Rope Burn

  Jan Siebold

  Albert Whitman & Company

  Chicago, Illinois

  To Jim.

  Contents

  The Assignment

  Proverb One

  ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER

  or How I Retrieved Something Valuable from a Deserted House

  Proverb Two

  HE WHO HESITATES IS LOST

  or How I Met James

  Proverb Three

  WHEN IN ROME, DO AS THE ROMANS DO

  or My Secret Weekend Life

  Proverb Four

  IF AT FIRST YOU DON’T SUCCEED, TRY, TRY AGAIN

  or How My Writing Has Improved

  Proverb Five

  ABSENCE MAKES THE HEART GROW FONDER

  or The First Time I Saw a Dead Body

  Proverb Six

  A PENNY SAVED IS A PENNY EARNED

  or How I Bought My Deluxe Colored Pencil Set

  Proverb Seven

  TOO MANY COOKS SPOIL THE BROTH

  or How Mom and I Created Volcanic Salsa

  Proverb Eight

  HASTE MAKES WASTE

  or How I Slipped in Crawford Creek

  Proverb Nine

  THE PEN IS MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD

  or How My Voice Was Heard

  The Assignment

  I hate writing.

  At least, I hate the kind of writing that most teachers expect. Where do they come up with those ideas for assignments, anyway?

  I swear, all teachers must have been required to take a college course called “Student Torture 101.” Mr. Best, my English teacher, must have gotten an “A.”

  I started out liking him this year. He actually has a sense of humor sometimes. I just wish I could figure out what he wants from me.

  Which brings me to Mr. Best’s latest brainstorm. We’ve been learning about proverbs in English class. (In case you don’t know what a proverb is, don’t worry. We had to memorize the definition. It’s “a brief popular saying based on common sense or experience which illustrates a point.” Example: “One bad apple doesn’t spoil the whole bunch.”)

  Mr. Best had the brilliant idea that we should write a composition about a proverb that illustrates something that has happened in our lives. He gave us a whole list of proverbs to choose from.

  My friend James thinks that the assignment is one of our easier ones. He already has his idea. He’s going to use the proverb “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” His composition is going to be about his parents’ attempts to quit smoking.

  James told me that the longest they’ve ever gone without smoking is three months. He has tried to convince them to quit. He even left his health textbook opened to the chapter called “The Effects of Tobacco Smoke,” but it didn’t seem to help.

  I’ve been at James’s house during some of those nonsmoking periods. You could almost cut the tension with a knife. The eating has usually been good during those times, though. When Mr. and Mrs. Buchanan aren’t smoking, they make up for it by eating a lot.

  Once when I was there, they actually had a huge shouting match over who finished the last piece of chocolate layer cake. They seemed pretty embarrassed about it later on. James said that they each lit up a cigarette as soon as I left.

  Don’t get me wrong—Mr. and Mrs. Buchanan are nice people. James really wishes that they would stop smoking, but he has come to realize that they probably won’t change. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

  James looks at it this way: old dogs are comfortable to be around.

  It’s not that I can’t think of something to write about. I’ve got lots of ideas floating around in my brain. In fact, I’ve enjoyed writing stories and comic books since I was little. My fifth-grade teacher even told me that I could be a writer someday. I wish she would tell that to Mr. Best.

  So far this fall, every paper that I’ve written for him has been a struggle. Each week since September, he has assigned a composition of our choice. I would try to write a really good one that included lots of different points of view. But he never gave me anything higher than a “C.” Mr. Best’s comments were always something like “I want to know what YOU think, Richard,” or “Your thoughts are scattered. What is your point?”

  Looking back, I guess I did try to cram a lot into those papers. There is a lot that I’ve wanted to say lately.

  Last time, I tried an experiment. I decided to open an encyclopedia to any page and point to a topic. I figured that I couldn’t go wrong with just plain facts. The subject I happened to pick was “carbon.” Don’t worry. I’m not stupid enough to copy an encyclopedia article word-for-word. Mr. Best would probably turn me over to the FBI for that. I read the article and picked out the most interesting facts. Believe me when I tell you that carbon is not that interesting. Then I rewrote the information in my own words and handed it in.

  This time, I got a “B+,” along with a note to “see me after class.”

  “Richard,” Mr. Best began, “you obviously put forth some effort on this latest assignment. You organized your ideas into a nice, cohesive framework.”

  Why don’t English teachers just speak plain English, I wonder?

  Mr. Best continued, “However, the subject is a bit unusual. I’m interested in knowing how you came up with it.”

  I paused to think. Mr. Best would probably not appreciate hearing about my game of encyclopedia roulette.

  “Well … uh … I was staring at my pencil point, trying to think of a topic, and that’s when I came up with the idea of carbon.”

  “I see. How very interesting,” Mr. Best said. He picked up the list of proverbs from a pile on his desk. “Have you decided which proverb to choose for the next assignment?”

  “Actually, a lot of them fit my life,” I answered. “I might try writing about some of them and see which turns out the best.”

  Mr. Best looked at me.

  “Richard,” he said. “You need to find your writing voice.”

  I must have looked confused, because he went on to explain.

  “Somehow I think that you’re trying to write what I want to read, not what you want to write. The real you doesn’t come through in your compositions. It’s okay to express your feelings or opinions when you write. Just try to be yourself, Richard. Why don’t you think about it for this assignment.”

  So I have been thinking about it. I keep listening and listening, Mr. Best, but I don’t hear a voice.

  Proverb One

  ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER

  or How I Retrieved Something Valuable from a Deserted House

  For the first eleven years of my life, I lived in a huge old house on the other side of town. The neighborhood was very quiet because a lot of the people who lived there were pretty old. Most of the houses were at least three stories high. Ours was charcoal gray with white shutters. It had a wide porch with a roof that was supported by big white columns. That porch was a great place to play.

  Harry and Vi Marshall lived on one side of us. They were a retired couple whose kids had all grown up and moved away. Vi was really nice. Harry was grumpy most of the time. He was always sucking on a piece of hard candy that smelled like licorice. It’s funny—Vi insisted that I call them by their first names, but I could never bring myself to call Harry anything but “Mr. Marshall.” I don’t think he ever forgave me for the time I rode my bike on his new driveway before the concrete had hardened. You can still see the tracks.

  The Marshalls had a cottage on Spruce Lake, so they weren’t around much in the summertime. Whenever they were at the lake, we would take in their mail and newspaper and water their plants.

  When I got to be old enough, my mom would give me the key to the Marshalls’ house and let me take care of things. I had a regular ritual that I performed each time. First, I would unlock the front door and walk into the hallway. Then I would say very loudly, “I guess I’ll bring in the mail and paper now.” This was to give any possible robbers a chance to run out the back door. That may sound silly, but the old house could be very spooky when nobody was there. Vi had always drawn the drapes before leaving, so the house was shadowy and dark.

  Once, when I was there alone, the grandfather clock in the hallway decided to chime loudly just as I was walking past it. I almost had a heart attack.

  Next, I would get the mail and paper and carry it all into the kitchen. I even sorted the letters, magazines, and newspapers into three neat piles on the kitchen table.

  Once a week, I would get Vi’s small green watering can from underneath the sink and water all of the plants in the kitchen and dining room. Vi always insisted that the plants looked healthier after she and Harry had been away. She said that I must have a magic touch.

  Last of all, I would lock the front door, check about three times to make sure it was really locked, and go home.

  One day, I was almost finished with my ritual. I was just about to leave when I heard a hissing and sputtering noise coming from the back bedroom. I froze.

  I stood there for about five minutes, trying to figure out what the noise could be. It didn’t sound like any human or animal I’d heard. Finally, I got up enough nerve to tiptoe to the bedroom doorway and peek inside.

  What I saw was Vi’s steam iron sitting upright on the ironing board, making those noises. I walked over and saw that the iron had been left on. I poked at the lever to push it over to the “off” position. It was very hot to touch. Then I unplugged the iron and left.

  When I got home, I told my mom about the iron. She mentioned it t o Vi and Harry when they got home. Harry didn’t say much, but you would have thought I deserved a medal the way Vi carried on. She hugged me and said that I had probably saved their house from burning down. She even tried to give me some money, but Mom said I was just being a good neighbor, and wouldn’t let me take it.

  The iron incident happened during our last summer in that house. The next spring, my mom and dad split up, and we sold the house. My mom and I moved to a smaller house across town, and my dad took an apartment a few blocks from his business.

  Mom and Dad kept trying to reassure me that things weren’t going to change that much. They said that I’d still be spending as much time with each of them. How could they think that the change to a new house, a new neighborhood, a new school, and a whole new way of life wasn’t that drastic? Even ONE of those things would have been hard for a kid to handle.

  I must admit that the new house isn’t so bad. It has a great front porch. My bedroom takes up practically the whole upstairs. It has a big open middle area, with ceilings that slope down on each side. Mom let me put baseball posters on the slanted ceilings. They’d never let me tack up posters in the old house.

  About a month after Mom and I had moved into the new house, I was upstairs unpacking some boxes. Back then, I retreated to my room when Mom was talking on the phone to one of her friends. She was usually complaining about Dad, and I didn’t really want to hear it.

  Anyway, I was unpacking my desk stuff when I came across my book bank. It looked just like an old leather-bound book. It had a little gold key that you put into a keyhole on the “page” side of the bank. When you lifted the cover, there was an empty metal-lined space for storing valuables.

  My dad had given it to me a few years before. He had gotten it when he opened up his first savings account as a little boy. The gold letters on the cover were wearing away, but they still looked beautiful against the red leather cover.

  The bank held a new penny from the year I was born, a few of my all-time favorite baseball cards, and some stories and comics that I had written.

  As I took my book bank out of the cardboard box, it occurred to me that I had left the key in its secret hiding place back at the old house. I kept my key on a ledge just inside my closet door.

  I realized that if I ever wanted to see those things again, I’d either have to pry open the bank or get my key back. I hated the thought of ruining something special that my dad had given to me. I had to have that key.

  Shortly after we moved, Mom discovered that she had forgotten to take a brass key holder off the kitchen wall of our old house. She figured that it legally belonged to the new owners now.

  Well, they couldn’t have MY key, I decided. I would take the crosstown bus back to my old neighborhood and ask the new owners for my key. I would tell them about my parents’ split and say that the key was special because my dad had given it to me. How could they refuse?

  I was used to taking the bus around town. Ever since Mom went back to work at her old office, I would take the bus downtown to meet Dad for lunch, or go to my favorite baseball card store.

  By two o’clock the next day, I was standing in front of my old house. The house looked pretty much the same, except the new owners had nailed a wooden “Welcome” sign next to the front door. I hoped that they really meant it. The sign had a gold pineapple painted on it. I wondered what pineapples had to do with welcoming people.

  I had been practicing what to say all the way there on the bus, so before I lost my nerve, I went up the steps and rang the doorbell.

  No one answered. I couldn’t believe it. I’d come all that way, and no one was home. I walked around to the backyard to make sure nobody was there. There were no cars in the garage or driveway, and the backyard was empty.

  I was standing in the driveway trying to decide what to do, when suddenly a gruff voice startled me.

  “Richard? Is that you?”

  I whirled around. A cloud of licorice breath hit me in the face. “Oh, hi, Mr. Marshall,” I stammered.

  Harry stared at me. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Uh, I just stopped by to see the old place. Is Vi here?” Vi would understand my predicament and be able to help me, I was sure.

  “No. She’s at the hairdresser.”

  Harry continued to stare at me. He seemed smaller and thinner than I remembered, like he’d shrunk since we moved away. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “No. Well, not exactly,” I replied. We stood there, just looking at each other for a minute. Oh well, I thought, what do I have to lose?

  “You see, I left something important inside the house, and I came to get it,” I explained. I went on to tell Harry about the key.

  He didn’t laugh or snort like I thought he might. “I see,” he said. “Well, actually they won’t be back until next week. They’re on vacation. They left us their key so that we can get their mail and feed their cat.”

  I looked down at the driveway and nudged a stone with the toe of my sneaker.

  Harry paused and then went on slowly, “It wouldn’t be right to let someone else into their house.”

  I must have looked pitiful, because Harry seemed to be really thinking over the situation. Finally he announced, “Well, I don’t see the harm in letting you in for gust a minute to get your key. After all, you’re not exactly a stranger to the house.”

  A few minutes later, Harry was unlocking the front door. “I’ll wait here,” he said. Then he added, “And don’t touch anything, Richard.”

  I figured he said that last part to keep up his image of a grump.

  I hurried through the house. It seemed really strange to see someone else’s furniture in our old house. My mom and dad had worked very hard to refinish the wooden bannister, and the new owners had painted it white. Pictures of strangers lined the stairway. In one picture, a man, woman, and little girl sat in the crook of a large tree, smiling like the perfect little family that they probably were.

  In my room, a double bed with a pink ruffled cover stood where my twin bed had stood. My clutter of books, baseball cards, games, and clothes had been replaced by someone else’s stuffed animals, dolls, and toys.

  I was suddenly angrier than I had ever been before. I just wanted to kick or hit something. I was so mad, I was shaking. Why should I have to act like a stranger in my own bedroom? Luckily, just then I heard Harry at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Richard?” he called.

  “Be right there,” I answered. I went to the closet and felt up along the ledge. My key was still there. I put it in my pocket and went downstairs without even looking at anything else. I just wanted to get out of there.

  Harry locked the front door, and we went down the steps.

  “Goodbye, Harry,” I said. “Thanks for letting me in. Say hi to Vi for me.” I turned to leave.

  Harry cleared his throat. “You know, Richard, I’ll always remember the time you found that iron turned on. I just thought I’d return the favor today.”

  Harry held out his hand and I shook it. It felt cold and feeble.

  I started to walk back to the bus stop. A few houses away, I turned around. Harry was still standing there watching me. We both waved, and I went home.

  Proverb Two

  HE WHO HESITATES IS LOST

  or How I Met James

  One of the worst things that can happen to a kid is having to move to a new school. You don’t know where you’re going, you don’t know any of the teachers, and you don’t have any friends. It’s an open invitation for humiliation.

  I figured that the best way to survive was to blend in like a chameleon. If you’re new, the minute you stand out or call attention to yourself, you’re dead. That first week of school, I was careful to wear the standard uniform of most kids my age: jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers. I have shaggy blond hair and brown eyes. I guess I’m pretty average-looking.

  The first few days went by without any major problems. The routine was pretty much the same as in my old school. The teachers gave their beginning-of-the-year speeches about homework and expectations and stuff, and handed out books. The other kids were still getting used to the shock of being back in school, so they didn’t even seem to notice me.

 

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