Free Rumors of Peace by Ella Leffland

lawn. I decided to take my lunch down to the creek. Maneuvering around the Gestapo teacher, who was patrolling the grounds, I jumped behind a tree and climbed down to privacy. Opening my blue lunch pail, I listened gloomily to the sound of garrison trucks mixed with the strains of dance music from the gym.
    But in homemaking class that afternoon there were two refreshing moments. The first came when Eudene dropped her shoulder bag and some cigarettes rolled out. She was ordered to the principal’s office, and she left us with a loud laugh, swinging her hips. Eudene had broad hips to swing, a big bosom to point with, a strong smell of sweat, and a coarse, sallow face under tangled sauerkraut hair. She had been kept back for so many grades that she was now fifteen years old. But this did not bother her, and in fact nothing bothered her. She seldom knew what was going on, but she always enjoyed herself, yelling and smashing your ribs with her elbow. These junior high school teachers didn’t know what to make of her, and despite my resentment at having been demoted to Eudene’s level, I admired the way she had gone to her destiny, laughing and swinging her hips, leaving the teacher with lips parted.
    Then, shortly after, the teacher spoke admonishingly to the quiet Hatton girl. I saw that she had slid down in her seat and sprawled her legs out.
    â€œSit up properly, please, and pay attention. What was I just saying?”
    â€œYou were saying sit up properly, please, and pay attention.”
    The teacher frowned down the roll sheet and, finding the name with her finger, looked up. “We have no room for smart-alecs here, Peggy.”
    â€œI didn’t understand what you meant,” said the girl, her green eyes widening. “I really didn’t.” She had sat up, aligned her feet, and neatly folded her hands in her lap. “And excuse me, please, but it’s not Peggy. That name is wrong. It’s Rochelle.”
    â€œI’m afraid that’s between you and the registrar’s office,” said the teacher, and at that moment the air raid bell sounded and we were led into the corridor like a herd of cattle for the roof to crash down on. All today’s anger and disappointment burned into the ceiling as I stared up at it, and I vowed to send off a scathing report as soon as I got home.

    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Dear Sheriff O’Toole,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  This is to tell you that in junior high school they make you stand in the hall during the air raid alarm where the ceiling could crush you. You can not use the desks to get underneath and they do not take you down to the basement either. I am a student there. Thank you.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  P.S. Miss Bonder at the grammar school does not pull the venetian blinds down so that the flying glass would not cut the children. I am not there but they are. Thank you.

    With a dictionary at my side I got the spelling of each word right. It took a long time, but it was worth it. I mailed the letter on the way to school the next morning and felt better. But as I passed the garrison, my thoughts sank down under war everlasting. Nor had I done my homework. Nor did I know anyone. A lump of melancholy grew in my chest.
    But at lunchtime everything changed.
    Maybe on the grounds that we were, irreversibly, locker mates, Peggy Hatton invited me to eat lunch with her.
    With eyes lowered to hide my relief, I accepted. “But you don’t have any lunch,” I added, seeing her empty hands.
    â€œI go home to eat.”
    I hesitated. I was not supposed to go to strange houses.
    â€œCome on, kid,” she urged.
    â€œAll right.”
    We walked down the street, leaving the school behind. The day spread out in a hot blue blaze, filled with salt tang and sudden promise.

Chapter 10
    I HATE THIS SCHOOL ,” she said.
    â€œSo