Don't You Know There's a War On? Read Free Page A

long division and tell jokes.” She would too.
    â€œKnock knock.”
    â€œWho’s there?”
    â€œAmos.”
    â€œAmos who?”
    â€œAmos-quito bit me.”
    Miss Gossim was kind, always asking us about our military dads, brothers, sisters, moms. You know, where they were. How they were doing. She even kept a map in the classroom to show it. All them teachers did that, only, see, Miss Gossim wasn’t just doing it—she cared . So, natch, we told her everything. I mean, that map was telling kids like me I wasn’t the only one with family in the war.
    Miss Gossim never got mad. Most she’d ever do waslook at you sort of sad eyed and say, “Howie, I’m very disappointed.” ’Course, if she said it, you’d feel worse than a Giants fan in Ebbets Field. I mean, I’d have done anything to get her smile back.
    Rolanda was her first name. I heard the school secretary, Mrs. Partridge, call her that. I knew it must be true because she and Miss Gossim were friends. I never heard that name before. But to me, that name, Rolanda , was so magic I kept it to myself. Didn’t even tell Denny, who, like I said, was my bestest friend with our secret pact about not having secrets. The thing was, when it came to Miss Gossim, things were different.
    At night when I was in bed and the lights were out in the room which I shared with my kid sister, Gloria, I’d get to thinking about Denny’s dad, or how hard Mom was working at the Navy Yard, or like I said, my math. Or, most of all, I’d worry about Pop sailing by Nazi wolf packs loaded with torpedoes just waiting to ambush him.
    Thing is, to get all that stuff out of my head I’d pretend a smiling, perfume-smelling Miss Gossim was leaning over me. Understand? She was my emergency brake, my life raft, my parachute, my own private rescue squad.
    â€œGood-night, Howie Crispers,” she’d whisper into myear.
    And I’d look up into those blue-gray eyes of hers and whisper, “Good-night, Rolanda Gossim.”
    Then, wham , like magic, them submarines would sink. The war stopped, Pop was safe, and I could sleep.
    Only now Dr. Lomister was going to fire her.

7
    ANYWAY, THERE I WAS , in this long, narrow hallway of the brownstone. The only light was coming from a window at the other end. The ceiling was high with some kind of leafy-design plaster molding. On the wall, blue wallpaper with pictures of clouds and birds on it. Hanging from the middle of the ceiling was this chandelier with dangling bits of glass. The light was off.
    Looking toward the other end of the hall, I saw the curvy tip of a banister. Which must have belonged to steps leading down. My escape, I figured, if I had to make tracks.
    In the middle of the hallway—on the right—was a door. To an apartment, I guessed. At least, Dr. Lomister’s voicewas coming out from behind it.
    Another voice—a lady’s—said, “What possible reason is there to fire her?”
    â€œWilma, I’m not free to say” came Lomister’s voice again. “Just take my word for it. She must leave.”
    I crept closer.
    â€œGilbert, didn’t you tell me that this Gossim woman was one of your best teachers?”
    â€œTeachers,” Lomister said, like he was the local Mussolini or something, “must follow rules too.”
    â€œCan you find a replacement?”
    â€œWe’ll manage.”
    â€œAnd what about the children? Will this upset them?”
    â€œThey won’t care. A teacher is a teacher.”
    I cracked my knuckles.
    â€œWell, since you’ve requested it, I suppose I’m willing to act,” this Wilma went on. “How much notice are you going to give her?”
    â€œOne week. Next Monday will be her last day.”
    â€œGilbert, isn’t this unusual? It certainly hasn’t happened since I’ve come on the job. And in the middle of the term. Plus, I must admit, I’m