Of Mice and Nutcrackers: A Peeler Christmas Read online

  “See,” whispers Bernie.

  I decide not to shower. I change really fast behind the bathroom door, and run downstairs to greet Grandmother Collins.

  What can I say about her? Grandma is tall and skinny. She has bright eyes and frizzy hair and, generally, a cigarette hanging off the side of her mouth. Maybe because of the cigarette, her choice of words is often, um, grimy.

  I used to think she was an awful old prune. She doesn’t seem to like anyone very much. She spends a lot of time criticizing Dad and telling us kids to stop doing what we’re doing. Then, this past summer, on our way to Auntie Vera’s house in the Berkshires with a detour to Schenectady, I got to know Grandma better. And I found that I was wrong about her. Sure she’s cranky and mean, but underneath her scaly exterior she has a heart of – no, I can’t say that. Not gold. Not even silver. She does have a heart, though. She said a couple of nice things about me before we came back home.

  She lives across the city, and we don’t see her very often. None of us seems to mind very much.

  She’s in the kitchen now, long-fingered hands on her skinny hips. Cigarette pointing up, mouth turned down.

  “About time,” she says to me. A friendly greeting from Grandma. “Now, hurry up. You, too, Bernard. William is already finished his breakfast.”

  Bernie hangs behind me. He’s scared of her.

  The kitchen phone is on the wall beside the swinging door. The phone cord is usually twisted into knots. Now the phone is gone, and the cord stretches out the kitchen door. “Okay,” says Mom’s voice from the family room. “Okay, I’m on my way now. Bye, Fred. Yes, yes. See you soon. Bye.” Mom comes into the kitchen carrying the phone.

  She looks so much better than yesterday. You’d hardly guess she was up crying in the middle of the night. Suit, makeup, briefcase, coffee cup. She looks like her old self – her real self. She’s even smiling.

  “Hi, everyone,” she says.

  “Mommy!” Bernie rushes over to give her a hug.

  She grabs his shoulders and keeps his sticky hands away from her skirt. “Hey, Bernie, how’s my little baby?” she says. She puts him in his booster seat. “And now, children,” picking up her briefcase, “I have an announcement.”

  We all look at her. Grandma coughs a couple of times, and spits into the sink. Mom frowns. “What?” says Grandma. Mom turns back at us.

  “Jane, Bill, Bernie, your father is sick. He needs a lot of rest, so he can’t look after you all, and the house, the way he usually does. I can’t do all that and my regular job too, so I asked Grandma to help us. She’ll be staying here until your father gets better.”

  She stops. I think we’re supposed to cheer, or say great, or yippee, or something like that. We don’t.

  “I’m off to work now. Grandma will be here when you get back from school. She’ll make dinner … what was that, Bill?”

  “Nothing,” says Bill. “Something stuck in my throat.”

  I smile. I know what he’s thinking. Grandma is the world’s worst cook. Seriously. If she were any worse, she’d be a mass poisoner. Dad’s not very good, but he’s a thousand times better than Grandma.

  “And now I have to go. Bye-bye. I’ll see you tonight.”

  Mom waves at us all, bends to kiss Bernie on the top of the head. “Thanks, Mother,” she says, and heads off. Grandma doesn’t say anything.

  Bill is dressed, no missing pieces. There’s an empty cereal bowl on the table. “Where’s the hard tack?” I ask him.

  “I don’t eat tack all the time,” he says. “David’s family never do.” He makes for the door.

  Grandma blocks his way. “Put your bowl in the sink,” she says. “I’m your grandmother, not your servant.”

  “But Dad –”

  “Your father spoils you, and look where it got him,” says Grandma. “Put the ham bowl in the sink. Okay?” “Okay,” mutters Bill.

  “When did you get here, Grandma?” I ask. I meant to say how nice it was to see her, but somehow the words don’t come out.

  “Never mind when I got here,” she says. “Just eat.” She points to some clean bowls and spoons on the table, and a box of cold cereal. The little rounded spoon is there. It’s our favorite. I can’t believe Bill didn’t grab it.

  “I don’t like that kind of cereal,” I say.

  “Tough,” says Grandma.

  Bernie turns around in his booster seat high chair to stare at her with wide eyes. His little hand creeps toward his mouth. I hope he’s not going to cry.

  “Here, Bernie,” I say. I hand him the best spoon.

  Grandma takes a deep drag on her cigarette. I wait and wait for the smoke to come out.

  *

  It’s I0:00 and I’m in the school office, handing in the day’s attendance sheet. Mrs. Winter is on the phone. She takes the sheet without looking at me. The principal’s room is across the hall. He’s sitting at his desk. “Can I see you for a moment, sir?” I ask.

  He waves me in. There’s a line of dark spots on the floor in front of his room. Is he the one in the marking shoes? I check them out when he comes around his desk.

  “Hello, there.” He raises a thick dark eyebrow. Then he puts it down, as if it’s too heavy to lift up for long. “Is this about your class attendance?”

  “No, sir. It’s about rehearsals for The Nutcracker.”

  “Ah, The Nutcracker. I hear great things about that from Miss Gonsalves. You wrote the poems, I understand. Well done, um….” He’s forgotten my name.

  “Jane Peeler, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “You can call me Gordon.”

  “Yes, uh, Mr., uh, I mean, Gordon.”

  “Mr. Gordon is okay, too.”

  There’s blue carpeting in the room. I can’t tell if the principal’s brown loafers are making marks or not. I go straight into my speech.

  “We need to use the gym tonight for our rehearsals. Tomorrow night, too.”

  Gordon blinks. “Didn’t you just have a rehearsal there the other night?”

  “No, sir. We were supposed to, but I had to go to the hospital.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember now.” He retreats back behind the desk and puts his hands in his pants pockets. He’s wearing a sweatshirt with a soccer logo on the sleeve. He looks like an overage kid. He jigs from foot to foot. “You’re sure you’re not sick?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m fine.”

  “That’s good. Your brother seems to be all right. I saw him in the hallway before school.” “He’s fine, too.”

  “A nice boy, your brother. Wished me a happy Chanukah.”

  “Yes, I bet he did.”

  “Now, um, Jane … about tonight …”

  “We need the rehearsal, sir. Badly. The show is on Tuesday and we haven’t had a chance to act onstage yet. Not at all. Didn’t Miss Gonsalves explain?”

  I wish she were here with me. She isn’t even at school today. The substitute teacher is approximately three million years old. She thinks computers are newfangled. Also calculators and electric pencil sharpeners. In my day we did things for ourselves, she says. I’ll bet she thinks the wheel is newfangled. In my day we dragged stuff around. Her jaw opens and shuts with a snap, like a spring-loaded box lid.

  Miss Gonsalves promised she’d be back for the rehearsal tonight. I’ll be glad to see her – there’s so much to do.

  The phone rings.

  “About tonight,” I say.

  Gordon pauses with his hand on the receiver. He puffs his cheeks out at me. His eyebrows lumber up and down his face. “Tonight there’s a basketball practice. The boys’ team has a game next week.”

  “What? But Miss Gonsalves –”

  “Mr. Gebohm reserved the gym. If you want it, you’ll have to talk to him.”

  He picks up the phone. “Hello? Yes, Gordon Gordon here.”

  I don’t leave. “What about tomorrow?”

  He stares at me with the phone at his ear. “What’s that?” he says.

  “We get the gym tomorrow,” I
say. “Friday. For our rehearsal.”

  “What? Yes, yes, all right,” he says.

  “Thank you,” I say, and walk out, thinking about Mr. Gebohm.

  “My life is falling apart,” I say to Patti at lunch recess. She’s dressed up today. Her best shirt, hair in a beautiful – well, a carefully combed – style, all up and wrapped around her head, with little clips in a circle. No hat, even for outside recess. A hat would disarrange the hairstyle. She looks like she’s ready to go synchronized swimming, or do battle with Jabba the Hutt.

  “Mmm hmm” she says, looking over my shoulder. We’re standing in the grade 7 section of the playground, near the school but not near the doors. We always stand here.

  “My dad is really sick, so he’s upstairs and no one can go near him. Mom has to work, so we’re being looked after by my grandmother – the original dragon lady,” I say.

  “Mmm hmm?”

  “Yes. She smokes like a chimney, swears worse than Michael. She’s really bossy.”

  “There he is. Hi, Brad!” Patti hasn’t been listening to me.

  Brad smiles and comes over. His leather jacket is unzipped, exposing a sweatshirt with the picture of an album cover. The edges of the jacket hang over the first part of the group’s name. I can see the second part: IMP IZKET. Brad waggles his eyebrows at Patti, who simpers and sucks her braces. I think she even blushes.

  “Guess what, girls? I saw our supply teacher in the parking lot.”

  “She drives a car?” I can’t believe it. “You sure it wasn’t a horse and buggy?”

  He smiles uncertainly. “Horse and buggy?”

  “Don’t mind Jane,” says Patti. “What do you want to do now, Braddie?”

  Braddie? Braddie?

  The playground monitor is a ginger-mustached man, with a chest like a barrel and long bare hands that stick out of the bottom of his sleeves like pitchforks. His eyes glitter behind little glasses. Mr. Gebohm.

  How can I convince him to let us have the gym tonight?

  Mr. Gebohm is the gym teacher and coach. He’s new this year. I don’t know him very well, and don’t like what I know. He’s a hard man. His expression is hard. His heart is hard. Even the G at the front of his name is hard.

  I walk up to him with my second-best smile. “Mr. Gebohm? I have a favor to ask you.”

  “Who are you?” he asks. “You don’t play basketball.” He turns away from me and scans the playground.

  I smile harder. “Jane Peeler. Actually, it’s about the gym that I want to talk to you.”

  “Gym?”

  “Yes. I wonder if–”

  “What Do You Think You’re Doing?” When Mr. Gebohm yells, he sounds like an advertising slogan. Every word counts. He hurries toward a knot of little kids. I follow.

  “Hey, Jane,” calls Michael from the climbing bars. “Watch this!”

  Why do I turn to watch? I don’t like Michael. I don’t like him when he’s being his normal loudmouthed self. I don’t see any improvement when he’s doing pull-ups on the climbing bars.

  “You Think You’re Going To Be Popular? You Think She Likes That?” Mr. Gebohm is yelling at Jiri.

  There’s a ring of little kids, grade ones and kindergartners, surrounding Jiri. There usually is. He gets along with them. In a way they’re all of an age.

  “Huh?” says Jiri. He’s giving a little girl a ride on his back. He’s smiling and panting earnestly, running up and down. She’s pulling his hair and telling him to go faster.

  Mr. Gebohm lowers his voice. “Did you hear me, big guy? I asked if you thought she liked it.”

  Jiri takes a second to work it out. “Uh-huh,” he says.

  “‘Uh-huh.’ What Kind Of Answer Is That?” He reaches his pitchfork hands toward the little girl, tries to pluck her off of Jiri’s back. She clings like a scab.

  I want to tell Mr. Gebohm to stop bothering Jiri. But I can’t. I don’t want to make him mad at me. He’ll never give up the gym if he’s mad at me. I look around for help. Brad is watching the whole scene. I wave. He turns away.

  “Are You Stupid, Kid? Is That It? You Are, Aren’t You? You’re Just Stupid.”

  “Stop that!” I say.

  The words pop out of me like sweat. I can’t help them. I can’t stand the idea of Mr. Gebohm calling Jiri stupid.

  Startled, he turns to me. “You?”

  I open my mouth, when I hear a familiar voice from the climber.

  “Take that!” it says. Next thing I know, a snowball hits Mr. Gebohm right in the back of the head.

  No snowballs are allowed on our school yard. None at all. I don’t know what they’re afraid of – little kids getting hurt, probably. I bet they aren’t afraid of gym teachers getting hit.

  He whirls around. “Who Did That?” he shouts. His eyes are slits behind his glasses. The snowball is melting down the back of his neck. I bet it’s melting fast – his neck is so hot. He’s so mad, there’s steam coming off him.

  “Oh, sorry, sir,” calls Michael, from the climber, with a smile on his face. “I didn’t mean to hit you. I was aiming … um … somewhere else.”

  I relax. I don’t mind Michael getting in trouble. He’s used to it, and he can handle it.

  Jiri stands still with the little girl on his back. “Do you like this?” he asks, twisting around to look up at her. He has whiskers – the only one in grade 7.

  The girl shrieks and pulls his hair. “Go, Jiri, go,” she cries. He trots off.

  Mr. Gebohm crooks his hand at Michael. “Come Here, You!” he says.

  I think about asking him the favor, but now doesn’t seem like the right time. I turn back to the school. Patti has Brad in a headlock. He doesn’t seem to mind.

  First class after lunch is math. Our three-million-year-old supply teacher reads a question from the textbook in her ancient, reedy voice, and then looks up and says: “So, what’s the answer?” The question is one of those word problems, where two trains are rushing away from each other at different speeds, and Agatha is three times as old as Gerald will be in two years, and the white box weighs more than black box but only half as much as the red box.

  “If one mousetrap catches one mouse every day,” she reads, slowly, “and two mousetraps catch four mice, and three traps catch nine mice, and four traps get sixteen mice, then how many traps will be needed to catch twenty-five mice?”

  Jiri drops one of his letter blocks. He uses them to spell out the words he’s practicing. GOAT BOAT ROAD are some of them this week. I know this because I helped him yesterday. In our class the quick learners get to help the slow learners. I’m usually one of the quickest, and Jiri is always the slowest.

  “Pick that up,” says the teacher. “In my day we didn’t get colored blocks to play with, and if we did, we wouldn’t have dropped them. What’s your name?”

  “Me?” says Jiri, bending quickly to pick up the block. “My name is Jiri Holocek my family comes from Prague that is in Europe.” He says this all in one breath, the way he always says it. He has a big smile. “Pleased to meet you,” he says.

  She frowns. “Did you hear the question, Jiri? How many traps would it take to catch twenty-five mice?”

  I look around the class and see my own embarrassment reflected in other people’s faces. I wish Michael were here to help, but he’s still in the principal’s office for throwing snowballs. “Uh, it’s not fair to ask Jiri that question,” I say at last.

  She peers at me. “And why not? In my day teachers could ask students questions. They were even encouraged to do it.”

  “Uh, Jiri is….” All right, I don’t know how to put it. “He’s …”

  “No problem, Jane,” says Jiri. “I can answer the question.”

  I squirm uncomfortably. “But …” I begin, and then stop.

  I poke Patti, sitting in front of me. She shrugs her shoulders and doesn’t turn around. Justin fiddles with the zipper at the top of his sweater. Brad is sharpening his pencil, collecting the shavings in a neat pile on th
e corner of his desk.

  “How many traps then, Jiri?” asks the teacher.

  Jiri smiles. His glasses are filthy. His whiskers shine. “One,” he says.

  “Wrong, wrong, wrong,” she sighs, shaking her head. “Standards, standards. Today’s standards are nowhere near what they were in my day. Why, the next number in sequence –”

  “Of course, you would need almost a month,” says Jiri.

  “What?” she gasps. “What was that?”

  “You said that one mousetrap catches one mouse a day,” says Jiri, patiently. “So that in twenty-five days you would catch twenty-five mice, with one mousetrap. Do you see?”

  “But … but I meant….” She’s having trouble getting his thoughts in order.

  Silence. I can’t help it. I laugh.

  I’m not alone. Around the room smiles are popping out, shyly, like early crocuses. Zillah, from in front of Michael’s empty desk, taps her fingertips together. Her black nails are very striking.

  The bell rings for gym. The teacher’s jaw closes with a snap.

  “Line Up For Dodgeball!” shouts Mr. Gebohm. “Along the wall.”

  Mr. Gebohm has changed into gray gym shorts – no, what I mean is, he’s changed his clothes. He looks more natural than in the long pants he wore on the playground at lunchtime. These are his real work clothes.

  “You, there,” he says, glaring at Michael, back from the principal’s office with a note to take home, “go to the other side of the gym.”

  Mr. Gebohm can talk with the whistle in his mouth. All gym teachers can. “You, too,” he calls to Justin.

  Michael stalks away. Justin glides after him, his pants swishing around his skinny hips.

  “You, too,” says Mr. Gebohm, pointing farther down, “and you, and you.” He points to every second or third person, separating us into two teams.

  “Okay! Go!” he says, whipping the ball at Justin. It flies like a big round white bullet, and hits him on the knee.

  “You’re Out!” cries Mr. Gebohm. Justin hobbles to the sidelines, grimacing. “Come On!”