“I — don’t know.”
“You lost your school bag, is that it?”
“I don’t know.”
The rest of the class had begun to titter and whisper behind their hands. Miss Barabou ordered them brusquely to start work on their book reports, and went down the aisle to Aggie’s desk, her heavy step warning the class to behave. She was positive now that something was the matter with Aggie; the child’s face was such an odd color and she was trembling. Maybe she’s coming down with something, Miss Barabou thought. That’s all I need right now is an epidemic. Oh well, if it gets bad enough they may close the school and I’ll have a holiday.
“Do you feel ill, Agatha?” Miss Barabou asked, somewhat heartened at the idea of a holiday. “Stick out your tongue.”
Aggie stuck out her tongue and Miss Barabou studied it with a professional air. “I can’t see anything wrong. Does your head hurt?”
“I guess so.”
“Let’s see, you had measles and chicken pox last year. No mumps yet?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Well, think of a lemon.”
“A what?”
“Pretend you’re eating a lemon. Or a pickle. Can you pretend that?”
“I guess so.”
“All right now, does your throat feel queer on both sides just under your chin?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Perhaps you’re not pretending hard enough. Keep picturing that pickle, it’s very, very sour and you’re eating it. Now do you feel anything?”
“No, ma’am.”
Sylvia Kramer raised her hand to announce that she had a real dill pickle in her lunch box and would gladly offer it for the sake of research. Miss Barabou replied that that wouldn’t be necessary, and led Aggie into the cloakroom for further and more private diagnosis.
“Has any of your brothers or sisters been ill, Agatha?”
“Billy has the toothache.”
“That’s not catching. Why are you squirming and clutching your chest like that?”
Aggie shook her head.
“Do you have a pain there?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Honestly, the way they dress you children, it’s a crime. Are you still wearing your long underwear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ve a good notion to write a note to your parents. It’s hard enough teaching without having to teach itchy children. For all I know, you have lice.”
Tears welled in Aggie’s eyes. She blinked them away, hard. “Agatha,” Miss Barabou said quite gently, “now tell me truthfully, what is the matter?”
“I lost my school bag.”
“Perhaps you forgot and left it at home.”
“No. I lost it. On the beach.”
“When were you on the beach?”
“This morning on my way to school.”
“The beach isn’t on your way to school. Besides, all you children have specific instructions not to go near the beach by yourselves. A lonely spot like that, you can’t tell what will happen.” Miss Barabou paused, significantly. “Did anything happen?”
Aggie merely looked up at her in helpless bewilderment, and Miss Barabou realized that the child didn’t understand. She tried to explain patiently that little girls didn’t go to lonely beaches by themselves because there were some bad men in the world who might do nasty things to them. “Did you see any men down there?”
“No.”
“I hate to be suspicious, Agatha, or to nag. But I have the distinct impression that you’re not telling me the whole truth.”
Though Miss Barabou’s voice was kindly, her eyes burned with such intensity that Aggie had the feeling they were looking right through her waist blouse at the red and black plaid cap.
“What occurred down at the beach, Agatha?”
“Nothing!”
“You know how important the truth is. What happens at home when you don’t tell the truth?”
“I get the strap.”
“As you very well know, I don’t have a strap, and wouldn’t use it if I had. Now you’re not going to cry, are you?”
Aggie was, indeed. Tears spilled out of her eyes and she had to wipe them away with her sleeve. It was when Aggie raised her arm that Miss Barabou noticed the extra bulk under her clothes.
“What on earth have you got stuffed in the front of your blouse? So that’s what you’ve been fidgeting about. You’ve got something hidden in there. What is it, Agatha?”
Aggie shook her head, helplessly.
“You won’t be punished if you tell the truth. That’s a promise. Now stop crying and tell me — no, better still, show me what it is.”
“It’s — nothing. I found it.”
“Nobody finds a nothing,” Miss Barabou said dryly. “It’s impossible factually, as well as grammatically. What did you find?”
“A cap. An old cap somebody left on the beach that didn’t want it any more.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so before? All this fuss and fume about an old cap. Honestly, I sometimes wonder what kind of home life some of you children have that makes you afraid to speak up. Now remove the cap, and we’ll leave it here on the shelf in the cloakroom, and you can take it home with you after school.”
Aggie turned her back, removed the plaid cap from under her waist blouse and handed it to Miss Barabou.
Miss Barabou appeared surprised. “‘What an odd-looking thing. I’ve never seen one like it. Where did you find it, Agatha?”
“Between two rocks, just sitting there. I guess somebody just threw that old cap away.”
“It isn’t old. It’s hardly been worn at all.”
“It looks old to me.”
But Miss Barabou seemed to have lost interest in Aggie. She was examining the inside of the cap, and when she spoke again it was more to herself than to Aggie. “There’s a label. Abercrombie & Fitch, New York City. Funny. There aren’t many Americans around at this time of year. The thing’s new, no doubt about it. Expensive, too. Abercrombie & Fitch, I think they sell sporting goods. I wonder what kind of sport this would be worn for. Curling, perhaps, except that I’ve never seen a curling cap with a sun visor. Or golf. But the golf courses won’t be open for ages. I’m not even sure if it’s a man’s cap or a woman’s.”
“Miss Barabou...”
“You may go back to your desk, Agatha.”
“Is it my cap if I found it?”
“I can’t promise you that,” Miss Barabou said thoughtfully. “I better consult with Miss Wayley.”
Miss Barabou escorted Aggie back into the classroom, pronounced her free of disease, assured the pupils they could associate with her without fear and warned them not to start getting symptoms out of the blue. Then, leaving the class in charge of one of the seniors, she made a beeline to Miss Wayley’s room next door.
Social visiting between the two teachers during school hours was forbidden by the school inspector. But the inspector was miles away and not due for another month.
Miss Wayley, upon being apprised of the situation, put her entire class, including those who hadn’t yet learned to write, to work on a composition entitled “How I Will Spend My Summer Vacation.” Then she and Miss Barabou retired to the tiny room at the rear of the school where they ate their lunch and made coffee during recesses and conducted their private business in general. The room was cold and cramped and ugly, but it had two distinct advantages: a lock on the door which had so far resisted even the expert picking of Boris, and a telephone installed the past winter after a bad storm left the school marooned for nearly twenty-four hours.
Miss Wayley lit a cigarette, took three quick, furtive puffs, and butted it before any of the smoke could seep under the door and cause alarm or suspicion among the students. She saved the butt in an empty Band-Aid box inside the first aid kit.