It’s like this, cat by Emily Neville (the rosie project .txt) 📖
- Author: Emily Neville
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We just sit and eat our sandwiches. Nick looks over at them pretty often and whispers to me how old do I think they are. I can’t tell about girls. Some of the ones in our class at school look about twenty-five, but then you see mothers pushing baby carriages on the street who look about fifteen.
One of the girls catches Nick’s eye and giggles. “Hi, there, whatcha watching?”
“I’m a bird watcher,” says Nick. “Seen any birds?”
The girls drift over our way. The one that spoke first is a redhead. The one who seems to be the leader is a big blonde in a real short skirt and hair piled up high in a bird’s nest. Maybe that’s what started Nick bird-watching. The third girl is sort of quiet-looking, with brown hair, I guess.
“You want a couple of cupcakes? You can have mine. I’m going on a diet,” says the blonde.
“Thanks,” says Nick. “I was thinking of going after some cokes.”
“Why waste time thinking? You might hurt your head,” says the redhead.
The third girl bends down and strokes Cat between the ears very gently. She says, “What’s his name?”
I explain to her about why Cat is Cat. She sits down and picks up a piece of seaweed to dangle over his nose. Cat makes a couple of sleepy swipes at it and then stretches luxuriously while she strokes him. The other kids get to talking, and we tell each other our names and where we go to school and all that stuff.
Then Nick gets back on the subject of going for cokes. I don’t really want to stay there alone with the girls, so I say I’ll go. I tell Nick to watch Cat, and the girl who is petting him says, “Don’t worry, I won’t let him run away.”
It’s a good thing she’s there, because by the time I get back with the cokes, which no one offers to pay me back for, Nick and the other two girls are halfway down the beach. Mary—that’s her name—says, “I never saw a cat at the beach before, but he seems to like it. Where’d you get him?”
“He’s a stray. I got him from an old lady who’s sort of a nut about cats. Come on, I’ll see if I can get him to chase waves for you. He was doing it earlier.”
We are running along in the waves when the other kids come back. The big blonde kicks up water at me and yells, “Race you!”
So I chase, and just as I’m going to catch up, she stops short so I crash into her and we both fall down. This seems to be what she had in mind, but I bet the other kids are watching and I feel silly. I roll away and get up and go back to Cat.
While we drink cokes the blonde and the redhead say they want to go to the movies.
“What’s on?” Nick asks.
“There’s a Sinatra thing at the neighborhood,” the blonde tells him, and he looks interested.
“I can’t,” I say. “I’ve got Cat. Besides, it’s too late. Mom’d think I’d fallen into the subway.”
“I told you that cat was a mistake,” says Nick.
“Put him in the basket and call your mother and tell her your watch stopped,” says the redhead. She comes over and trickles sand down my neck. “Come on, it’d be fun. We don’t have to sit in the kids’ section. We all look sixteen.”
“Nah, I can’t.” I get up and shake the sand out.
Nick looks disgusted, but he doesn’t want to stay alone. He says to the blonde, “Write me down your phone number, and we’ll do it another day when this nut hasn’t got his cat along.”
She writes down the phone number, and the redhead pouts because I’m not asking for hers. The girls get ready to leave, and Mary pats Cat good-bye and waves to me. She says, “Bring him again. He’s nice.”
We get on the subway and Cat meows crossly at being shut in his basket. Nick pokes the basket with his toes.
“Shut up, nuisance,” he says.
I actually get a letter back from Tom Ransom. It says: “Thanks for your letter. The Youth Board got me a room in the Y on Twenty-third Street. Maybe I’ll come say Hello some day. They’re going to help me get a job this summer, so I don’t need a lawyer. Thanks anyway. Meow to Cat. Best, Tom.”
I go over to Nick’s house to show him the letter. I’d told him about Tom getting Cat out of the cellar and getting arrested, but Nick always acted like he didn’t really believe it. So when he sees the letter, he has to admit Cat and I really got into something. Not everyone gets letters from guys who have been arrested.
One thing about Nick sort of gripes me. He has to think up all the plans. Anything I’ve done that he doesn’t know about, he downgrades. Also, I always have to go to his house. He never comes to mine, except once in a coon’s age when I have a new record I won’t bring to his house because his machine stinks and he never buys a new needle.
It’s not that I don’t like his house. His mom is pretty nice, and boy, can she cook! Just an ordinary Saturday for lunch she makes pizza or real good spaghetti, and she has homemade cookies and nut cake sitting around after school. She also talks and waves her arms and shouts orders at us kids, but all good-natured-like, so we just kid her along and go on with what we’re doing.
She’s about the opposite of my mom. Pop does the shouting in our house, and except for the one hassle about bike-riding on Twelfth Avenue, Mom doesn’t even tell me what to do much. She’s quiet, and pretty often she doesn’t feel good, so maybe I think more than most kids that I ought to do things her way without being told.
Also, my mom is always home and always ready to listen if you got something griping you, like when a teacher blames you for something you didn’t do. Some kids I know, they have to phone a string of places to find their mother, and then she scolds them for interrupting her.
Mom likes to cook, and she gets up some good meals for holidays, but she doesn’t go at it all the time, the way Nick’s mother does. So maybe Nick doesn’t come to my house because we haven’t got all that good stuff sitting around. I don’t think that’s it, really, though. He just likes to be boss.
One day, a couple of weeks after we went to Coney, he does come along with me. We pick up a couple of cokes and pears at his pop’s store.
Cat is sitting on my front stoop, and he jumps down and rubs between my legs and goes up the stairs ahead of us.
“See? He knows when school gets out then it’s time to eat. That’s why I like to come home,” I tell Nick.
We say “Hi” to Mom, and I get out the cat food while Nick opens his coke. “You know those girls we ran into over on Coney Island?” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Well, I got the blonde’s phone number, so Sunday when I was hacking around with nothing to do, I called her up.”
“Yeah? What for?”
“You stupid or something? To talk. So she yacked away a good while, and finally I asked her why didn’t she come over next Saturday, we could go to a movie or something.”
“Yeah.” I was working on my pear, a very juicy one.
“That all you can say? So she says, well, she might, if she can get her girl friend to come too, but she doesn’t want to come alone, and her mother wouldn’t let her anyway.”
“Which one?”
“Which one what?”
“Which girl friend?”
“Oh. You remember, the other one we were kidding around with at the beach, the redhead. So I said, O.K., I’d see if I could get you to come too. I said I’d call her back.”
“Hmp. I don’t know.”
“What d’you mean, you don’t know?”
“How do I know if I like that girl? I hardly even talked to her. Anyway, it sounds like a date. I don’t want a date. If they just happen to come over, I guess it’s all right.”
“So shall I tell them it’s O.K. for Saturday?”
“Hmm.”
“It’s nice you learned a new word.”
“Do I have to pay for the girl at the movies?”
“Cheapskate. Maybe if you just stand around saying ‘Hmm,’ she’ll buy her own. O.K.?”
“O.K. But this whole thing is your idea, and if it stinks it’s going to be your fault.”
“Boy, what an enthusiast! Come on, let’s play a record and do the math.”
Nick is better at math than I am, so I agree.
Saturday morning at ten o’clock Nick turns up at my house in a white shirt and slicked-down hair. Pop whistles. “On Saturday, yet! You got a girl or something?”
“Yessir!” says Nick, and he gives my T-shirt a dirty look. I go put a sweater over it and run a comb through my hair, but I’m hanged if I’ll go out looking like this is a big deal.
“We’re going to a movie down at the Academy,” I tell my family.
“What’s there?” Pop asks.
“A new horror show,” says Nick. “And an old Disney.”
“Is it really a new horror show?” I ask Nick, because I think I’ve seen every one that’s been in town.
“Yup. Just opened. The Gold Bug. Some guy wrote it—I mean in a book once—but it’s supposed to be great. Make the girls squeal anyway. I love that.”
“Hmm.” I just like horror shows anyway, whether girls squeal or not.
“You’ll be the life of the party with that ‘Hmm’ routine.”
“It’s your party.” I shrug.
“Well, you could at least try.”
We hang around the subway kiosk on Fourteenth Street, where Nick said he’d meet them. After half an hour they finally show up.
It’s nice and sunny, and we see a crowd bunched up over in Union Square, so we wander over. A shaggy-haired, bearded character is making a speech all about “They,” the bad guys. A lot of sleepy bums are sitting around letting the speech roll off their ears.
“What is he, a nut or something?” the blonde asks.
“A Commie, maybe,” I say. “They’re always giving speeches down here. Willie Sutton, the bank robber, used to sit down here and listen, too. That’s where somebody put the finger on him.”
The girls look at each other and laugh like crazy, as if I’d said something real funny. I catch Nick’s eye and glare. O.K., I tried. After this I’ll stick to
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