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Authors: Larry Parr
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then began following him. Jason and I didn’t move. We just kept looking at each other. Finally Alan stopped, turned, and shouted back: “You two coming, or what?”
I forced myself to look away from Jason, toward Alan. “We’ll be right there,” I tried to say brightly and lightly, as if nothing at all had happened. I half ran, half skipped toward Alan and Wesley, trying my best to make it seem as if everything were quite normal. Of course, when things are normal I don’t usually skip.
I could have kicked myself for the way I was acting! What was wrong with me? Why was I doing and saying all these dumb things? Everything I was doing was just getting dumber and dumber. I hated myself!
I glanced back at Jason as I caught up with Wesley and Alan and he was just standing there by the car, his mouth open, totally bewildered. I smiled and said as brightly as I could: “Aren’tcha coming?”
Jason shook his head and began following us toward the house.
* * *
Wesley’s house has a great basement, which his father had made into a den/game room. There was a pool table and off in one corner an air hockey table. Right now the guys had the pool table covered with newspapers; in the middle of the table was a piece of plywood about three feet long and two feet wide. Wesley had bough a couple packages of ready-mix paper mache and air-dry modeling clay and he and the guys were trying to build Fort Sumpter and recreate one of the early battles of the Civil War.
They didn’t really seem to be getting very far. Wesley had probably fifty or so soldiers, half in blue uniforms and half in gray uniforms and the guys kept stopping their work to have mock battles. Looking at them making total fools of themselves playing soldier like eight-year-olds made me feel a little better about the way I had been behaving earlier.
I was sitting in a big, deep, worn, comfortable chair. I’m sure it was Wesley’s dad’s favorite chair; it just had that feel to it. I had a couple of Civil War books open in my lap and I was supposed to be directing the guys on how the fort looked and where the soldiers should be placed, but I was so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open.
My mind just kept wandering back and forth. One minute I was fighting the Civil War, and the next I was talking to Mr. Bell, the Aluminum Man; then I was in Mr. Greenwald’s class, listening to his story about the coin robbery; then I was ducking under these ugly hairy tattooed tree branches and feeling really scared . . . .
Suddenly my mind seemed to snap to and I sat up. I had a brilliant idea! “I know! Let’s not do your project on the Civil War at all—that’s boring and half the class will be doing the Civil War.”
The boys stopped their mock battle with the toy soldiers and looked at me as if I was crazy. “What are you talking about?” Wesley said, slightly annoyed. “We’re already half done with it.”
I looked at the almost empty plywood board and the unopened bag of instant paper mache. In all fairness they had put a lump of pink modeling clay in the middle of the board and they had formed it into something that sort of resembled a fort-like structure.
“Half done?” I asked as I closed the Civil War books and stood up. I began pacing. I was still formulating my idea and I needed a few seconds to get it right in my mind. “I know how we can get you an “A” and help solve the mystery of the Gruesome High ghost!”
“What are you talking about?” Wesley asked again. “I’m already started on this. I’ve done most of the research, I’m all ready to start writing the—”
“No, no, no,” I said as I stopped pacing and faced the guys. “Let’s do your project on the history of our own town! Let’s trace the history of Grissom cemetery and the building of Grissom High. No one’s ever done that before! Mr. Stafford will have to give you an “A”! It’ll be great! And besides, we have to do all the research anyway.” I
I forced myself to look away from Jason, toward Alan. “We’ll be right there,” I tried to say brightly and lightly, as if nothing at all had happened. I half ran, half skipped toward Alan and Wesley, trying my best to make it seem as if everything were quite normal. Of course, when things are normal I don’t usually skip.
I could have kicked myself for the way I was acting! What was wrong with me? Why was I doing and saying all these dumb things? Everything I was doing was just getting dumber and dumber. I hated myself!
I glanced back at Jason as I caught up with Wesley and Alan and he was just standing there by the car, his mouth open, totally bewildered. I smiled and said as brightly as I could: “Aren’tcha coming?”
Jason shook his head and began following us toward the house.
* * *
Wesley’s house has a great basement, which his father had made into a den/game room. There was a pool table and off in one corner an air hockey table. Right now the guys had the pool table covered with newspapers; in the middle of the table was a piece of plywood about three feet long and two feet wide. Wesley had bough a couple packages of ready-mix paper mache and air-dry modeling clay and he and the guys were trying to build Fort Sumpter and recreate one of the early battles of the Civil War.
They didn’t really seem to be getting very far. Wesley had probably fifty or so soldiers, half in blue uniforms and half in gray uniforms and the guys kept stopping their work to have mock battles. Looking at them making total fools of themselves playing soldier like eight-year-olds made me feel a little better about the way I had been behaving earlier.
I was sitting in a big, deep, worn, comfortable chair. I’m sure it was Wesley’s dad’s favorite chair; it just had that feel to it. I had a couple of Civil War books open in my lap and I was supposed to be directing the guys on how the fort looked and where the soldiers should be placed, but I was so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open.
My mind just kept wandering back and forth. One minute I was fighting the Civil War, and the next I was talking to Mr. Bell, the Aluminum Man; then I was in Mr. Greenwald’s class, listening to his story about the coin robbery; then I was ducking under these ugly hairy tattooed tree branches and feeling really scared . . . .
Suddenly my mind seemed to snap to and I sat up. I had a brilliant idea! “I know! Let’s not do your project on the Civil War at all—that’s boring and half the class will be doing the Civil War.”
The boys stopped their mock battle with the toy soldiers and looked at me as if I was crazy. “What are you talking about?” Wesley said, slightly annoyed. “We’re already half done with it.”
I looked at the almost empty plywood board and the unopened bag of instant paper mache. In all fairness they had put a lump of pink modeling clay in the middle of the board and they had formed it into something that sort of resembled a fort-like structure.
“Half done?” I asked as I closed the Civil War books and stood up. I began pacing. I was still formulating my idea and I needed a few seconds to get it right in my mind. “I know how we can get you an “A” and help solve the mystery of the Gruesome High ghost!”
“What are you talking about?” Wesley asked again. “I’m already started on this. I’ve done most of the research, I’m all ready to start writing the—”
“No, no, no,” I said as I stopped pacing and faced the guys. “Let’s do your project on the history of our own town! Let’s trace the history of Grissom cemetery and the building of Grissom High. No one’s ever done that before! Mr. Stafford will have to give you an “A”! It’ll be great! And besides, we have to do all the research anyway.” I
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