When Hilda Rosenzweig became leader, and was rearranging all the books, lunch boxes, rulers, and jackets to form a new hurdle, and the rest of them stood around waiting, Rita Ferguson moved cautiously closer to Veronica to get a better view of her black eye.
Veronica’s good eye noted Peter as he bounced against the wire gate, looked toward her, bounced again, looked again
....
There was an agonizing desire inside her to share all this with somebody else, somebody who could enjoy with her all the details of Peter’s humiliation, all the excitement and suspense of the present moment.
She looked hungrily at Rita, and Rita looked hungrily into her black eye. Should she tell her? Rita’s eyes were traveling happily down Veronica’s scratched nose, settling finally with satisfaction on her swollen lips. No! She wouldn’t tell Rita anything. Rita would only enjoy the fact that she had been beaten.
Hilda Rosenzweig finished her arrangements — the hurdle now curved like an S — and shouted, “O.K., let’s go!” As the line braced itself, Veronica saw Peter throw himself into one fierce bounce against the gate, stand up, and head in her direction. Veronica’s fists clenched. Desperately she thought, No! I don’t want to fight. But what should I do? Where should I go? She looked around, but nobody noticed. Nobody realized what was happening. The bell rang. Peter stopped in his tracks, looked at her, and then headed over to the boy’s line.
All morning long Peter watched her, circled, approached, retreated, and instead of feeling easy and triumphant, Veronica was confused and filled with an unfamiliar sense of panic. What should she do? Madame Nusinoff asked her to remain after French class. It was only to tell her what the group had decided in the way of costumes, since she had missed the discussion last Friday afternoon. And as Madame Nusinoff talked about flare skirts for the dances, and artificial flowers on crepe-paper streamers for the girls’ hair, Veronica looked longingly into the teacher’s face, waiting for her to stop talking.
Madame Nusinoff stopped finally. She looked at Veronica’s black eye, and her own eyes, like Rita’s, moved across Veronica’s bruised nose and down to her swollen lips. Madame Nusinoff did not look pleased, as Rita had. She looked troubled, and said gently, “What happened, Veronica?”
Veronica hesitated. Then she shook her head. “Nothing,” she said, and hurried off to her next class. What’s the use, she thought to herself. She’d never believe me anyway.
At lunch, Peter, Paul, and Bill sat together, looking over at her. During the afternoon recess, Veronica saw them again, whispering and staring at her. They would be waiting for her this afternoon, she knew now for sure. Perhaps this time there would be no one around to help. Perhaps there would. If so, would they wait for her again tomorrow? The next day? Would it go on and on until they were able to get her alone somewhere and beat her up without anybody stepping in and breaking it up. And wasn’t this what she would do if she was after somebody? But she wasn’t after anybody, and how silly she had been to think that after Friday everything would be better. Things were worse — and she was now the hunted instead of the hunter. And even worse than that was this terribly lonely feeling that had held on to her all through the day.
Veronica left by way of the Franklin Avenue exit that afternoon, and went home the long way.
Peter was standing on her stoop, waiting for her. She looked around for Paul and Bill, but they were not in sight. As soon as he saw her, Peter jumped off the stoop and came flying toward her. It was too late to run. He was standing there in front of her. He stuck his face right up close to hers, and shouted, “Go ahead! Sock me!”
Veronica looked quickly behind her. Nobody in sight yet. “Sure,” she cried, “that’s all I have to do. And I know what’ll happen next.”
“What?” shouted Peter.
“Where are Paul and Bill?” said Veronica, looking over his shoulder.
Peter’s face turned a deep red. He backed away, and said, “Nobody’s here but me.”
“Sure, sure,” Veronica said, looking across the street.
“I swear to God,” Peter went on fervently.
“All
weekend long, I kept thinking about it, and I don’t know why I did it. That man was right. It’s bad enough for a boy to hit a girl, but for three boys to gang up on one girl, even a girl like you ...” Peter’s voice cracked. His face was exactly what she had hoped to see—filled with anger and humiliation. But instead of feeling triumphant, Veronica felt embarrassed, and even more lonely.
“What do you mean—a girl like me?” she cried. “I never did anything to you. You were the one who started it.”
Peter shook his head impatiently. “Well, everybody said you were such a bully — always picking on kids smaller than yourself.”
“But everybody is smaller than me,” Veronica said helplessly, “and what am I supposed to do if they make fun of me?”
“But you’re so big,” Peter said, looking up at her with a strange look on his face.
“I know I’m big,” Veronica shouted. “That’s the whole trouble. I just wish I was small like everybody else.”
“But why?” Peter said, screwing up his face in surprise.
“So nobody would make fun of me.”
“But why should you care?” said Peter. “If I was like you, I wouldn’t care what anybody said. You’re such a
...
such a
...
big girl.”
“Stop saying that!” Veronica said between her teeth.
“You’re the biggest girl I know,” Peter said solemnly.
“Do you want me to sock you?” Veronica cried desperately, clenching her fists.
“Yes, that’s right,” Peter nodded. “I forgot. I want you to sock me. And I swear to God, I’ll never raise my hand to you again no matter what happens. Even though you’re so big, you’re still a girl, so go ahead! Sock me!” Peter moved in closer, and stuck his face out again.
So it was all going to be over then—finished. Peter would never tease her or hound her, and probably not even notice her any more. And why? Because she was a girl. Well, she’d show him. Even if she was a girl, she could still punch him so hard he’d never forget it. She raised her fist and — nothing happened.
“I’m not going to sock you,” Veronica yelled, feeling as if she was going to cry. “Leave me alone! Go away!”
But Peter kept moving in closer, saying in a soft, wheedling voice, “Go ahead, Veronica, just sock me, a good hard one. I’ve got it coming, and I won’t hit you back.”
“No, no, no!” Veronica cried, retreating. Nothing was right today. Everything was upside down.
Peter said, “Look, I’ll put one hand behind my back so you don’t have to be afraid. Go ahead. Hit me!”
Veronica reached the edge of the sidewalk, and put one foot off the curb. Peter put his hand behind his back, closed his eyes, and stood, chin out, waiting. The top of his head came up to her mouth, and the rest of him looked so small and slight that it seemed to her that all she’d have to do was breathe hard on him, and he’d fall down.
“Don’t be afraid,” he repeated. “My hand’s behind my back.”
“Your hand’s behind your back,” Veronica repeated, feeling something beginning to tingle inside her, “behind your back.”
Peter opened his eyes.
“Why if I wanted to
...
” Veronica began, but then she was laughing so hard she couldn’t talk. Behind his back! Little Peter Wedemeyer was going to
let
her hit him! Little Peter Wedemeyer had put his hand behind his back so she shouldn’t be afraid of
him.
It was too much. Veronica sank to the ground, laughing and laughing and laughing.
“What’s so funny?” shouted Peter.
“Oh
...
behind your back
...
” gasped Veronica.
“Look — are you going to hit me?” demanded Peter.
“Oh
...
oh
...
oh ...” laughed Veronica, doubled up.
“Drop dead!” Peter yelled, and began walking away.
Veronica continued laughing until her breath was gone. Then she slowly rose to her feet, looked back down the street, and saw Peter standing there, watching her. She began to laugh again, and had to lean against a lamppost to keep herself from falling.
Suddenly it started again. She stopped laughing and listened. Was he crazy? She clenched her fists and turned sharply. Peter was jumping up and down, shouting,
“You’re in a trance,
Veronica Ganz.”
Veronica started toward him, and watched as he scrambled for the corner. No! No! That’s not what she wanted to do — not any more. So she stopped, and watched him scurry across the street. He turned on the other side, and shouted again,
“You’re in a trance,
Veronica Ganz.”
And then Veronica knew that everything was going to be all right. That it wasn’t going to be all over. That Peter would go on teasing her for a long time to come. And that it was good. Because he wouldn’t tease her if he didn’t want to — not any more. Just listen to him yodeling across the street there. Maybe she was a girl, and maybe he was a boy. So what! Now she could admit to herself that of all the kids she’d ever met, Peter was the one she liked and admired the most, Peter, screeching over there at her from across the street — the little nut — screeching at HER. What a wonderful feeling it was to like somebody and know that he liked you too, that maybe he had liked you all along, even though you were
a
girl, even though you were such a big girl. And how could you show a person how you felt? How? Veronica thought hard for a moment, shook her head, thought again, and then leaned
off the curb, cupped her hands around her mouth, and shouted,
“What a crier
Is Peter Wedemeyer!”
And as the small figure across the street clutched his head in mock despair and staggered backward, Veronica, excited and happy at what was just beginning, giggled like a girl.
To Anne Jackson, whose generous and wise teaching turned so many of us into children’s librarians, and whose friendship remains a wonder and a joy.
Copyright © 1968 by Marilyn Sachs
Originally published by Doubleday
Electronically published in 2011 by Belgrave House
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.