I don't know how those little stories strike you, but... as I listened... at first I felt like a fish out of water. My first impulse was to laugh or to mock, but I was the only one. Everyone else in the room took each story as it was: a candid offering. I'm not saying they were all good; they weren't. But they were all sincere, without guile.

---

 

19. The Brains Of The Fifth-Grade Girl-World
 

Poor Robert's enthusiasm was short-lived. Ms. Rosenstern shut him down quickly and decisively. She scolded him for being so long in the bathroom. She pointed out that everyone had done their Math worksheets but him. And now that everyone was going on to descriptive writing, what was he supposed to do?

It wasn't a brief scolding either. She ripped him up and down. The way she did it was shocking; she'd been so nice until now.

I actually felt sorry for the boy, and if it would have done any good, I would have said something. I had forgotten how mean teachers can be in the lower grades, when children are more vulnerable. Until now I'd liked Ms. Rosenstern, but now I wasn't so sure.

She sent Robert to sit at the one empty table with his back to the rest of us, to do his Math worksheet.

I looked at his sad little shoulders and — against my better judgement — felt partly responsible.

"Now," Ms. Rosenstern said, "I've been hearing about this party all last week and all this morning. Class, I want each of you to write two or three paragraphs about something you remember from the party."

"Do we write two paragraphs, or three?" one boy asked.

"Write enough to make it clear," she replied. "If it takes three paragraphs, write three paragraphs. If it takes two, write two."

"How will we know?" one voice cried in a desperate tone, and another asked, "What if it only takes *one* paragraph? Or one sentence?"

The teacher ignored the questions and said, "First write your notes. Set down the points you need to make. Then, write your paragraphs."

Soon, all heads were bowed, and pencils were scratching paper.

I looked over at Robert. Ms. Rosenstern stood over him, the figure of punishing authority. Without any warning, she swept his Math sheet away from him, just as he was about to write. I could see it wasn't complete, and he looked up at her in pale-faced helplessness. Then she walked away, leaving him at a loss, until she returned and gave him two sheets of paper for the writing assignment.

As I watched her interaction with Robert, one word came to my mind: bully. She was bullying Robert, and there was nothing he could do about it.
 

Ike McCleary was the first to read his piece. He went to the front of the classroom, clutching his paper with both hands. He announced, "My composition is titled THE MAD DOG." His eyes opened like two lanterns, and he fixed them on me for a moment before continuing.

I was very happy when I went to Robert's Halloween party. I was the Unshreddable Hulk. My mother bought my costume in a store, but I picked it out. Robert's party was very nice, even though the apple juice tasted like it had a funny taste.

Everything was going great until a girl named Juliette brought her MAD DOG. She sat in the sink and watched her dog try to bite me. If I didn't know how to run so fast, her dog would have bit me. I think that being the Unshreddable Hulk also made me run faster.

I opened my mouth to laugh, but there was silence around me: respectful silence. I was expecting — maybe even hoping — for more of a response from the listeners: groans of denial, laughter... Instead, everyone sat quietly and listened.

Next came a girl whose name I forget. "My composition is titled The Butcher Boy And The Princess."

One thing I didn't expect to see at the Halloween Party was a real-life fairy tale. Just like Cinderella, after the party was already started, two princesses came down the stairs, and everything stopped. One of the princesses was Miranda, and she was quite beautiful. But the other princess was very mysterious, and everyone whispered, "Who could she be?"

There were no princes at the party, but Robert, who was dressed as a butcher's boy, said, "I must know who she is," and he helped her down from her throne. Then he gave her a sweet, passionate kiss until the queen saw him and told him to stop. It's wrong for a butcher's boy to kiss a princess, but he would always treasure that moment when the butcher's boy felt like a prince.

I don't know how those little stories strike you, but... as I listened... I felt like a fish out of water. My first impulse was to laugh or to mock, but I was the only one. Everyone else in the room took each story as it was: a candid offering. I'm not saying they were all good; they weren't. But they were all sincere, without guile.

To stay there and listen I had to take a step outside myself. I had to sort of turn off the critical, scoffing part of me... the part that had to have something to say.

I won't say I became more child-like in those moments, but I did see how much attitude I'd acquired in four years — an attitude that would be abrasive to kids this age.

Oddly, Ms. Rosenstern had both: she could do the respectful-listening thing, and she could be abrasive, although she seemed to save the latter all for Robert.

Miranda's composition was called "Misunderstandings" and the point of it was that the dog wasn't mine and that I hadn't let it into the house. She told the story of how it latched onto us, and how Mrs. Murdoch left the door open.

What was my composition about? I called it "Being Responsible." In it I played up all the good things Robert had done: how he took hold of the dog, how he telephoned the owner, how he ignored the owner's rudeness, and how he put the dog outside. Then, after mentioning how the dog had trashed his house, I pointed out that he stayed home on Sunday to help his mother clean up.

Of course, I didn't mention that his mother *made* him help clean, and of course I left out the kiss. All I wanted to do was make it clear — in stark contrast to the way the teacher treated him — that Robert wasn't a complete schmuck.

The class heard my composition with the same respectful silence that they gave to every other piece. There was no reaction: no knowing looks, no smirks or smiles. Robert took what I wrote with a sort of beaten-down meekness.

I was really beginning to hate Ms. Rosenstern.

Robert's composition described everyone's costumes. I think he was too frightened of Ms. Rosenstern to single me out for compliments, but he managed to say that Miranda and I were "two lovely princesses" and left it at that.

---

It was much like that the rest of the day. Except for the teacher's treatment of Robert, it wasn't bad. It was kind of fun. Miranda smiled at me a lot, and Jackie clearly wanted to be my friend. She and Miranda sat on either side of me at lunch.

"Does Ms. Rosenstern always pick on Robert?" I asked them.

"Yeah," said Jackie as she examined the contents of her sandwich. "Pretty much."

"Every day," agreed Miranda.

"Is he bad? Does he do anything to, ah..."

"No," Miranda answered. "He's good. I mean, he behaves like everybody else. Once in a while–"

Jackie cut in, "–he just bursts out and says something, like today."

"He forgets himself," Miranda explained. "He's exuberant."

I raised my eyebrows. "Impressive word," I said, by way of compliment.

"She's the brains of the fifth-grade girl-world," Jackie told me.

---

At about 2:30, Jenny, the eighth-grader who'd given me the tour, came to our class with a message: "The principal wants to see Juliette Samson before she goes home."

"I'll go with you," Miranda said. And so she did.

I glanced at Robert, still sitting alone with his back to us, and suddenly I had an idea. Maybe there *was* something I could do.

I asked myself, How would a ten-year-old girl say it...
 

As I suspected, the principal wanted to know how I liked the school.

"It's nice," I said in a noncommittal tone. "I like the girls in my class — I mean Miranda's class."

The principal smiled. "Well, it could be your class, if you come to school here. Would you like that?"

I took a deep breath, and made the face I've seen kids make... the face that they make when there's something to say, but it's not safe to say it. "Um... maybe," I said. I managed to get the tone just right: as if I hoped my answer would be enough, so the grown-up wouldn't ask for more.

The principal frowned slightly. "You don't sound so sure. Was there something you didn't like?"

I hesitated, and looked up at her with what I hoped was an innocent look (which I guess is no look at all), and asked her, "Will I get in trouble if I say?"

Miranda was electrified. She had no idea what I was playing at.

The principal glanced back and forth between the two of us. "No, of course not," she said. "I'd like to know."

"Well...," I began. "At my school the teachers are nice..."

"Isn't Ms. Rosenstern nice?"

"To most of us," I replied. "But not to everyone."

"Oh?"

"She was... she was... really... mean to one boy, Robert."

"Was she mean to you?"

"No! Not at all! But still... I didn't like the way she treated him, and I wouldn't like to see that..." I felt like a ten-year-old girl gathering her courage, and declared firmly, "I wouldn't like her to be my teacher."

The principal was shocked. I'm pretty sure she was wondering what I'd tell my parents, how they'd take what I'd said... She turned to Miranda. "Is this true, Miranda?"

Miranda twisted her mouth to the side but didn't say anything.

The principal was silent for a moment, then said, "Miranda, you won't get in trouble. I just want to know. I need to know."

"Yes, it's true," Miranda agreed. "She's mean to Robert. Every day. She's nice to everyone else, but not to him. And he's not a bad kid."

The principal looked in our faces as she took it in. Then she said, "Thank you, girls, for telling me. Juliette, I'm sorry that you had an unpleasant experience here, but I want to tell you that I'm going to do something about it. I'm going to speak to Ms. Rosenstern and to Robert." She looked grim for a moment. "It looks like *I* will have to be mean to Ms. Rosenstern for a bit."

I smiled at that, which was what she was aiming at.

"I want to talk to your parents about this, Juliette, so they understand that we don't tolerate that sort of mistreatment here.

"And remember: Ms. Rosenstern's not the only fifth-grade teacher here. Okay?"

With the look of one who'd lost a battle but hadn't given up the war, she gently ushered us out to the hallway, where Miranda's mother was waiting.

---

As we walked to the car, Miranda looked like she was ready to burst.

"I can't believe you did that!" she whispered to me. "Don't say anything about it until we get home!"

I looked at her to gauge her mood. She was clearly delighted: she was smiling, her eyebrows were dancing, and she couldn't stand still.

"Miranda, do you need to go to the bathroom before we leave?" her mother asked. "We can wait for you."

"No, Mom," Miranda replied, a little offended. "I'm just excited."

"Alright," Mrs. Jameson said. "No harm in asking!"

When we got the car and did up our seat belts, Miranda quipped, "I wonder whether Courtney will wear a costume?"

"I wonder whether we'll be able to tell!" I retorted, and the two of us burst into laughter.

Mrs. Jameson looked at us in the rear-view mirror. "Is this about the way Courtney dresses?" she asked.

"Yes," Miranda replied. "She's very goth."

"She doesn't have any piercings, though," I added.

"Thank goodness for that," Mrs. Jameson said. "I talked to some of the other mothers she babysits for, and they told me how she dresses. But they all said that she's very responsible, and a very nice girl."

"Oh, she is," Miranda and I sang out together. Then we both said "Jinx!" at the same moment, and gave up, laughing.

"I'm glad you girls are having fun," Mrs. Jameson commented. And somehow, what she said sobered us up.
 

In spite of my reservations about the costume, I couldn't wait to get into it. In case you don't remember, my third and last costume, the one for Halloween itself, was Rainbow Brite.

If you don't know Rainbow Brite, well, neither did I. She's a cartoon character for kids, and she has something to do with rainbows.

So, I had to wear a shiny blue dress with cap sleeves. The hem, which was very high, was trimmed in white fur. When I say "the hem was very high" I mean that if the dress was any shorter, it would be a long shirt. Plus, the skirt kind of belled out, so pretty much my entire legs were visible.

On the other hand, I had a lot of other stuff to wear underneath. First, the long-sleeved body, with horizontal rainbow stripes. I had to wear a pair of ordinary panties under it so the snaps wouldn't chafe. Over the body, I wore a pair of blue panties that matched the dress.

All of that made me feel rather covered up below, so I didn't feel so exposed or self-conscious. Plus, as Mom pointed out, short girls can wear shorter skirts than tall girls.

The costume was finished off with a rainbow belt, rainbow knee socks, red sneakers, and a blue hairband for my hair. (The "real" Rainbow Brite has a blue scrunchie and a pony tail, but I don't have enough hair for that.)

When I was done dressing, I was pretty happy with the way I looked.

Miranda knocked on my door, and she was ready, too.

I think I mentioned that Mom made a Supergirl costume for her. I'd tried it on for the fittings, but it looked very different on Miranda.

Miranda's hair isn't as long or as blonde as Supergirl's, but it didn't matter. She looked so outrageously cool in that costume! Mom had found a pair of red boots, and the colors of the costume were perfect. Miranda was Supergirl.

"Wow!" I said. "Can you fly in that outfit?"

"I don't know," she laughed, "I can try when we get to the top of Beacon Hill."

"If you end up rolling down the hill, I'll roll down after you," I promised.

"Okay," she agreed.

After we'd admired each other's costumes, and agreed that we'd left the best for last, the doorbell rang.

"That'll be Courtney," Miranda said.

"Dressed as..."

"A regular girl..."

"As Snow White!"

"Or Little Bo Peep!"

We were giggling and snorting our way down the stairs, but the fact of the matter was... we weren't far off.

Near the front door, next to Mrs. Jameson, was a young blonde teenage girl, dressed quite demurely.

"Courtney?" we gasped in unison.

"Your hair!" I exclaimed. "Where... how..."

"It's a wig," she laughed. "Tonight, I'm a fifties teenybopper."

She had the costume down pat: the poodle skirt, white top, sash belt, ascot, bobby socks, and saddle shoes.

"We were... we were joking about what you'd wear tonight," I told her.

Her eyes twinkled. "I know," she told me. "I've been hearing it all year, from everybody. I just tried to think of the scariest thing I could be... and voilà!"

Next came the photographs. One of Miranda, one of me, one of Courtney. One of Miranda and me, one of the three of us together. With Mrs. Jameson's camera, with Mom's camera, with Courtney's camera. Do the math: fifteen shots. Plus some extras. Still, I'd be glad to have the photos afterward.

Before we left, Miranda's mother and Courtney called each other's cell phones to be sure they had each other's number. Then Mrs. Jameson drove us across town and dropped us off on Charles Street.

"Listen to me," Courtney said. "I want you two to stay together. Always make sure you're standing next to each other. After every house, look to make sure you know where I am. Okay?"

"Yes," we agreed, but we were itching to go.

"I'm serious," she said. "If I lose either of you, that's the end of me. If you don't do those two things, we're going to be holding hands all night long."

"Okay," we agreed.

It wasn't hard to do as she asked. Miranda and I had gotten so much candy yesterday that we didn't need any more, even after culling out the ones we didn't like. We weren't greedy. We walked slowly from house to house, taking in all the decorations, the sound effects, the costumes, the atmosphere.

It was amazing. I was used to Halloween in the suburbs, where you spent most of your time walking from house to house. There, you race to make up all distance you have to cover. Here in the city, one front door was just few yards from the next, and the whole place, the whole space you could see, was totally given over to Halloween. It was a Halloween village: Halloween in every inch of it. Everyone who said it was right: Beacon Hill had to be the best place on earth to go trick-or-treating. If this was going to be my last time, well, I was doing it up right. In every way, this was going to be the Halloween that I'd remember.

© 2008 by Kaleigh Way

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