an encyclopedia. It’s better than a dictionary.”
“Does it tell about everything?” Rannie inquired. In the possibility of such joy he forgot Ruthie and her mother.
“Just about everything,” his father said, “and I smell something like cookies baking in the oven.”
He rose and they walked to the kitchen, his hand on Rannie’s shoulder. At the door he stopped.
“Just one thing—you did no wrong. If anyone says you did, or acts as if you did, send him—or her—to me.”
“Yes, Papa,” Rannie said.
But he paid little heed to what his father had said. The fragrance of cinnamon cookies made him ravenous and his mouth was watering.
THE NEXT DAY AT SCHOOL was another disappointing day, exactly as yesterday had been. Ruthie’s seat had been changed to the other side of the room and a dark-haired boy, large for his age, named Mark, had been substituted. There was no importance to this, for he, Rannie, had forgotten about Ruthie. The disappointment lay in the fact, more and more obvious as the day went on, that he was not learning anything. He had already read through the first-grade reader, he had long past lost interest in crayon work, and the few books on a shelf were, he considered after he examined them, books for babies. The story Miss Downes read to the class was also for babies—something about bluebirds in the spring.
“Aren’t you interested in this nice story, Rannie?” Miss Downes asked.
He had been drawing a geometric design of intertwined triangles while she read. He looked up from his paper, pencil in hand.
“No, Miss Downes,” he said.
She looked at him hard for a few seconds, puzzled as he could see, and he felt it necessary to explain.
“I used to read stories like that when I first learned to read.”
“When was that?” she asked.
“I can’t remember when it was,” he replied. But he put down the pencil, feeling it would be impolite to continue, and she went on with her reading.
At recess, to which he looked forward, he found himself isolated. Ruthie did not speak to him and he stood apart, watching the other children. He felt no shyness, only curiosity and interest. Squabbling took place over the swings, until a biggish boy, whose name was Chris, took leadership by appropriating the highest swing for himself. Then, noticing Rannie, he shouted.
“Want a turn?”
He had no desire for a swing, since he had one at home, but a vague desire for companionship made him nod his head. He took his turn and then, about to stand apart again, he found Chris at his side.
“Want to race to the gate—see who’s first?”
“All right,” he said courteously.
They raced, coming to the finish in a tie.
“You run real good,” Chris said. “I can beat the rest of these babies. Say, I hear Ruthie showed herself to you!” Chris was from a higher grade than Rannie but it seemed that the news of his quest for knowing about girls was everywhere in the small school.
He stared blankly at Chris. “I don’t understand what’s so interesting about that.”
“Oh, come on,” Chris said.
He had no answer for this, for he had no interest in Ruthie now. Chris continued. “Know how kids get made?”
“Yes, my father told me,” he said.
Chris stared at him. “Your old man told you?”
“Yes—my father,” he said.
“Gosh, he must have a dirty mind,” Chris said with contempt.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, surprised and inclined to anger.
The bell rang at that instant, and conversation was cut off. He went back to his seat, thoughtful and vaguely angry. He liked Chris, he liked his brusqueness, his force, even his roughness. In spite of a vague anger he decided to be friends with this boy, if he could. And he decided too that he would not tell his father what Chris had said.
IT WAS BECAUSE OF CHRIS that he did not complain to his parents about the stupidity of school. He raced off to school early every morning so that he and Chris could have half an hour of intense play before school began. Recess was the reward in the middle of the morning and they ate their lunches together. Unfortunately, Chris lived at the far end of town and his bus took them away from each other at the end of school, but this was compensated for, in Rannie’s case, by the arrival of the encyclopedia, twenty-four volumes, all bound in dark blue with gold lettering. Immediately after he came home from school and after a sandwich and a glass of milk and a piece of pie or cake or some cookies in the kitchen with his mother, he read the encyclopedia, page after page, volume after volume. It was incredibly exciting, one subject after another, explained briefly but clearly, telling him things he had not known existed. He read until nightfall and his father came home. There were words he had to look up in the dictionary, of course, many of them, for his parents were relentless in their determination regarding the dictionary. He must find his own meanings.
“Never ask someone to do what you can do for yourself,” his mother sermonized.
“I’ll improve on that,” his father said. “Never let anyone do something for you that you enjoy doing for yourself.”
“Is that what you do?” she demanded.
“As far as life permits,” he replied.
Rannie listened. The conversation between his parents interested him—indeed, fascinated him. It was always above his head, sometimes only slightly, but he had to stretch his mind. They never simplified themselves for him. Though they included him in everything they did, he was aware that somehow, somewhere, they were alone together, the two of them. On the subject of parents he and Chris disagreed totally.
“Parents are nuts,” Chris said flatly.
“Mine aren’t,” Rannie said.
“Always hollerin’ about somepin.”
“Not mine!”
The disagreement was such that they became secretly curious about each other’s parents. Thus, one Saturday, Chris accepted an invitation to inspect Rannie’s parents by coming to skate on the frozen swimming pool in the backyard. Rannie had introduced Chris to his mother as she was making a weekend cake in the kitchen and he had been pleased to find that Chris was impressed by her blond good looks.
“She’s pretty, all right,” he agreed. “Where’s your old man?”
Rannie had learned to understand Chris’s language without using it. “He’s in the study, writing a book. We don’t bother him until he opens the door himself.”
“Writing a book?” Chris asked incredulously.
“Yes—on the science of art.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s what he’s writing about.”
“Sure—but what does it mean?”
“He believes that art is based on certain scientific principles.”
“Oh, come on—what does that mean?”
“I don’t know altogether—until he’s finished the book and I can read it.”
“You read books?”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
“No. I hate readin’.”
“Then how do you know anything?”
“How do you mean
