Georgie's Moon (4 page)

“Okay. Got it. You made a guess and you were wrong.” Georgie dumped the chopped onion into the skillet, creating a loud sizzle and rising steam. “I'm going to watch the news. Let me know when this is done.”

“Georgie, no! Stay here with me. We don't have to talk, just keep me company.”

“Can't.” Georgie turned to go.

“It's a clear night; we'll go sky watching instead. I know how much you like that.”

Georgie hesitated. She knew she'd eventually go outside to see the moon, but the news wouldn't wait. “We can do that after the news.”

She escaped to the living room. Even empty, it held the smell of baby powder. Gagging, Georgie flipped the knob until Walter Cronkite filled the screen.

There was a time when Mom had watched the news with her, as anxious for a sign of Dad as she was. But Mom didn't do that anymore. She either cooked dinner during the news or went for a walk. Well, Georgie wasn't giving up. Tonight might be the night. And she couldn't really get mad at Mom because, in a way, Mom had been shortchanged.

Georgie knew Mom needed a different kind of daughter than the one she got. She needed one who helped with the brats. Heck, one who didn't
call
them brats! Mom needed a daughter she could talk to.

But Georgie didn't need anyone to talk to. She didn't need Mom or Mrs. Donovan.

Georgie needed her dad.

5

Georgie found her seat in social studies. Yesterday she had been happy to see that Lisa was in her class. But Lisa had clearly been too busy looking all dreamy-eyed at Craig Evans to notice Georgie.

Their teacher, Mr. Hennessy, was short, just a little taller than Georgie. Today he was dressed in gray pants and a matching turtleneck. He was totally bald, except for a band of white fringe around the sides and back of his head. That, along with his bushy, white eyebrows and beard, made his head look like a white ring around a ball. He reminded Georgie of a stick of roll-on deodorant.

“Now that we're finished with all the first-day business of working out seating arrangements and whatnot, we can get to the real reason we're here: social studies, or, more accurately, geography.” He rocked back and forth from his toes to his heels, as if he had too much energy to stand still.

“Now, you've all learned quite a bit about our country in elementary school, so I won't bore you with more of that. I say, if you want to know what it's like in Schenectady, call your Aunt Mabel!”

The class laughed. Georgie liked this little man.

“The place that's on most of our minds is one that's only a little bigger than New Mexico. The place I'm talking about is, of course, Vietnam.”

He picked up some chalk and began to sketch the country on the blackboard. He had it all wrong. His drawing looked like the handset of a phone. Georgie could barely stay in her seat. She wanted to grab his chalk and show him the gentle curve of the Gulf of Tonkin and how the land gradually widened beside Laos. But that would make her a show-off and she knew better.

“Does anyone have family serving there now?” he asked.

Georgie's hand shot high into the air. “My dad,” she said.

Kathy Newman, the girl Lisa said was her ex-friend, raised her hand. “My brother is there.”

“Yes, I know your brother, Brian.” Mr. Hennessy smiled. “We'll be talking about the land, but I think it's important that first we get in a little history lesson, just to make sure we're all clear on why our soldiers are there.”

Craig said, “If you know that, you should be in the White House.”

There were laughs, and two fingers held up in peace signs flashed around the room.

“It does seem to be the question of the decade,” Mr. Hennessy agreed. “I'll do what I can to help explain things. You've all grown up hearing about Vietnam, but I can tell you that eight or nine years ago, in the early sixties, very few people even knew where it was. We associate it with an ugly war now, but it once was a small, gorgeous country with thick jungles and lovely white beaches.”

Georgie perked up. Her dad was the only other person she'd heard say anything about how beautiful the country could be.

“It was a French colony until the 1950s, so in some ways it's an old country; in others, it's very young. Americans thought it should have a government like ours. It was a divided country, though, with the north ruled by Communists,” Mr. Hennessy said. “We had hopes for the south, but it quickly turned into a dictatorship, rather than a democracy. So, being Americans and
always
wanting to help”—he paused and raised his bushy eyebrows to some laughter—“we tried to teach the south, called the Army of the Republic of Vietnam, how to use the weapons that we were so graciously providing.”

Mr. Hennessy wrote “1965” on the board. “Can anyone tell me why this year is important?”

Everyone slid down in their seats. Maybe he wasn't going to be such a great teacher after all, asking questions about stupid stuff he hadn't covered yet. Georgie looked at Lisa, but she was writing with her head down.

“It's the first year we were in the war completely. We went in bombing the north, sure to scare them with our impressive army—think John Wayne.”

A few kids giggled, but Georgie crossed her arms. Her dad was a pilot and she was steamed. Dad only did what he had to do; he never thought of himself as saving the day like John Wayne.

Mr. Hennessy went on. “But that didn't work. Seemed to make the north madder, if anything. So we went in on foot, and that's not been too successful, either. The Communists from the north, called NVA for North Vietnamese Army, use the jungles and mountains to hide in. They also use their swamps, and they've dug underground tunnels. You see, they know the land. We don't.”

Georgie took off her cap. It was hard to listen to, yet fascinating at the same time. Kind of like passing a smashed-up car. You're sick that it happened but can't help taking a peek as you drive by.

“Anyone know another reason why 1965 is important? Besides that I still had a little hair on top?”

“We were only second-graders,” Georgie said. “How could we know that?”

“That's true.” Mr. Hennessy looked down, probably trying to find her name on his seating chart. “Georgie. It's the year the antiwar movement came out in full swing.”

Someone said, “Right on!” Georgie didn't look up to see who'd said it. She knew she'd hate that kid forever and this was only the first week of school. It was too early to start a list of enemies.

Mr. Hennessy said, “I believe it's an injustice to talk about the war without talking about how it has divided our own country. When one hundred thousand people feel strongly enough about something to have demonstrations that lead to riots, well, they can't be ignored, now, can they?”

Several
no
's were mumbled.

Craig Evans raised his hand. “President Johnson seemed to be able to ignore how the demonstrators feel. And now Nixon's doing it.”

“It might seem that way. But politics can cloud common sense sometimes. And we mustn't forget that every argument has two sides.”

Craig said, “I know there are people who think we belong there. They should be the ones who go and fight. The draft just isn't right. You shouldn't be forced to fight in a war you don't believe in.”

One boy raised his hand. “Hey, my older brother got a low draft number, so my parents made him join the National Guard.”

“It's true that a lot of boys don't want to be there,” Mr. Hennessy said. “Some join the Guard, hoping they won't be called to fight. Enrollment in our colleges is greater than it would have been without the war, since, as we all know, you don't have to serve if you're in school. And, of course, some young men are leaving our country altogether, even though they would be arrested if caught.”

Mr. Hennessy looked at Lisa's hand, which was slightly raised. He consulted his chart and said, “Yes, Lisa?”

“May I use the restroom, Mr. Hennessy?”

Georgie could barely hear her. Lisa's face was pale and she seemed very nervous.

Mr. Hennessy hesitated a minute, then said, “Yes, if you can't wait.”

Lisa had already stacked her books. She scooped them up, and slid around the back of the room and out the door.
She must really have to go,
Georgie thought.

Mr. Hennessy went from bouncing in front of the board to pacing the room. “So, you do have a point, Craig. It would be nice if we were able to send just the boys who wanted to fight. But what if not enough people volunteered? It's difficult to win a war that way.”

“We don't seem to be doing so hot with the whole country over there,” Craig said.

Georgie couldn't hold back any longer. Her hand shot up. “Excuse me, Mr. Hennessy. I must have wandered into the wrong classroom. I'm supposed to be in social studies and here I am studying the Opinions of Craig Evans by mistake.”

There was a blast of laughter. Even Mr. Hennessy chuckled. “You are absolutely correct, Georgie. This is social studies. Now, is there anything you'd like to ask me about Vietnam, other than politics, before we move on to another country?”

Georgie leaned back. She felt as if she'd just been given a gift. There was something she very much wanted to know about Vietnam.

“Yes, sir. Could you please tell me more about those places where a person could hide?”

6

Miss Horton passed out yesterday's math homework. Georgie peeked at her grade: 100 percent correct. She wasn't surprised. Getting A's wasn't anything new to Georgie. She'd learned not to announce that she was smart, though. It was part of her survival strategy.

Georgie had been in third grade the first time she switched schools. She'd loved school. She'd loved her old friends and had expected to love new ones.

After the first week, two girls from her class got off at her bus stop. They followed her for a block, calling her names. Georgie was only eight years old at the time. She was scared and walked faster, but one of the girls rushed behind her and pushed her down. They laughed and ran away. Georgie sat on the sidewalk, cradled her bleeding hands, and cried.

That's how her dad found her. He sat beside her, gently wiping first her tears, then her blood, with his handkerchief while she told him how awful the new school was.

“They make fun of me when I give the right answer. If I sit at their table at lunch, they scoot away and whisper so I can't hear.
No one
plays with me at recess.”

“Sounds like we need to devise a battle plan, Captain,” he said. “A survival strategy.”

And that's what they'd done. Georgie let Miss Horton drone on as she remembered how her dad had sat with her at the kitchen table and together they'd written up a plan to help her survive in the new school.

“You say they make fun if you know the right answers,” Dad said. “Do you like getting good grades?”

“Yes!” Georgie said. “I like school.”

“But no one sits with you at lunch? No one plays with you at recess?”

Georgie bit her bottom lip and shook her head.

“What about these girls from the bus? What did you do when they called you names?”

“I walked faster.”

“Well, Captain,” Dad said, “we can make up a battle plan, but you have to decide if you're up to the fight. Are you, soldier?”

“Yes, sir!” Georgie saluted.

“That's my girl.”

Dad wrote the words
Standing Orders
at the top of the page.

“What are standing orders?” Georgie asked.

“That's what you do no matter what. Since you like to get good grades, your standing orders are to get the best grades you can.”

Georgie slunk in her seat. She'd be dead in a week.

“But,” Dad said.

“But what?”

“But you don't have to tell anyone what your grades are. That's between you and your teacher. You have your commanding officer's—that's me—you have my permission to fib and say you didn't do so well to the other kids.”

Georgie laughed. This was going better than she had hoped.

“Your second standing order is to never let anyone mess with you. If someone picks on you, pick right back. Remember, the enemy smells fear, so you can't let them know you're afraid. You got that, Captain?”

Georgie nodded solemnly.

“Last standing order: don't get cut off from your outfit. That means don't be alone. The best thing is to find a friend. Not a group of friends. Groups tend to turn on themselves. But find one person you like and do things with her.”

Georgie thought of the girl who'd shared her colored pencils in art class.

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine! Now, for our provisional plan,” Dad said. “That's what you do if your first plan fails.”

“Okay,” Georgie said. “What's that?”

Georgie's dad relaxed in his chair. He pulled her onto his lap and said, “You come tell your commanding officer about it. He'll buy you an ice cream cone and then go have a talk with the enemy's mommy and daddy.”

Georgie giggled and threw her arms around his neck.

Mom said, “Bill, for heaven's sake! It's third grade, not a war.”

“Guess you're right, darlin',” Dad said. But he folded the paper and slipped it to Georgie with a wink.

Georgie had felt as if all the love she had floated out of her and onto her dad at that moment. He understood her better than anyone, and his battle plan was perfect. She had used it at every school.

*   *   *

“Class, turn to page eleven, please,” Miss Horton said, pulling Georgie's thoughts back.

Georgie looked at Lisa. She had a good feeling about her. Lisa seemed nice, but wasn't afraid to go along with Georgie on rebelling against that stupid Good Deeds program. And spying on her family at the town picnic showed she wasn't dull. It wasn't too hard finding a friend, but it
was
hard finding one who wasn't boring.