Harriet the Spy (5 page)

“What would you do?”

“Leave. Of course.” One thing about Janie, thought Harriet, she never has a moment’s hesitation about anything.

“What is this about dancing school?”

“Just wait, buddy. They’re going to get you too. I heard my mother talking to your mother. Who ever heard of Pasteur going to dancing school? Or Madame Curie or Einstein?” Janie spit out the names.

Harriet couldn’t think of any spies who went to dancing school either. This was a bad development. “Whether they know it or not, I’m not going,” Harriet said firmly.

“They will
never get me
,” Janie said very loudly. Then in a different tone, “Hey, Harriet, I’ve got to finish this experiment.”

“That’s all right. I’ve got some things to put in my notebook. Go ahead.” Janie got up briskly and went over to her lab table. “If I don’t do it now, this thing will curdle.”

“What are you making?”

There was no answer. There was never any answer when you asked Janie this, but Harriet did it every now and then just to be polite. It was something explosive. That much was perfectly clear. Harriet sat looking around her for a while, at Janie’s back bent attentively over her work, at the sunlight coming in the window—the late afternoon sun which looked sad and pleasant at the same time and which reminded her abruptly of New Year’s Day last year. There hadn’t been anything important about that day. She had just happened to look at the sun in the same way. She leaned back on the bed. It would be nice to be here or somewhere like this every day.

MAYBE WHEN I GROW UP I CAN HAVE AN OFFICE. ON THE DOOR IT CAN SAY “HARRIET THE SPY” IN GOLD
LETTERS. AND THEN IT CAN HAVE OFFICE HOURS LIKE THE DENTIST’S DOOR HAS AND UNDERNEATH IT CAN SAY
ANY SPY WORK UNDERTAKEN
. I GUESS I WON’T PUT THE PRICE ON THE DOOR. THEN THEY’LL HAVE TO COME IN AND ASK ME. I CAN GO THERE EVERY DAY FROM ELEVEN TO FOUR AND WRITE IN MY NOTEBOOK. PEOPLE WILL COME IN AND TELL ME WHO TO GO AND SPY ON AND I CAN DO THAT OUTSIDE OF OFFICE HOURS. I WONDER IF I WILL GET ANY MURDER CASES. I WOULD HAVE TO
HAVE A GUN AND FOLLOW PEOPLE BUT I BET IT WOULD BE AT NIGHT AND I WOULDN’T BE ALLOWED OUT.

“Hey, Janie, if you were going to slit somebody’s throat, wouldn’t you do it in the dead of night?”

“I’d poison them.” Janie didn’t even turn around.

I bet you would, thought Harriet. “But, Janie, they’d just trace the poison.”

“Not the one I’ve got.”

“Did you make a new one?”

“Yes.”

Harriet went back to her notebook.

WELL, MAYBE THERE’S SOMETHING TO THIS CHEMISTRY AFTER ALL. I COULD POISON PINKY AND NO ONE WOULD EVER KNOW IT. I BET THEY NEED SOME NEW POISONS. BUT OLE GOLLY SAYS THAT IN WASHINGTON THEY’VE ALREADY GOT A LITTLE TUBE WITH A SPOONFUL OF SOMETHING THAT WILL BLOW UP THE WHOLE WORLD, MAYBE THE WHOLE UNIVERSE. WHAT WOULD HAPPEN? WOULD WE FLY THROUGH THE AIR? IN SPACE YOU JUST FLOAT AROUND. I WOULD BE LONELY.

“Oh,
boy
, is that maddening,” Janie stormed away from the lab table and sat down with her arms folded.

“What happened?” Harriet looked up.

“I goofed,” Janie said. “If I’d done it right, it would have made a terrific noise.”

“What would your mother have done?”

“That’s who the noise was for, silly. If they think I’ll set foot in a dancing school, they’re off their rockers.”

“Why don’t you blow up the dancing school?” Harriet asked sensibly.

“Oh, they’d just find another place to have it. I know this kind of thing. Once they get this kind of thing in their heads, forget it. The only way out is to absolutely refuse. My mother hates to spend money, that’s one thing; so if she can make a joke out of my not wanting to, then I’m in the clear because then she can save the money.”

Harriet knew what she meant. Mrs. Gibbs tried to make a bad joke out of everything. Mrs. Welsch always spoke of Janie’s mother as “that smart nose, Mabel Gibbs.” Harriet thought to herself that one thing she couldn’t stand was the kind of person who thought she was funny when she wasn’t.

“See, if she can get across to her friends the idea that I’m an impossible eccentric, then it won’t be her fault I’m not in dancing school,” Janie went on. “And as for me, I couldn’t care less if I learn to dance. I’ve got a big picture of Newton learning the Charleston.”

Janie had a definite mind. That was one thing you could say for her. Harriet admired it.

There was a knock on the door. “Oh, brother,” Janie said and got up to answer it.

It was Janie’s mother. She gave her big horse laugh as she came into the room. “Well, well, how’s Dr. Caligari?” she boomed out and laughed again raucously.

It’s a good thing
she
laughs, thought Harriet, because no one else ever does. Janie looked at her mother stony-faced. Harriet did the same.

“That’s my kid, a bundle of fun,” and so saying Mrs. Gibbs slapped Janie on the back with such a wallop that Janie almost fell to the floor. Recovering herself, she glared again, a hideous smile beginning to creep across her face.

“‘Yes, sir, that’s my baby, No, sir, don’t mean maybe,”’ Mrs. Gibbs began to sing in her rollicking way while Harriet and Janie looked at the floor in a state of acute embarrassment. Noticing finally that she had no audience, Mrs. Gibbs stopped. “Well, Harriet,” she hollered, “haven’t seen you in a long time. Have a nice summer?” Mrs. Gibbs never waited for an answer from children, thinking they were too shy to speak (which they always were around her), but zoomed on with her shouts. “Talked to your mother the other day. Has Janie told you about dancing school? Your mother’s all for it and I am too. You girls need a few graces, you know, turning into young women any day now, don’t want to be clumps on the dance floor, nothing more embarrassing than a wallflower. Your mother’s worried about the way you move, Harriet.” And she suddenly focused on Harriet, waking her out of a reverie.

“Fast,” Harriet said, “that’s the way I move, fast. What’s wrong with that?”

Mrs. Gibbs stared at her. Janie went back to her lab table. Mrs. Gibbs, not having any idea how to take Harriet’s comment, decided, as she always did, that the best thing was to laugh it off. She gave an enormous whoop of laughter. Harriet saw Janie’s shoulders go up in a quick little embarrassed cringe.

“Well, now, aren’t you something. Wait’ll I tell Harry that. You’re as bad as Janie.” She laughed a lot more for good measure. “Well, we’ll just see about that. I think you girls have something to learn. I think you have to find out you’re girls. I think we might just get together, all us mothers, and blast a little sense into your heads”—her hand was on the doorknob—“and I don’t mean
your
kind of blast, Dr. Jekyll.” She started to open the door and at that moment there was a terrific noise. Something on the lab table flew straight up into the air, and Mrs. Gibbs went through the door like a shot.

Janie turned around and they both looked at the door through which came several different screams and feet clattering as Mrs. Gibbs tore down the steps, screeching, “Harry Gibbs, she’s done it. Harry, come here, Harry, that maniac will kill us all, Harry Gibbs, come here, she’s blown up the house!”

They listened to a whispered colloquy in the downstairs hall after Harry had run out, saying, “WHAT! WHAT? What’s happened?”

After the whispers there was an ominous silence during which they must have realized that the house was still standing. Then Harry’s voice—“I’ll go speak to her”—and his feet beginning the climb.

Harriet had no desire to watch Mr. Gibbs’s tiny perspiring face as he tried to cope with his daughter. It would only make it worse for him if she was there.

“I think I’ll just go down the back steps,” she said gently, going toward the door.

“I guess you better.” Janie sounded tired.

“Don’t give up,” Harriet whispered as she left.

“Never,” Janie whispered back.

T
hat night at dinner everything was going along as usual, that is, Mr. and Mrs. Welsch were having an interminable, rambling conversation about nothing in particular while Harriet watched it all like a tennis match, when suddenly Harriet leaped to her feet as though she had just then remembered, and screamed, “I’ll be
damned
if I’ll go to dancing school.”

“Harriet!” Mrs. Welsch was appalled. “How dare you use words like that at the table.”

“Or any other place, dear,” interjected Mr. Welsch calmly.

“All right, I’ll be FINKED if I’ll go to dancing school.” Harriet stood and screamed this solidly. She was throwing a fit. She only threw fits as a last resort, so that even as she did it she had a tiny feeling in the back of her brain that she had already lost. She wouldn’t, however, have it said that she went down without a try.

“Where in the world did you learn a word like that?” Mrs. Welsch’s eyebrows were raised almost to her hairline.

“It’s not a verb, anyway,” said Mr. Welsch. They both sat looking at Harriet as though she were a curiosity put on television to entertain them.

“I
will not
, I
will not
, I
will not
,” shouted Harriet at the top of her lungs. She wasn’t getting the right reaction. Something was wrong.

“Oh, but you will,” said Mrs. Welsch calmly. “It really isn’t so bad. You don’t even know what it’s like.”

“I hated it,” said Mr. Welsch and went back to his dinner.

“I
do so
know what’s it’s like.” Harriet was getting tired of standing up and screaming. She wished she could sit down but it wouldn’t have done. It would have looked like giving up. “I went there once on a visit with Beth Ellen because she had to go and I was spending the night, and you have to wear party dresses and all the boys are too short and you feel like a
hippopotamus
.” She said this all in one breath and screamed “hippopotamus.”

Mr. Welsch laughed. “An accurate description, you must admit.”

“Darling, the boys get taller as you go along.”

“I just
won’t
.” Somehow, indefinably, Harriet felt she was losing ground all the time.

“It isn’t so bad.” Mrs. Welsch went back to her dinner.

This was too much. The point wasn’t coming across at all. They had to be roused out of their complacency. Harriet took a deep breath, and in as loud a voice as she could, repeated, “I’ll be
damned
if I’ll go!”

“All right, that does it.” Mrs. Welsch stood up. She was furious. “You’re getting your mouth washed out with soap, young lady. Miss Golly, Miss Golly, step in here a minute.” When there was no response, Mrs. Welsch rang the little silver dinner bell and in a moment Cook appeared.

Harriet stood petrified.
Soap!

“Cook, will you tell Miss Golly to step in here a minute.” Mrs. Welsch stood looking at Harriet as though she were a worm, as Cook departed. “Now Harriet, to your room. Miss Golly will be up shortly.”

“But…”

“Your
room
,” said Mrs. Welsch firmly, pointing to the door.

Feeling rather like an idiot, Harriet left the dining room. She thought for half a second about waiting around and listening outside but decided it was too risky.

She went up to her room and waited. Ole Golly came in a few minutes later.

“Well, now, what is this about dancing school?” she asked amiably.

“I’m not going,” Harriet said meekly. There was something that made her feel ridiculous when she shouted at Ole Golly. Maybe because she never got the feeling with Ole Golly that she did with her parents that they never heard anything.

“Why not?” Ole Golly asked sensibly.

Harriet thought a minute. The other reasons weren’t really it. It was that the thought of being in dancing school somehow made her feel undignified. Finally she had it. “
Spies
don’t go to dancing school,” she said triumphantly.

“Oh, but they do,” said Ole Golly.

“They do
not
,” said Harriet rudely.

“Harriet”—Ole Golly took a deep breath and sat down—“have you ever thought about how spies are trained?”

“Yes. They learn languages and guerrilla fighting and everything about a country so if they’re captured they’ll know all the old football scores and things like that.”

“That’s
boy
spies, Harriet. You’re not thinking.”

Harriet hated more than anything else to be told by Ole Golly that she wasn’t thinking. It was worse than any soap. “What do you mean?” she asked quietly.

“What about
girl
spies? What are they taught?”

“The same things.”

“The same things and a few more. Remember that movie we saw about Mata Hari one night on television?”

“Yes…”

“Well, think about that. Where did she operate? Not in the woods guerrilla fighting, right? She went to parties, right? And remember that scene with the general or whatever he was—she was dancing, right? Now how are you going to be a spy if you don’t know how to dance?”

There must be some answer to this, thought Harriet as she sat there silently. She couldn’t think of a thing. She went “Hmmmph” rather loudly. Then she thought of something. “Well, do I have to wear those silly dresses? Couldn’t I wear my spy clothes? They’re better to learn to dance in anyway. In school we wear our gym suits to learn to dance.”

“Of course not. Can you see Mata Hari in a gym suit? First of all, if you wear your spy clothes everyone knows you’re a spy, so what have you gained? No, you have to look like everyone else, then you’ll get by and no one will suspect you.”

“That’s true,” said Harriet miserably. She couldn’t see Mata Hari in a gym suit either.

“Now”—Ole Golly stood up—“you better march downstairs and tell them you changed your mind.”

“What’ll I say?” Harriet felt embarrassed.

“Just say you’ve changed your mind.”

Harriet stood up resolutely and marched down the steps to the dining room. Her parents were having coffee. She stood in the doorway and said in a loud voice, “I’ve changed my mind!” They looked at her in a startled way. She turned and left the doorway abruptly. There was nothing further to be said. As she went back up the steps she heard them burst out laughing and then her father say, “Boy, that Miss Golly is magic, sheer magic. I wonder where we’d be without her?”

Harriet didn’t know how to approach Janie about her defection, but she decided she must. At lunch, Sport and Janie sat laughing over the new edition of
The Gregory News
which had just come out.
The Gregory News
was the school paper. There was a page reserved for every grade in the Middle School and every grade in the Upper School. The Lower School were such idiots they didn’t need a page.

“Look at that. It’s ridiculous.” Janie was talking about Marion Hawthorne’s editorial about candy wrappers everywhere.

“She just did that because Miss Whitehead talked about them on opening day,” Harriet sneered.

“Well, what else? She hasn’t got the sense to think of anything original.” Sport bit into a hard-boiled egg. Sport made his own lunch and it was usually hardboiled eggs.

“But it’s so dumb and boring,” Harriet said. “Listen to this: ‘We must not drop our candy wrappers on the ground. They must be put into the wastebaskets provided for this purpose.’ It’s not even news; we hear it practically every day.”

“I’ll put
her
in a wastebasket,” said Janie with satisfaction.

“My father says you have to catch the reader’s attention right at first and then hold it,” said Sport.

“Well, she just lost it,” said Harriet.

“You oughta write it, Harriet, you’re a writer,” said Sport.

“I wouldn’t do it now if they paid me. They can have their dumb paper.” Harriet finished her sandwich with a frown.

“They should be blown up,” said Janie.

They ate in silence for a moment.

“Janie…” Harriet hesitated so long that they both looked up at her. “I think they’ve got me,” she said sadly.

“What? Was that sandwich poisoned?” Janie stood up. The egg fell right out of Sport’s mouth.

“No,” Harriet said quickly. Now it was anticlimactic. “I mean dancing school,” Harriet said grimly.

Janie sat down and looked away as though Harriet had been impolite.

“Dancing school?” Sport squeaked, picking the egg out of his lap.

“Yes,” said Janie grimly.

“Oh, boy, am I glad. My father never even
heard
of that.” Sport grinned around his egg.

“Well,” said Harriet sadly, “it looks like I’m gonna have to if I’m gonna be a spy.”

“Who ever heard of a dancing spy?” Janie was so furious she wouldn’t even look at Harriet.

“Mati Hari,” Harriet said quietly; then when Janie didn’t turn around she added very loudly, “I can’t
help
it, Janie.”

Janie turned and looked at her. “I know,” she said sadly, “I’m going too.”

It was all right then, and Harriet ate her other tomato sandwich happily.

After school, when Harriet went home for her cake and milk, she remembered that it was Thursday and that Thursday was Ole Golly’s night out. As she was running down the steps to the kitchen she was struck by a thought so interesting that it made her stop still on the steps. If Ole Golly had a boy friend and she went out on her night out—wouldn’t she meet the boy friend? And… if she were to meet the boy friend—couldn’t Harriet follow her and see what he looked like? Extraordinary thought. She decided that she would have to be extra careful and terribly crafty to find out when, where, and with whom Ole Golly was spending her free evening. If Ole Golly went to places like the Welsches did, like night clubs, Harriet wouldn’t be able to follow. Out of the question. She would have to wait until she was Mata Hari for that.

But
IF
, for instance, this boy friend were to come to the house and pick up Ole Golly,
THEN
Harriet could at least see what he looked like. She decided to pursue this as she clattered down the rest of the way into the kitchen. Ole Golly was having her tea. The cook put out the cake and milk as Harriet slipped into place at the table.

“Well,” said Ole Golly in a friendly manner.

“Well?” said Harriet. She was looking at Ole Golly in a new way. What was it like for Ole Golly to have a boy friend? Did she like him the way Harriet liked Sport?

“Well, iffen it don’t rain, it’ll be a long dry spell,” Ole Golly said softly, then smiled into her tea.

Harriet looked at her curiously. That was one thing about Ole Golly, thought Harriet, she never, never said dull things like, ‘How was school today?’ or ‘How did you do in arithmetic?’ or ‘Going out to play?’ All of these were unanswerable questions, and she supposed that Ole Golly was the only grown-up that knew that.

“Where are you going tonight?” Harriet said abruptly. She couldn’t think of any way to find out subtly without Ole Golly catching on. Sometimes the direct approach was best.

“Well,” said Ole Golly, “that’s actually none of your business, but I’ll tell you this. I’m going out this afternoon at five o’clock, and by the time I get back, you’ll be sound asleep.”

I wouldn’t count on that, thought Harriet. “Are my family going out too?” she asked.

“Yes, they are. You’re stuck with me,” said the cook in a grumpy way.

Harriet hated that. The cook never wanted to do anything in the evening except read the
Journal
, then fall asleep. Harriet hated the quietness of the house, the wholesale emptiness that seemed to envelop her as soon as the last door had shut, the last voice had called out gaily, “Go to sleep on time. Be a good girl.” She didn’t mind at all when they went out, if Ole Golly were there, because they always spent the evening playing checkers and watching television.

“How’s the weather out?” asked Ole Golly unexpectedly.

“Right pretty,” said the cook.

Hmmmm, thought Harriet. Maybe she’s going to meet him someplace outside. Harriet got up from the table.

“Well,” said Ole Golly, “guess I won’t see you till tomorrow.”

“Why?” asked Harriet.

“Well, you’re going out now, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“No?” asked Ole Golly, considerable surprise showing in her voice.

“No,” said Harriet, a tiny sense of triumph creeping into her voice. “I’m just going up to my room.”

“Oh, well, I’ll see you before I go then. I’m leaving about five,” said Ole Golly and poured herself another cup of tea. Harriet left the room. Five o’clock. Perhaps she should station herself somewhere at five to get a good view of the front door. It was all
very interesting
. When she got to her room she wrote in her notebook:

WHERE DO PEOPLE GO AT FIVE O’CLOCK? SHE HAS ALREADY HAD TEA. SO SHE WON’T GO OUT TO TEA. A MOVIE? OLE GOLLY DOESN’T LIKE THEM VERY MUCH. SAYS THEY POISON YOUR MIND. THE CIRCUS IS IN TOWN. IF I WERE MEETING SOMEBODY I WOULD MAKE THEM TAKE ME TO THE CIRCUS. I LOVE THE FREAKS. IF I GO ACROSS THE STREET AND HIDE BEHIND A TREE IN THE PARK I CAN SEE THE FRONT DOOR JUST RIGHT.

At four forty-five she sneaked past Ole Golly’s room. She could hear Ole Golly getting dressed and whistling to herself as she did. She must be in a good mood to whistle, thought Harriet.

She found an appropriate tree and waited. She waited and waited, looking at her watch every two minutes. A policeman strolled by and stared at her. She tried to look casual, as though she just happened to lean against that tree all the time so what was he looking at. Lots of taxis passed. She watched a woman park her car. A delivery man on one of those bikes with a cart in front parked in front of her house. She looked to see if it were Little Joe Curry, but it was a much older man with a little black mustache. He went up to her front door. Suddenly it hit her. Could this be the boy friend? She watched as he rang their bell. He
must
be. Mrs. Welsch always ordered from the Dei Santis and this man’s jacket had another store printed on it. The door opened and Ole Golly came out. It
was. This
was the boy friend. Harriet gave him the real once-over as he and Ole Golly stood on the top step smiling and chatting to each other.