slammed the notebook shut as though she had put Miss Elson in a box and slammed the lid. Miss Elson called the roll and her voice squeaked: “Andrews, Gibbs, Hansen, Hawthorne, Hennessey, Matthews, Peters, Rocque, Welsch, Whitehead.”
Everyone said, “Here,” dutifully.
“And now, children, we will have the election for officer. Are there any nominations?”
Sport leaped to his feet. “I nominate Harriet Welsch.”
Janie yelled, “I second it.” They always did this every year because the one that was officer controlled everything. When the teacher went out of the room the officer could write down the names of anyone who was disorderly. The officer also got to be the editor of the Sixth Grade Page in the school paper.
Rachel Hennessey got up. “I nominate Marion Hawthorne,” she said in her prissiest voice.
Marion Hawthorne shot Beth Ellen Hansen a look that made Harriet’s hair stand on end. Beth Ellen looked terrified, then got timidly to her feet and, almost whispering, managed to stammer, “I second it.” It was rigged, the whole thing, every year. There were no more nominations and then came the vote. Marion Hawthorne got it. Every year either Marion or Rachel Hennessey got it. Harriet wrote in her book:
YOU’D THINK THE TEACHERS WOULD SMELL A RAT BECAUSE IT’S FIVE YEARS NOW AND NEITHER ME NOR SPORT NOR JANIE HAS EVER GOTTEN IT.
Marion Hawthorne looked terribly smug. Sport, Janie, and Harriet scowled at each other. Janie whispered, “Our day will come. Just wait.” Harriet wondered if she meant that when she blew up the world Marion Hawthorne would see what they were made of. Or maybe Janie meant to blow up Marion Hawthorne first, which wasn’t a bad idea.
It was finally three thirty-seven and school was over. Sport came up to Harriet. “Hey, whyncha come over this afternoon?”
“After the spy route, maybe, if I’ve got time.”
“Aw, gee, Janie’s working in the lab. You both are always working.”
“Why don’t you practise? How’re you ever going to be a ball player?”
“Can’t. Have to clean the house. Come over if you get time.”
Harriet said, “OK,” then “goodbye,” and ran towards the house. It was time for her cake and milk. Every day at three-forty she had cake and milk. Harriet loved doing everything every day in the same way.
“Time for my cake, for my cake and milk, time for my milk and cake.” She ran yelling through the front door of her house. She ran through the front hall past the dining room and the living room and down the steps into the kitchen. There she ran smack into the cook.
“Like a missile you are, shot from that school,” screamed the cook.
“Hello cook, hello, cooky, hello, hello, hello, hello,” sang Harriet. Then she opened her notebook and wrote:
BLAH, BLAH, BLAH. I ALWAYS DO CARRY ON A LOT. ONCE OLE GOLLY SAID TO ME, “I COULD NEVER LOSE YOU IN A CROWD, I’D JUST FOLLOW THE SOUND OF YOUR VOICE.”
She slammed the notebook and the cook jumped. Harriet laughed.
The cook put the cake and milk in front of her. “What you always writing in that dad-blamed book for?” she asked with a sour little face.
“Because,” Harriet said around a bite of cake, “I’m a spy.”
“Spy, huh. Some spy.”
“I am a spy. I’m a good spy, too. I’ve never been caught.”
Cook settled herself with a cup of coffee. “How long you been a spy?”
“Since I could write. Ole Golly told me if I was going to be a writer I better write down everything, so I’m a spy that writes down everything.”
“Hmmmmmmph.” Harriet knew the cook couldn’t think of anything to say when she did that.
“I know all about you.”
“Like fun, you do.” The cook looked startled.
“I do too. I know you live with your sister in Brooklyn and that she might get married and you wish you had a car and you have a son that’s no good and drinks.”
“What do you do, child? Listen at doors?”
“Yes,” said Harriet.
“Well, I never,” said the cook. “I think that’s bad manners.”
“Ole Golly doesn’t. Ole Golly says find out everything you can ’cause life is hard enough even if you know a lot.”
“I bet she don’t know you spooking round this house listening at doors.”
“Well, how am I supposed to find out anything?”
“I don’t know,” – the cook shook her head – “I don’t know about that Ole Golly.”
‘What do you mean?” Harriet felt apprehensive.
“I don’t know. I just don’t know. I wonder about her.”
Ole Golly came into the room. “What is it you don’t know?”
Cook looked as though she might hide under the table. She stood up. “Can I get you your tea, Miss Golly?” she asked meekly.
“That would be most kind of you,” said Ole Golly and sat down.
Harriet opened her notebook:
I WONDER WHAT THAT WAS ALL ABOUT. MAYBE OLE GOLLY KNOWS SOMETHING ABOUT COOK THAT COOK DOESN’T WANT HER TO KNOW. CHECK ON THIS.
“What do you have in school this year, Harriet?” asked Ole Golly.
“English, History, Geography, French, Math, ugh, Science, ugh, and the Performing Arts, ugh, ugh, ugh.” Harriet rattled these off in a very bored way.
“What history?”
“Greeks and Romans, ugh, ugh, ugh.”
“They’re fascinating.”
“What?”
“They are. Just wait, you’ll see. Talk about spies. Those gods spied on everybody all the time.”
“Yeah?”
“‘Yes,’ Harriet, not ‘yeah’.”
“Well, I wish I’d never heard of them.”
“Ah, there’s a thought from Aesop for you: ‘We would often be sorry if our wishes were gratified.’” Ole Golly gave a little moo of satisfaction after she had delivered herself of this.
“I think I’ll go now,” Harriet said.
“Yes,”
