correct place before she could hold it for writing. We were both sweating when we got through the name. It had been like steering a steel rod through the formation of the letters. Dismey showed no signs of pleasure-shy or overt-that most beginners exhibit when confronted with their first attempt at their names. She looked down at the staggering letters and then up at me. 'It's your name, Dismey,' I smiled at her and spelled it to her. She looked down again at the paper, and the pencil wavered and swung until she had it dagger-wise once more. She jabbed the point of the pencil down on the next line. It stabbed through the paper. With a quick, guilty hand, she covered the tear, her shoulders hunching to hide her face. I opened the box of crayons and shook them out where she could see the colors, luring her averted face back toward me. 'Maybe you'd rather color. Or go around and see what the other children are doing.' And I left her, somewhat cheered. At least she had known that a line is for writing on! That is a mark of maturity! All the rest of the morning she roosted tentatively on the front four inches of her chair, stiff as a poker. At recess, she was hauled bodily by Donna to the bathroom and then to the playground. Donna dutifully stayed by her side, wistfully watching the other children playing, until time to drag Dismey to the line and to point out that there was a girl line and a boy line. After recess, Dismey unbent-once. Just enough to make two very delicate lines on a paper with her red crayon when she thought I wasn't looking. Then she just sat staring, apparently entranced at the effect. It was most probable that she had never held a crayon before. Lunchtime came and in the cafeteria she stared at her plate a minute and then ate so fast with spoon and scooping fingers that she nearly choked. 'Would you like some more?' I asked her. She looked at me as though I were crazy for asking. She slowed down midway through her third helping. There was a quiver along her thin cheek when she looked at me. It could haves been the beginning of a smile. Donna showed her where to put her dirty dishes and took her out to the playground. During that first afternoon, she finally drew a picture-an amazingly mature one-of three wobbly plates full of food and a lopsided milk carton with a huge straw in it. Under Donna's urging she took up her red crayon and, down at the bottom, she carefully copied from her name paper a Di, but when the s turned backward on her, she covered it with a quick, guilty hand and sat rigid until dismissal time. I worried about Dismey that afternoon after the children were gone. I was used to frightened, withdrawn children, terrified by coming into a new school, but nothing quite so drastic as Dismey. No talking, no laughing, no smiles, or even tears. And such wariness-and yet her mother had called her a believing child. But then, there's believing and believing. Belief can be a very negative thing, too. Maybe what Dismey believed the most was that you could believe in nothing good-except maybe three platefuls of food and a red crayon. Well, that was a pretty good start. Next morning I felt a little more cheerful. After all, yesterday had been Dismey's first day at a new school. In fact, it had been her first day at any school. And children adjust wonderfully well-usually. I looked around for Dismey. I didn't have to look far. She was backed into the angle of the wall by the door of our room, cornered by Bannie and Michael. I might have known. Bannie and Michael are my thorns-in-the-flesh this year. Separately they are alert, capable children, well above average in practically everything. But together! Together they are like vinegar and soda-erupting each other into the wildest assortment of devilment that two six- year-olds could ever think up. They are flint and steel to the biggest blaze of mischief I've ever encountered. Recently, following a Contradict Everything Phase, they had lapsed into a Baby Phase, complete with thumb- sucking, baby talk and completely tearless infantile wailing-the noise serving them in the same capacity as other children's jet-zooming or six-gun banging or machine-gun rattling. The two didn't see me coming and I stood behind them a minute, curious to see just what they had dreamed up so soon to plague Dismey with. 'And it's a lectric paddle and it's specially for girls,' said Bannie solemnly. 'You stood up in the swing and the 'letric paddle is specially for girls that stand up in swings,' amplified Michael soberly. 'And it hurts real bad.' 'It might even kill you,' said Bannie with relish. 'Dead,' said Michael, round of eye that shifted a little to send a glint of enjoyment at Bannie. Dismey hunched one shoulder and drew a shaking hand across her stricken cheek. 'I didn't know-' she began. 'Of course she didn't know,' I said sternly. 'Bannie and Michael, indoors!' I unlocked the door and shooed them in. Then I stooped and put my arms around a rigid, unbending Dismey. I could feel her bones under her scant flesh and flimsy dress. 'It isn't so, Dismey,' I said. 'There isn't any electric paddle. There's no such thing. They were just teasing you. But we do have a rule about standing up in the swings. You might fall out and get hurt. Here comes Donna now. You go play with her and she'll tell you about our rules. And don't believe Bannie and Michael when they tell you bad things. They're just trying to fool you.' In the room I confronted the two completely unrepentant sinners. 'You weren't kind to Dismey,' I said. 'And she's our new student. Do you want her to think that we're all unkind here at our school?' They had no answer except Bannie's high-pitched giggle that he uses when he is embarrassed. 'Besides that, what you told her wasn't true.' 'We were just playing,' said Michael, trading sideglances with Bannie. 'Telling things that aren't true isn't a very good way to have fun,' I reminded them. 'We were just playing,' said Michael, while Bannie had recourse to his thumb. 'But Dismey didn't know you were only playing,' I said. 'She thought you were telling the truth.' 'We were just playing,' said Bannie around his thumb. After we had gone around and around a couple more times, I sternly sent them outside. The two ran shrieking, holding the seats of their Levi's, yelling, 'We got a licking! With the 'lectric paddle! A-wah! A-wah!' And my heart sank. I had a premonition that the Baby Phase was about to give way to a Tease Dismey Phase. Dismey came slowly to life in the classroom. She began to function with the rest of the class, catching up with ease with the children who had been in school a month before she arrived. She swooped through long and short vowels and caught us in initial consonants. She showed a flair for drawing and painting. Her number work and reading flowed steadily into her-and stayed there instead of ebbing and flowing as it does for so many children. But all the rest of the classroom activities paled to insignificance as far as Dismey was concerned before the wonder of story time. it was after the first few sessions of story time immediately following the afternoon recess that I realized what Dismey's mother meant by calling her a believin' child. Dismey believed without reservation in the absolute truth of every story she heard. She was completely credulous. It's hard to explain the difference between the fairy tales for her and for the rest of the class. The others believed whole-heartedly while the story was in progress and then set it aside without a pang. But there was a feeling of eager acceptance and-and recognition-that fairly exuded from Dismey during story time that sometimes almost made my flesh creep. And this believing carried over to our dramatization of the stories too, to such an extent that when Dismey was the troll under the bridge for The Billy Goats Gruff, even Bannie paled and rushed over the bridge, pell-mell, forgetting the swaggering challenge that he as the Big Billy Goat was supposed to deliver. And he flatly refused to go back and slay the troll. But this credulity of hers served her a much worse turn by making her completely vulnerable to Bannie and Michael. They had her believing, among other unhappy things, that a lion lived in the housing of the air-raid siren atop the cafeteria. And when the Civilian Defense truck came to check the mechanism and let the siren growl briefly, Dismey fled to the room, white-eyed and gasping, too frightened to scream. She sat, wet-faced and rigid, half the afternoon in spite of all my attempts to reassure her. Then one day I found her crying out by the sidewalk when she should have been in class. Tears were falling
