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“Some kids pushed me down in the mud on my way home from school, then they laughed at me. They always make fun of me, saying that I have cooties. Sometimes they call me ‘grease monkey,’ and they make ape noises at me because of Pop’s garage, and because I can never get the grease out from under my fingernails after I help him. But today they made fun of me because of Buster. They called me ‘dog girl,’ and they howled and barked at me all the way home.” I felt beat up all over again as I told Jimmy my story.
“Who are these kids?” he said when I finished. He was roaring mad. “Tell me their names, and I’ll take care of them for you.” There were too many to name.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said.
“Of course it matters!”
“Pop says I have to learn to stand up for myself.” He’d also said, “Sticks and stones may break your bones, but names will never hurt you.” But that wasn’t true. The names did hurt.
“Those other kids are wrong,” Jimmy said. “You’re a great kid, Peggety. And Buster is one of the bravest dogs I know.” Tears filled my eyes again at his words. “You should tell your teacher about those bullies.”
“Okay.” I had nodded my head so he would believe that I would do it. But my teacher that year was Miss Hastings, and she looked at me the same way all the kids in my class did. I longed to stand close to her because she smelled nice, the way my mama had. I’d started to forget my mama, and I didn’t want to. But whenever I got too close, Miss Hastings would back away a little bit.
I never told her about the bullies, of course. The kids still made fun of me, and Miss Hastings still kept her distance from me. But the fact that Jimmy had cared, that he would have stood up to all those other kids for me, meant everything. “You’re a great kid, Peggety. You’re a great kid.” I repeated those words to myself again and again. And I kept the little straw braid he had made to remind me of them.
That was years ago, but oh, how I wished Jimmy would open his soul to me now the way I had with him that day. I would listen to him and do anything I could to make things right. It was a terrible feeling not to be able to help my best friend.
I took Buster up to my room after Donna left for work. That night, I read through all the New Testament verses Jimmy had underlined in his little Bible, trying to see a pattern, but I couldn’t. I was ready to give up when I saw that the first verse of Psalm 22 had been underlined. “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? why art thou so far from helping me, and from the words of my roaring?” In the margin beside it, he’d written Gisela.
I made up my mind that when we visited Jimmy tomorrow, I would bring his little Bible. I still had the braid of straw he’d made, and I used it to mark the page with Psalm 22. Jimmy used to believe in God and in prayer. I wondered if he still did.
I turned off the light, picturing the woman’s face in the photograph. “Who are you, Gisela?” I asked the smiling girl. “What happened that Jimmy can’t bear to talk about it?”
