The Unmaking of Rabbit by Constance C. Greene Page A

important one. Nobody lets on to nobody outside the gang.” Freddy’s grammar would have Gran in a flap.
    â€œIf you tell, the deal’s off, sleep-out, everything. And I wouldn’t want to see you miss out, Rabbit, honest I wouldn’t.” For a boy with chipmunk teeth, it was amazing how sinister Freddy could look and sound.
    â€œI think you and me are going to be real pals, Rab,” Freddy said, smacking Paul hard between the shoulder blades, so hard that Paul took a few steps forward, feeling his legs tremble.
    â€œYou’re a little on the skinny side,” Freddy said. “You better pick up a couple pounds, but just wait until after Saturday to start, that’s all.” He laughed and ran away.
    What’s he mean by that? Paul asked himself. He felt as if he had a large lump of something in his chest. Does fear come in lumps? An interesting question and, as usual, one to which he didn’t have an answer.
    It was too bad that Gran had cooked his favorite supper, sweet-and-sour perk. Paul pushed the bits of meat and pineapple and green pepper around on his plate and tried to swallow some. The lump was still there, only it’d moved from his chest up to his throat.
    â€œYou feel all right?” she asked. Again she laid her cheek against the back of his neck, testing for fever.
    â€œFor gosh sakes, Gran,” Paul shouted, jumping up. “Can’t you leave me alone? Always fussing at me. I’m too big for that. I’m not a baby.”
    Gran tucked her chin down into her chest, and they finished eating in silence. She got up to clear away the dishes.
    â€œI’ll do them,” he said. “It’s just about time for Walter Cronkite.”
    Gran was very fond of Walter Cronkite. “That man has more integrity in his little finger than all the rest of them put together,” she always said. “You can tell just by looking at him.”
    Paul wished he could ask Mr. Cronkite what to do about Freddy.
    â€œYou won’t get the water hot enough,” Gran said. “You never do.”
    â€œThen you run the water and I’ll wash when you’ve fixed it,” Paul said. She gave him no further argument. He swished the dishrag around, punching it down every time it rose to the surface. “Die, you dog!” he hissed with each spurt of water. He checked every dish before he put it in the drainer, determined that Gran would find no fault with his work. He could hear Mr. Cronkite talking to Gran in the living room as he sprayed the dishes with rinse water.
    Instead of doing his homework, Paul sat on his bed and doodled on a piece of paper. He wondered about Saturday and what it was all about. All of a sudden Freddy thought he, Paul, was a good kid. Why was Freddy being so friendly when up to now he’d done nothing but make fun of him? “There’s something rotten in Denmark,” Gran would say if she knew.
    When it was time for bed, Paul went to say good night to Gran. She was reading and smoking and drinking her gin and ginger ale. In her blue robe, her face clean and puckered, she looked old.
    â€œI’m sorry I got mad,” he said, bending to kiss her. She looked at him as if trying to remember who he was. Behind her glasses, her eyes were pale and sad.
    â€œI’m growing up,” Paul said, “and I don’t like to be fussed over like I was a baby.”
    â€œAs if.” Gran corrected him. She had a thing about grammar. Taking off her glasses, she said, “I’ve been fussing so long, Paul, it’s hard to break the habit. First I fussed over your mother, and now I’m fussing over you. I guess I’m too old to change.”
    Paul wished she would say she would at least try to stop, but she didn’t. She smelled of gin and smoke and witch hazel.
    Even though he was tired, it took Paul a long time to fall asleep. And when he did, he dreamed of Freddy, running away from something,