Free We All Fall Down by Robert Cormier Page A

sounded.
    Silence from Harry’s end of the line. A silence filled with disbelief, Buddy knew. Then: “Conscience bothering you, Buddy?” In his normal voice.
    That was Harry, always capable of coming at you fromyour blind side. “Not really,” Buddy said, grimacing. “I’m just not in the mood.” Then, loading his voice with sincerity: “And I do have an awful lot of homework.” Somebody once said that if you can learn to fake sincerity, you’ll be a success in life.
    “Plan on drinking alone?”
    “What?”
    “That’s a sure sign, Buddy.”
    “Sure sign of what?” Buddy, helpless, asked. Not wanting to ask, not wanting to continue this conversation but helpless to end it.
    “Alcoholism. Drinking alone is one of the sure signs.”
    “I’m not going to drink,” Buddy replied. “Alone or otherwise.” But he was going to do exactly that.
    That was one of the reasons why he disliked Harry Flowers so much: He always spoiled things. What was wrong with a drink now and then? Or whether he drank alone or not? Harry delighted in finding the rotten side of anything. Always lifting a lid to reveal something terrible underneath. Like the other day in the park.
    He and Harry had been sitting in the car, trying to figure out what to do for “Funtime” that night, although Buddy hoped that they wouldn’t do anything, still recoiling from the events at the house they’d wrecked.
    Children frolicked in the park, soaring high on the swings, swooping down the slides, the air filled with happy squeals and laughter. Some little girls held hands as they walked around in a circle singing:
    “Ring around the rosy … a pocket full of posies … ashes, ashes … we all fall down …”
    “Stupid,” Harry said.
    “What’s stupid?” Buddy asked, annoyed that Harry would find something stupid about a bunch of kids playing in a park.
    “Those little girls don’t know what they’re doing,” Harry said, pointing with his chin. “Potter in English Lit. last week told us all about this nursery rhyme. It’s what kids sang back in the olden days when the Black Plague was killing millions of people. People would get a rosy kind of rash and rubbed themselves with herbs and posies. Then they fell down and died….”
    Buddy scowled, kept his eyes on the little girls, who had scrambled to their feet again, preparing to form another circle.
    “Know what you are, Harry?” he asked. “You’re a spoiler. I always thought Ring-Around-the-Rosy was kind of a nice thing for kids to do. But now you’ve gone and spoiled it all.”
    “I’m sorry, Buddy, but I didn’t make up that story,” Harry said. He did not sound sorry. “I aced the test Potter gave and that’s why I remember it at all. I usually don’t go in for that nursery rhyme kind of crap.”
    “It’s not crap,” Buddy said as the little girls began to circle, singing the song again, their small voices rising in the air.
    “Ashes, ashes …”
    One little girl with long blond hair tripped and stumbled.
    “We all fall down …”
    Down they went on the grass, in a tumble of arms and legs, the blond girl crying, her cheeks shiny with tears.
    “Maybe it isn’t crap, after all,” Harry said. “Because we all fall down, don’t we?” His voice dry, sharp as ice cubes clinking.
    And on the telephone now, his voice was dry and icy again as he said: “Of course you’re not going to drink alone.”
    Then snapping words like whips: “Remember this,Buddy. What happened the other night, you enjoyed it. You got your kicks. You’re probably having conscience trouble now, but you had fun that night.”
    Buddy didn’t answer. And didn’t try to deny it. Because Harry was right, damn it. Buddy
had
enjoyed himself, found great satisfaction smashing and trashing that house, like striking back at his mother and father and the whole goddam world. Or was that only an excuse? But an excuse for what?
    “Right, Buddy?” That cool persistent voice.
    “Right, Harry,”