Authors: Constance C. Greene

The Unmaking of Rabbit (10 page)

When he got off the train at home, Gran wasn't waiting for him. Why should she be? She didn't expect him for another couple of hours. He stood on the platform and wondered if he should call her and tell her he would walk home. No, she'd just get Bess Tuttle to come for him in her huge shiny old car that she drove in the middle of the road. He could walk home in the length of time it would take Bess Tuttle to drive the same distance.

“Taxi?” a man asked.

Why not? “Sure,” Paul said, getting into the car.

“Where to?” The taxi driver had a cigarette tucked behind his ear. That was a good idea.

“Do you know where number 32 Tremont Avenue is?” Paul asked.

The man leaned back into the decrepit car and said, “I should hope to tell you, young fella. I been driving a taxi in this town for longer'n you been alive. There's not too much about it I don't know.” He winked at Paul. “Hang on to your hat,” he said and drove all the way to Gran's house at a fast twenty miles per hour.

“How much do I owe you?” Paul said when the cab stopped.

“That'll be seventy-five cents,” the driver said. “Half fare for kids on Sunday. Especially when they're polite boys like yourself. Seventy-five cents it is.”

“Keep the change,” Paul said grandly, handing him a dollar bill.

“Thanks.” The driver touched his hand to his hat. “Call me any time. Joe at Ace Taxi. Pleased to meet you,” he said and drove off. As he went up the steps, Paul could see Gran peering out, looking worried.

“What on earth?” She had the door open even before he was halfway up the stairs. “What're you doing home so soon? Did something happen? Are you all right? Did you lose your wallet? Nothing went wrong, did it?”

“I decided to come home early,” Paul said. “I took a taxi home.”

“Aren't you the spender, though?” Gran said. “How much did it cost you? They probably took you to the cleaners, a child like you, figured you wouldn't know the difference.”

“He charged me seventy-five cents, half fare for kids on Sunday. His name was Joe at Ace Taxi. He was nice.” Paul rubbed his eyes. They still smarted from all the smoke at Paddy's.

Gran stood and looked at him. “How was it?” she asked. “Did you have a good time? What'd you do?”

“Oh, I met a lot of Art's and my mother's friends, and we had an interesting discussion,” Paul said. “We did a lot of things. We had brunch in the Automat and everything.”

“I expect you're hungry,” she said. “Have you had anything to eat since brunch?” She took some eggs and bacon out of the refrigerator. “Brunch indeed,” she muttered.

“Gordon stopped by to say good-by. He said to tell you he'll write to you. I must say he was a pleasant surprise, didn't you think? I thought he'd be an overbearing little creature, and he turned out to be nice.”

“He likes me, Gran,” Paul said. “He said he'll invite me to his house. I hope he doesn't forget. He's my friend.”

“And why not?” Gran cracked the eggs into a bowl. “He shows good taste. You're a very nice boy.”

“Now you sound like Mrs. Tuttle,” Paul said. “Bragging.”

“Fat chance,” Gran said. “Go wash.”

“Did you miss me, Gran?” Paul asked teasingly as he washed at the sink. “Did Flora keep you company?”

“I'll tell you one thing.” Gran sat down at the table. “A cat can't take the place of a human being when it comes to company. Much as I think of Flora, she's not you.”

Hearing her name, Flora roused herself from the register and stalked around Gran's ankles.

“Old fat Flora,” Paul said, pleased by what Gran had said. “Feckless fat Flora.”

Flora looked at him with her cold cat's eyes and said nothing.

The first thing Paul did on Monday after he got home from school was to sit down and write a letter to Gordon. He lied some about his day with his mother and Art, making up a lot of things that he hadn't actually done but would've liked to. That was all right. He didn't think Gordon would mind the lies. He told him about his taxi ride home and about Joe who wore a cigarette behind his ear and about the half fare for kids on Sunday. He signed it “Your pal, Paul.” He was tempted to add a P.S. saying “Don't forget to write,” but he didn't. If Gordon wanted to write, he would, and if he'd just been talking, there was no way to force him.

“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, âI 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 Awardâwinning 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 hereinafter 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.

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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New York, NY 10014

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