said yes." That was a huge lie, of course, but all of a sudden I felt sorry for Seth. That I would have said no was bad enough. But that he
knew
I would have said no was worse.
My sudden feeling of being sorry made me say something else impulsively: "My mother said to ask you if you'd like to come over for dinner some night."
"No," said Seth abruptly, the way I had responded to his suggestion of a baseball game. "I
hate
dinner," he added sarcastically. Then he turned without saying good-by and jogged off down the street, his long arms and legs pale against the darkness until he turned the corner and was gone.
Chapter 10
"Mrs. Cameronâ" I started to say, but she interrupted and corrected me.
"
Ms.
Cameron," she said pointedly. It sort of confirmed what I had guessed, that she was divorced. I remembered Tom Terrific saying wistfully, "People like to think about their daddies." There was nothing I could do for him on that score. But I thought maybe I could do something in another department.
"Ms. Cameron," I said, "Joshua would really like to ride on the Swan Boats. Do you thinkâ"
"Oh, no, dear," she said. "No, I think not. The Swan Boats are terribly picturesque, of course. But the fact is that it's really only
tourists
who actually ride on them. And they're so crowded. You just never can tell, well, what germs..."
It figured. People who live on West Cedar Street tend to have a negative view of tourists.
You never can tell what sort of germs they may be bringing from Illinois.
Fortunately, Tom hadn't been in the room when I asked her. He came thumping down the stairs a minute later, very cheerful, not aware that another of his little-boy hopes had just been zapped like a fuzzy caterpillar hit by a spray of Raid. He had a box of crayons in his hand.
"Oh, lovely, Joshua!" said his mother. "Are you going to draw pictures today?"
"Yes," said Tom Terrific solemnly. "Of trees."
"What a good idea! Cynthia," she said to me, "why don't you tell him the
names
of the different kinds of trees? They're all labeled, you know. It would be a Learning Experience. I'm sorry you didn't make better use of the
Field Guide to the Birds.
"
She dabbed his face with a dampened paper towelâto
polish
it, I guess, since it was already super clean. Then she patted his hair into the shape that the barber at Trims for Tots had meant it to be. Finally she kissed him on the cheek, then dabbed with the towel at the place where the kiss had been.
We all said "Bye-bye."
"You do the words, right? And I'll do the Popsicles," said Tom Terrific when we were out on the sidewalk. "I have lots of different browns." He trotted along beside me, clutching the Crayolas; it was the Giant box, the one with a hundred crayons.
"Okay." I agreed. Fortunately I'd already finished that week's assignment for art class: a still life, in charcoal. I'd done it at home, in my room, of an eggplant, a pewter pitcher, and a pear. Afterward I'd eaten the pear and returned the pitcher to the dining room cupboard. But I'd forgotten about the eggplant, and now it was brown and squishy, still sitting on my desk.
The remaining pages of a six-dollar sketch pad were going to go for Popsicle posters. I planned to Scotch-tape the posters to sticks, after they were done, so our picket line could carry them.
Hawk and the bag lady were going to be in charge of recruiting the picket line. They didn't know that yet.
But when Tom Terrific and I reached our usual corner of the Public Garden, I discovered that our partners in crime were way ahead of us. I hadn't had a chance the day before to tell Hawk about the bag lady's willingness to join the ranks. But this morning the two of them were sitting
there together on the bench, Hawk's saxophone still in its case at his feet. They were deep in conversation, her straggly gray head nodding up and down close to his big black pillow of hair as they talked.
"We're working out the details of this caper," Hawk announced when we
knew
I would have said no was worse.
My sudden feeling of being sorry made me say something else impulsively: "My mother said to ask you if you'd like to come over for dinner some night."
"No," said Seth abruptly, the way I had responded to his suggestion of a baseball game. "I
hate
dinner," he added sarcastically. Then he turned without saying good-by and jogged off down the street, his long arms and legs pale against the darkness until he turned the corner and was gone.
Chapter 10
"Mrs. Cameronâ" I started to say, but she interrupted and corrected me.
"
Ms.
Cameron," she said pointedly. It sort of confirmed what I had guessed, that she was divorced. I remembered Tom Terrific saying wistfully, "People like to think about their daddies." There was nothing I could do for him on that score. But I thought maybe I could do something in another department.
"Ms. Cameron," I said, "Joshua would really like to ride on the Swan Boats. Do you thinkâ"
"Oh, no, dear," she said. "No, I think not. The Swan Boats are terribly picturesque, of course. But the fact is that it's really only
tourists
who actually ride on them. And they're so crowded. You just never can tell, well, what germs..."
It figured. People who live on West Cedar Street tend to have a negative view of tourists.
You never can tell what sort of germs they may be bringing from Illinois.
Fortunately, Tom hadn't been in the room when I asked her. He came thumping down the stairs a minute later, very cheerful, not aware that another of his little-boy hopes had just been zapped like a fuzzy caterpillar hit by a spray of Raid. He had a box of crayons in his hand.
"Oh, lovely, Joshua!" said his mother. "Are you going to draw pictures today?"
"Yes," said Tom Terrific solemnly. "Of trees."
"What a good idea! Cynthia," she said to me, "why don't you tell him the
names
of the different kinds of trees? They're all labeled, you know. It would be a Learning Experience. I'm sorry you didn't make better use of the
Field Guide to the Birds.
"
She dabbed his face with a dampened paper towelâto
polish
it, I guess, since it was already super clean. Then she patted his hair into the shape that the barber at Trims for Tots had meant it to be. Finally she kissed him on the cheek, then dabbed with the towel at the place where the kiss had been.
We all said "Bye-bye."
"You do the words, right? And I'll do the Popsicles," said Tom Terrific when we were out on the sidewalk. "I have lots of different browns." He trotted along beside me, clutching the Crayolas; it was the Giant box, the one with a hundred crayons.
"Okay." I agreed. Fortunately I'd already finished that week's assignment for art class: a still life, in charcoal. I'd done it at home, in my room, of an eggplant, a pewter pitcher, and a pear. Afterward I'd eaten the pear and returned the pitcher to the dining room cupboard. But I'd forgotten about the eggplant, and now it was brown and squishy, still sitting on my desk.
The remaining pages of a six-dollar sketch pad were going to go for Popsicle posters. I planned to Scotch-tape the posters to sticks, after they were done, so our picket line could carry them.
Hawk and the bag lady were going to be in charge of recruiting the picket line. They didn't know that yet.
But when Tom Terrific and I reached our usual corner of the Public Garden, I discovered that our partners in crime were way ahead of us. I hadn't had a chance the day before to tell Hawk about the bag lady's willingness to join the ranks. But this morning the two of them were sitting
there together on the bench, Hawk's saxophone still in its case at his feet. They were deep in conversation, her straggly gray head nodding up and down close to his big black pillow of hair as they talked.
"We're working out the details of this caper," Hawk announced when we
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