The Mighty Miss Malone (4 page)

She said, “How was it?”

Jimmie said, “Ma’am, the parts I ate had some dog slob on ’em and were a little crunchy from the dirt but it still was the best thing I ever ate.”

She looked at me. “Did you eat any?”

“Well, ma’am, Mother tells us it’s a grand and kind gesture when someone offers you food and it’s the height of rudeness to turn them down. The lady in the park handed me some so I ate one slice of apple.”

“What did you think?”

“It was heavenly.”

She pointed at Jimmie. “Robin Hood, sit on that top step. Miss Malone, come inside with me.”

Jimmie sat and I said, “Ma’am, we’re not allowed to go into strangers’ houses.”

She smiled. “Good girl. Make sure the thief doesn’t take it on the lam. I’ll be right back.”

I pulled up all the sarcasm I had. “Thanks a bunch, Jimmie. I don’t know if I’ll ever speak to you again. You better not ever steal another thing in your life.”

“I know, I know.”

The woman came back with a tray and two glasses rimming with milk and two pieces of apple pie!

She set it on a table between two porch chairs.

“What was your name again, young lady?”

“Deza. Deza Malone, ma’am.”

“My name is Dr. Bracy. Please join me for some pie. And I know you won’t turn me down, because I’m making the sort of
grand gesture which, as your mother has taught you, is rude to refuse.”

Doctor?

Maybe she could tell us why Jimmie had stopped growing three years ago.

“Thank you very much, Dr. Bracy.” I sat and she handed me a paper napkin and a fork.

My feet dangled in the chair, but I crossed my ankles and spread the napkin on my lap.

She said, “Why do I suspect you do well in school, Deza?”

“I don’t know, ma’am, but I really do.”

“How about Pretty Boy Floyd there?”

“He works very hard.”

She knew I was exaggerating. “Really? Look what he left me.”

She passed me a folded-up piece of paper.

The note read,
do not call the polees I promes to brink the tin back hears 8 cens
.

No punctuation, no word over four letters spelled right, and a run-on sentence. Jimmie’s work for sure. He’d written his name at the end of the note but scratched it out. With one measly line.

At least he hadn’t lied about paying her, but eight cents?

I sighed and handed Dr. Bracy the note.

She gave me a piece of pie and said to Jimmie, “You look strong. You know how to chop wood?”

“Sure I do, ma’am.”

“Fine. First, even though you left me eight cents, you stole my pie. Do we agree?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now tell me where you got eight cents. Did you steal that too?”

“I wouldn’t never take no one’s money. I worked all day cleaning out boxcars at the yard.”

“And they paid you eight cents?”

Jimmie’s eyes cut to the side. “Really they give me a dime, ma’am, but on the way home I saw a starving old blind lady crying in a wheelchair and I give her two cents of it.”

I was mortifried.

Dr. Bracy laughed and picked up the other piece of pie. “Miss Malone, I was thinking about giving him this piece of pie, but now I’ll enjoy it myself. It must be quite the experience living with this one!”

She asked Jimmie, “Has school finished this year?”

“We’ve only got two more days.”

“So here’s what you’re going to do, Mr. Malone. I’ve got a field in the back that needs clearing, and there’s some wood that needs chopping and stacking. Once you’re done with that I’ve got something else in mind.

“Deza, do you think it would do any good for your brother to come here every night and work on his spelling and grammar?”

It was Jimmie’s turn to look mortifried.

We had tried to help Jimmie but nothing seemed to stick. Mother says that different people are good at different things, and while being good at schooling is important, being a good singer is very important too.

Not really, but that is a kind thing to say to someone who’s a good singer.

“You can tutor him only if you want to torture him, ma’am.”

“Fine, we’ll see how he does around here. Jimmie, I’ll expect to see you at eight sharp Saturday morning.”

While Jimmie sat on the top step and pouted, Dr. Bracy and me ate our pie and chatted.

She was a most delightful conversationalist.

I told her all about my essay and how Clarice Anne Johnson and me were going to read every book in the Gary Public Library.

She told me how she wasn’t the kind of doctor who worked on sick people, but was the kind who had gone to college for a hundred years to study all about books and writing!

Me and Jimmie both jumped when a bell rang inside her house.

“You’ve got a telephone right in your house?”

She smiled. “Excuse me for a moment.”

When she came back I hopped out of the chair. “Thank you very much for the pie, Dr. Bracy. Our father gave us forty-five minutes to return the dish and we have to get going.”

We waved as she started piling things on the tray.

We were about half a block away when I heard, “Deza, could you come here for a moment?”

I ran back.

“I can’t seem to find your napkin, Miss Malone.”

I felt my face get hot. I looked at my shoes.

She said, “I don’t mind as long as you give whatever is left of your pie to Clarice and not to Jimmie. We can’t encourage that kind of behavior, can we?”

“No, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

“Deza, you’re a good girl. Next time, think things through.”

Alliteration!

Going to school for a hundred years must really be worth it.

When I got home I asked Mother how to spell “epiphany,” then looked it up in my dictionary.

That’s the only bad thing about dictionaries. You start by looking up one word and end up having to look up seven others to understand the first one.

I lugged the dictionary to Mother and Father. They were sitting at the kitchen table talking.

I plopped it down. “Translate, please.”

Father pulled the dictionary to him. “What’s the word?”

“ ‘Epiphany.’ ”

He didn’t even look. He closed the book and said, “Think of a light going on. An epiphany is being surrounded by darkness and bumping around. Something happens or is said that causes a light to be switched on and everything becomes clear. It’s when you suddenly understand something. The moment you
really
get it.”

So that was what Dr. Bracy meant. She’d said something about Robin Hood and it was like a light came on for Jimmie.

A dim light, but that’s probably the best you could expect from a pie thief.

Mrs. Needham returns our work by calling each student to her desk in the reverse order of how good you did. Getting called last is the best.

Dolly Peaches, who is a roughneck, a hoodlum and a boy, even with a name like that, has been called first every single time this year.

I have been called last for every paper and test all of sixth grade! It’s like what we say on the playground,

First is the worst, second is the same, last is the best in any old game
.

Mrs. Needham picked up our final essays. “I enjoyed learning about your families. We’ve had a slight change in our usual rankings today.

“Mr. Peaches, keep trying. Hope springs eternal.”

Dolly slouched up to her desk.

It was a very short walk because Mrs. Needham keeps Dolly Peaches and Benny Cobb exactly one yardstick and one stretched-out arm away from her.

She said, “Young man, stand straight and pick up your feet when you walk or I will leave you with a memory that will extend well into the summer.”

Benny Cobb was next and the roll call went on until it was down to me and my loving friend, Clarice Anne Johnson.

We looked across the room at each other and smiled. We each held up two fingers, touched our cheeks, then held up one finger and put our hands on our chests, like we were getting ready to say the pledge to allegiance. But we weren’t. It’s secret sign language for our motto I thought up:
Two girls, one heart
.

Mrs. Needham said, “As usual, we’re left with the ladies!”

I tried to look humble while I waited for Clarice to walk up and get second place.

Which is really just about as good as first place. Just about.

Well, not really, but that
is
a kind and comforting thing to say to second-place people.

Then I remembered what Mrs. Needham said about a change!

No. I’d worked extra hard on this essay.

I watched her mouth, scared that something horrible was about to cross her lips.

She said, “And with an A minus …”

I fought the feeling that my whole world was about to collapse in a smoking heap.

“…  another excellent piece of work by …”

I prayed, Oh, please say Clarice, please! She’s used to second place.

“…  Miss Deza Malone.”

The shame!

I looked back over at Clarice and had to quickly turn my eyes away.

It was bad enough that I hadn’t gotten my usual grade, but it was even worse to see the crazy look on my loving friend’s face when she knew that it was her, and not me, who did the best on the last assignment of the year.

Clarice’s mouth and eyes were wide open. She was being eaten alive by guilt already.

I knew just how bad things had got when my second brain started talking to me.

I’m different from most people and one of the main reasons is, I think I might have two brains. Whenever I get nervous or mad or scared or very upset, I have thoughts that are so different from my normal thoughts that there isn’t any way they could be coming from just one brain.

My first brain decides it doesn’t want to know about what is happening and stops working. Then my second brain takes over.

And that brain is always looking to start trouble, to hurt someone or break something.

I felt myself rise out of my seat like a prisoner on her way to Old Sparky, the electric chair. I had to bravely make that long walk to Mrs. Needham’s desk, a walk once bright with sunshine and hope but now choked with thunder, despair and crabgrass.

“Buck up, kiddo,” the second brain said, “she won’t be expecting a thing!”

Ooh! One of the main reasons I hate this second brain is that it always calls me kiddo!

“Smile, kiddo,” the bad brain said. “Get as close as we can.”

Clarice had covered her mouth with both hands. It was easy to see that she was grief-struck that something this terrible could happen on the next-to-last day of school.

“Okay, kiddo, when she hands the paper to you, snatch her arm! We’ll get two or three bites in before she can slap us off or call for help!”

I stopped in front of Mrs. Needham’s desk.

I held my breath, giving her one last chance to say, “Dear me, Miss Malone, I’m so sorry, I’ve made a terrible mistake, I should have called Clarice.”

Mrs. Needham looked right in my eyes, held my essay out and said, “Very good job, Deza.”

Thank goodness that woke my first brain up. It stopped me before anyone got bit.

Very good job?

Was she playing a joke on me? I looked at what was written in red on the top of my paper. There was a big “A-” sitting there!

My
grade is supposed to be a A
plus
!

How could Mrs. Needham, who I used to love like a grandmother, be so rude and uncaring to tell me “very good job” when I didn’t even get a A?

I floated back toward my seat. Most times I pretend I’m reading the back of the last page of my essay while I’m walking to my desk. That way my classmates get a chance to see my grade and maybe will want to try harder the next time.

This paper was a crinkled ball in my fist.

Dolly Peaches, who’s got enough teeth cramped into his mouth for a crocodile, a shark and two regular full-grown people, whispered, “You ain’t smart as you think, huh? How’s it feel to be number two?”