing but laugh together.
Why, if he had seen Friend advertised on TV, he would probably have sent off for one himself. Television could make you believe anything—it was their business.
“Only ten ninety-eight in cash or money order for Friend. And remember, Friends also come in the Multi-Pack, which consists of three Friends in assorted sizes and colors so, overnight, you can become the most popular kid on your block.”
Lennie would send off his money and wait. He would check the mailbox daily. He would come running in from school every day, gasping, “Anything for me?”
“Not yet, Lennie.”
Then when he couldn’t stand it another moment, the box would come. He would tear it open, eager to have Friend as soon as possible, eager to get on with the good times, the picnics, the long walks down country lanes, the movies.
He would lift the box top, fold back the tissue paper and there would be Friend. Lennie would be too excited to notice anything.
He would struggle with Friend, trying to get the arms and legs bent in the right position. He would get Friend on his feet. He would drag him outside. He would sit him in the other plastic webbed chair. He would begin telling Friend a joke.
A car would pass on the highway, and Lennie would imagine how he looked sitting there, laughing and joking with Friend, just like in the TV ads.
Then a little boy in the car would stick his head out the window and cry, “Hey, look, that kid’s talking to a
doll!”
Looking at the empty chair, Lennie smiled.
Chapter Twenty-one
L
ennie could hear the policeman and his mom talking. The policeman was saying, “After I go home and change, I’m going to come back and cut the grass. The boy shouldn’t be pushing the lawn mower till he’s a lot stronger.”
The policeman had come to visit Lennie every single day he was in the hospital—some days he even came twice, his mom had told him.
“Did he say anything about me?” Lennie had asked when he felt good enough to worry about being caught by the police.
“Nothing bad.”
“Nothing about me going in all those houses?”
“No.”
“He’s probably waiting till I get well.”
“No, he is a very nice man, Lennie, and he’s taken a real interest in you. He and his wife never had any children, so you be nice to him.”
“I’ll try.”
“It was him got your picture in the newspaper.”
Lennie
was
grateful for that. It was the first time he had ever been in the newspaper, and he had gotten twenty-nine get-well cards from people he never even heard of. And every single person in his English class had written him a note. And the mayor of the city had sent him good wishes in a letter.
A Mercury sedan turned into the motel driveway and stopped just in front of where Lennie was sitting. Lennie could hear the car radio. John Denver was singing about nature in Colorado.
The man said, “I’ll check and see how much the rooms are,” and he got out of the car.
There were two girls in the back seat fighting over a Young Love comic book. The older girl was saying, “Mom, I’ll have you know I bought this comic with my own baby-sitting money, and I don’t have to share it with anybody if I don’t want to.”
“Mom,” the smaller girl whined, “I told her she could look at my Porky Pig, but—”
“Who wants to look at Porky Pig? Anyway, you make me sick. Everything
I
get,
you
want. Mom, she copies every single thing I do.”
“It’s flattering to be copied,” the mother said in a tired voice.
“Not by
her
.”
“Now, Faye.”
“I mean it. You
made
me let her wear my good pink top, and look! She’s got chocolate all over it! I hate her!”
“Will you please stop it, girls? You’ve been arguing all the way from Tuscaloosa. Look, over there’s a wishing well. Go make a wish, why don’t you? I think I’ve got some pennies.”
They took their pennies and walked to the well. The little girl looked up at her sister and said, “What are you going to wish for, Faye?”
“I’m not telling you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ll wish for the exact same thing, that’s why!”
They stood at the wishing well for a moment. Lennie watched them. Then silently they made their wishes and dropped their pennies into the well. The coins clanged faintly against the bottom of the well.
The man came out of the office with a key. “We’re staying,” he said. “Drive down to Room three-oh-two.”
The policeman came out of the office right behind the man. He paused and said to Lennie, “Well, I’m taking over your job for the evening.”
“What’s that?”
“Grass cutting.”
“Oh.”
“Probably this’ll be the last time it has to be cut before winter.”
“Yeah.”
He got in the patrol car and drove off. Lennie continued to sit in his chair.
“Hey, what’s wrong with your leg?”
Lennie glanced up. It was the smaller of the sisters.
“Oh. I got bit by a rattlesnake.” Lennie never said those words without a feeling of great importance coming over him. He could hardly wait to get back to school to give his report. “You want to see it?”
“Yes.”
He pulled up his pants leg and showed his wounded leg. It was still colorful enough to startle.
“See all those little slit marks?” he said.
“Yes.”
“They had to cut those to keep my leg from bursting open like a sausage.”
“Oh.” The girl’s eyes got a little bigger. Her tongue came out and touched her upper lip. “Hey, Faye,” she called, “he got bit by a rattlesnake. Come look.”
Lennie kept his pants leg raised so that he wouldn’t have to do it twice. Faye bent forward, then she turned away, one hand over her mouth.
“Oh, I can’t look. It must have been awful!”
“It
was
pretty bad.”
“I used to think I wanted to be a nurse, but every time I see something like that, I know I couldn’t. Let me see again.”
“If they hadn’t made those slits in his leg,” the little sister said, “it would have burst open like a sausage.”
“I hate snakes,” Faye said, shuddering a little as she sat in the chair next to Lennie. “I think they’re the awfulest things.”
“You ought to read my report,” Lennie said. “It’s real interesting, if I did write it myself.”
There was a silence, and then the little sister said, “Hey, you want to look at my Porky Pig comic book?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“I’ll go get it. It’s in the car.”
Faye was still looking at him. She said, “I never met anybody who got bit by a rattlesnake before.”
“I’ve only met one other person myself,” Lennie said.
“I wish I had some film in my camera. I’d take your picture.”
“Oh, well,” Lennie said. He leaned back in his chair. He drew the evening air into his lungs. On the highway a truck passed, building up speed for the hill ahead.
“Here it is.”
Lennie held out his hand for the Porky Pig comic book. He began to flip through the pages. He glanced up and said, “You know in my report—my report about the rattlesnake—I even tell how many shots I had to have.”
“How many?” the little sister asked.
Lennie looked closely at the first page of the book. Porky Pig was having to take care of the neighbor’s baby. Lennie glanced up. “Sixty-one.”
“Sixty-one!”
He nodded. He bent back over the comic book. A very small bank robber had dressed up in baby clothes to escape the cops and, without Porky Pig’s knowing it, had taken the place of the baby. Porky Pig was trying to get him to take his bottle.
“When you get through with that,” Faye said, “you can read my Young Love comic.”
Lennie looked up at her. “
If
I have time,” he said. He paused. “You see, I have to go over my report on rattlesnake bites one more time. I’m going to give it in Science class for extra credit.”
“
I
’d like to hear your report,” the little sister said.
“You would?” Lennie said. He had thought they would never ask. He’d begun to give up hope. “If you really want to ...”
The girl nodded.
“Well, all right.” Lennie got up quickly. He started for the motel office. He turned on his crutches. “In a lot of ways,” he said, “my report is better than the stuff you see on television. It’s—” He paused, searching for the right word. “It’s
realer,”
he said.
Both girls nodded.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” Lennie said, and he went inside to get his report.
BETSY BYARS
was born in Charlotte, North Carolina, and graduated from Queens College. The mother of four, Ms. Byars began writing books for children as her family was growing up. She is the author of nearly fifty books for children, including
The Summer of the Swans,
which received the 1971 Newbery Medal, and the Herculeah Jones Mystery series.