I and Sproggy (4 page)

“Hello,” Sproggy said. “Are you another friend of Adam's?”

“Sure,” the boy said. “And I'll be even friendlier if you kids hand over the bread. I've got a knife in my pocket,” he warned, coming so close Adam could smell him. He smelled of fried pork chops and dirty underwear. “I don't want to hurt you, so hand it over.”

“He means money,” Sproggy said.

“No kidding,” Adam snapped.

He turned out his empty pockets. He never had any money.

“How about you, lady?” the boy asked Sproggy.

“I've got some but it's not your kind, I'm afraid.” She dove into her backpack and came up with some English money. “You're welcome to it,” she said, “but it won't do you much good.”

The boy looked at it carefully, swore, and tossed it in the bushes. “I guess I'll have to settle for the pooch, then,” he said. “She might be worth a couple of bucks to somebody.”

He wasn't getting Rosie. Don't struggle, his mother had often told Adam. Hand over what they want. Your safety is the important thing.

This smelly rat wasn't getting Rosie.

“Get lost!” Adam shouted to Sproggy. He snatched up the dog and ran. He saw Sproggy swing her pack at the mugger, getting him in the back of the neck. The guy fell, clutching his head.

They ran toward Gracie Mansion. There was always a guard there. Lungs bursting, hearts pounding, scared, they ran.

“There's a bobby,” Sproggy said breathlessly, coming to a halt outside the fence surrounding the house. They peered through at the long black limousine letting people out at the foot of the steps.

“Let's tell him what happened,” Sproggy said. “Maybe they could catch him.”

Adam looked behind. “It's OK, he didn't follow us. Maybe you killed him.” Boy, Dad should be here now, he thought. Who's taking care of who? What a joke!

Sproggy looked alarmed. “Oh, I don't think so,” she said. “He was only stunned.”

A man and woman came out of the mansion and stood at the foot of the steps, greeting their guests.

“That's the Mayor,” Adam said. “And those others are big shots. You have to be a big shot to go there.”

“He looks a jolly sort,” Sproggy said approvingly. They pressed their faces against the fence, even Rosie, and watched.

“I think New York is simply ripping,” Sproggy said happily. “Nothing this exciting ever happened to me at home.”

CHAPTER 5

During the night a terrific thunderstorm woke Adam. Rosalie crawled in beside him, quivering. Maybe King Kong was out there, looking for a juicy kid or two, Adam thought.

Peering out the window, he saw nothing but lightning. Thunder rumbled, rain wet his face. He looked down, half hoping to see Kong lurching down the middle of the street, trampling taxis under his massive feet. Chin on hands, Adam savored the thought that he was the only boy awake in the entire city.

It was a good thing Sproggy had kept her mouth shut about the mugger. That was all Adam's mother would have needed to hear. If she'd found out about that guy, she'd probably chain Adam to his bed and let him travel only as far as the bathroom by himself. He had enough problems as it was. Ten was a tough age, as far as he was concerned. Too young to be on your own, do what you wanted when you felt like it, and too old to sit around watching TV, munching animal crackers. Maybe eleven would be better.

If only I was taller, Adam thought. He was worried about being the shortest kid in his class. Ever since he could remember, he'd had that dubious distinction. Last year, for one glorious moment, another boy had been even smaller. Then it turned out the kid was so smart he was transferred to the sixth grade. The final insult.

Once he'd had a dream in which he was the same size he'd been in second grade. The other kids kept growing and growing and he stayed the same. They reached down and patted him on the head and talked baby talk to him. It had been horribly real.

It was cool having his father back in town, within walking distance. I and my father, he thought, gazing out into the rain, will go to ball games and the Museum of Modern Art whenever we want. I and my father will be a team.

Arabella was like a stork, he thought, standing on her long, thin legs. A nice stork. But Sproggy was more like a dinosaur. She mowed things down in her path. They were not at all alike, Arabella and Sproggy.

Hair brushed against his arm, masses of bristly hair. Panic seized him. King Kong
was
out there in the vast darkness, making the air boil, ready to reach in and pluck him and Rosalie out like olives from a jar and carry them both off to his lair, a secret place where no other human had ever been. There Adam would spend the rest of his days combing the tangles out of Kong's ears and cooking huge dishes of tiger stew sprinkled with dragon's dung. Rosalie's chore would be to lick the dishes clean.

“Cut it out,” Adam said to her crossly as she rubbed against him. “You are such a chicken.”

After the guests had gone that afternoon, Adam had asked his mother, “How'd you like them?”

“Um,” she said, lighting a cigarette. She smoked rarely. “They're very nice,” she said.

She didn't even inhale. He could have given her a couple of tips, learned from Kenny. Kenny's brother had taught him, and he'd passed it along. Smoking was foul, Adam thought. And it stopped you from growing.

Now Rosalie crept closer. In disgust, Adam went back to bed, letting her fight her way across the pitch-black room and under the sheet, whimpering. Ordinarily Adam, who sometimes had a kind heart, would've talked her back with “It's OK, Rosie, it's OK”

Let her figure it out for herself. Big baby.

In the morning the air was fresh and clear, the sky a piercing blue, and the terrible heat had gone. Adam cooked himself an egg and, to make amends, added another to the pan for Rosalie. She liked hers sunny-side up. It was the least he could do after he'd been so mean.

“There you go,” Adam said in a placating voice, putting her breakfast on the floor. “Just the way you like it.”

Rosalie gave him the cold shoulder. She had been known to hold a grudge for days. He began to read the newspaper. She sidled up to her plate, sniffed, and, without wagging her tail in gratitude, licked discreetly at her egg, her tongue barely emerging from her mouth. If she had to eat, she was not going to let him know she was enjoying herself.

The doorbell rang and Adam went to answer it. His mother, he knew, was locked in her study, working on some illustrations that were due next week. She was not to be disturbed except for an emergency.

Sproggy stood there, armed with her backpack, still in her denim ensemble.

“Did you sleep in that?” Adam asked sourly.

There was a silence while she looked him over. “Americans have such an odd sense of humor,” she said finally. “It takes some getting used to. I expect I shall, eventually.” But she looked extremely doubtful.

“Mummy sent me over to say thanks for a lovely time yesterday,” she said. “May I come in?” she asked, coming in. “Mummy also said I should ask you and your mum to our flat for tea. We're having scones and trifle.”

“Your flat?” One thing at a time. What were scones and trifle? He wanted to know, but he'd be darned if he'd ask
her
.

“Yes, our flat. We've borrowed it from a friend of Mummy's. It's just 'round the corner.”

If the flat was 'round the corner, no matter what it was, that was too close for comfort.

Sproggy peered into the living room.

“I didn't say anything,” she announced proudly. “About yesterday, I mean. About you-know-what. About that bloke in the park.”

“You want a medal?”

“A medal? What a ridiculous idea,” Sproggy said in an unnaturally high voice. He glared at her and, to his dismay, saw her eyes were wet.

“It's just an expression,” he said against his will. “You don't have to take everything I say so seriously.”

“I thought when I came to America I wouldn't have any difficulty with the language,” she said, wiping her face with a handkerchief. “I guess I was wrong. I don't understand half of what you say.”

Adam was undecided. If he shut the front door, he'd shut her inside with him. Also, that would mean she was going to stay awhile. On the other hand, he couldn't just stand there in his pajamas.

In his pajamas.

He bolted for his bedroom and slammed the door, locking it.

“I say, Adam,” she said through the crack, “you
are
odd. You lunge about so.”

He didn't answer. If she thought he'd gone back to sleep, she'd leave. On the other hand, the possibility was good that she'd sit down, relax, take her chess set out of her backpack, and play a game against herself, waiting for him. He wouldn't put it past her.

She'd probably win, too.

He put his ear to the crack and heard nothing. Maybe she'd gone. He was on the verge of unlocking the door to investigate when she called, “I say, Adam, may I use your loo?”

That was close. He'd almost been trapped a second time.

“We don't have one,” he hollered back. What was a loo?

“You don't have one? How very strange,” Sproggy said. She was outside the door, he knew, waiting to pounce. She hadn't budged. She was going to wait all day until he had to come out and have dinner. He could hear his mother say, “Won't you stay and have dinner with us, dear?”

She'd stay. He knew she would.

“In a nice flat like this you don't have a loo?” Sproggy asked. “Not even one?”

“You'd better go home and get one,” he told her.

Sproggy laughed. She laughed a long time. Adam got madder and madder. She was laughing
at
him. He knew it. Laughter had a special sound when it was directed
at
you.

“A loo is a toilet,” she finally said, when she'd had her fun. “A lavatory. You don't get one, you use one. Fancy that.” She began to laugh again. Adam put his pillow around his head.

“Fancy that, he doesn't even know what a loo is,” Sproggy said in a clear voice which penetrated the pillow. “Just fancy that.”

The front door slammed. Adam lay back on his bed, his hands behind his head, thinking. Life was suddenly very complicated, it seemed to him. Only a couple of days ago his mother and he and Rosalie had been a unit. He had missed his father, but he had become used to missing him, even deriving a certain amount of pleasure out of it. Now his father was virtually around the corner, complete with a new family.

You shouldn't have asked me to take care of her, Dad, he said in his head. You had no business. You look out for her. She's your responsibility, not mine. You brought her here. Now you take over. So what if I didn't know what “loo” means? It's a dumb word. She laughed at me because I didn't know her word. She has a nerve.

If I laughed at her every time she didn't understand what I say, I'd probably sound like a baboon. Adam got up and stood on his head, then got to his feet, flared his nostrils and scratched his chest, making noises like a baboon he'd seen on a nature program.

The doorknob rattled.

“Adam,” his mother called, “what's going on in there?”

He unlocked his door.

“Ma,” he said, “please don't disturb me. I was in the loo practicing being a baboon.”

“Oh. Well, don't forget to brush your teeth, change your underwear, and empty the wastebasket.” She went back down the hall and into her study.

And Adam went back to stand watching himself, perfecting his imitation. No telling when it might come in handy.

CHAPTER 6

“Well, how'd it go?” Charlie asked Adam later on that day.

“How'd what go?” Adam said, knowing what Charlie meant.

“The little girl from across the sea. Your English step-sis. My wife Millie says you're some lucky boy to have a sis from foreign shores. Millie's mom and dad were from the other side, too, you know.”

“What other side?”

“Scotland, Germany, Ireland, all those. Millie says she's polyglot. I frankly had to look it up,” Charlie said. “Millie's very well-read. Give her a word, she'll tell you what it means like that.” Charlie snapped his fingers. “She does that crossword puzzle in jig time. That's the wonderful thing about this country of ours.”

“The crossword puzzle?”

“Everybody's from someplace else.” Charlie got back to his original subject. “Every American citizen has blood from other places running in his veins. What's your ethnic background, kid?”

“I haven't got one,” Adam said.

“Sure you do. You got to have one,” Charlie insisted. “Everybody has an ethnic background. Now mine, it's part Russian, part Swedish, with a little Polish thrown in for good measure. That's where I got this nose.” He turned his profile for Adam to get the full effect of his nose.

“Some people, they'd have a nose job if they had one like mine,” he said proudly. “Not me. It's my heritage. How'd you get on with your new relatives?”

“All right,” Adam said shortly. Maybe sometime he'd tell Charlie about yesterday. Not now.

“Mr. Early was looking for you,” Charlie said.

Mr. Early lived alone with only his parrot for company in a tiny apartment on the top floor. Two years ago his wife had died, and last year Mr. Early had had a mild stroke. “All by himself,” Charlie had told people, “with the TV going and water boiling away in his teakettle, he keeled over. If I hadn't gone up to check on a plugged drain, Mr. Early might've gone to his Maker.

“They got the little fella just in time,” Charlie said. “Five more minutes and the jig would've been up.” Charlie always referred to Mr. Early as “the little fella” because Mr. Early was a very small man, a little taller than Adam, not as tall as Kenny or Sproggy. His wife had towered over him.