narrow-minded.”
“Any ideas?”
He pulled out the bill for the cake. “I’d like to see her pay this.”
“So would I! But how in the world?”
Cliff explained, then we composed the letter together, like this:
Dear Georgia,
Yesterday was Gabrielle Lamont’s birthday—and we gave her the finest party this school has ever seen. Too bad you were hanging around the Snack Shoppe while the fun was going on. But we know you would like to give her a present anyway—you can still pay for the cake.
Put on your best bib and tucker and trot around to Helen Hunt’s. It was a surprise party, so don’t breathe a word to anyone! (Nor shall we.)
The Committee
P.S. On second thought it will be more fun if you don’t pay for the cake!
It wasn’t anonimous; the bill had our names on it and we pinned it to the letter. I bet Cliff two hamburgers that she wouldn’t knuckle under. I was wrong. Half an hour after it was delivered Helen Hunt phoned to say that Cliff could have his pin back, the mortgage was lifted.
Monday morning I was at the board earlier than either Cliff or Gabby. Gabby’s poor little “note” was still pinned up, where she had put it Friday. I wondered what she would do; start pretending all over again?
I spotted her coming up the steps, walking alone and lonely, same as always—and again I wondered if it had done any good. Then somebody shouted, “Hey, Gabby! Wait a minute.” She stopped and two boys joined her.
I watched her and then Cliff growled at my back, “Why the sniffles? Got a cold?”
I said, “Oh, Cliffi Give me your hanky and don’t ask silly questions.”
