Hi, Diary.
I stopped writing in you the last time when the Sandman must've tossed twenty-five pounds of sand on my upper eyelashes. I put my pencil aside, closed you, put you away in my safe place so nobody could find you, and I went to sleep.
I woke up in a wet bed. As I carried my sheets, intending to take them down to the basement washing machine, I passed by Mother. "When are you going to stop pissing the bed?"
I'm tired of explaining to her that I don't pee the bed on purpose.
So, back to the City Ice Pond. Louie and I were just about to join other skaters, that is, after we finished giggling. Laughter beats being sad, don't you think? Oh, I forget, you can't think. And you can't answer me, either. You're a forty-nine-cent blank-page book I bought at Woolworth's Five and Dime. You're still mostly filled with blank pages, but most of all, Diary, you're the only friend in the world I have who won't tell anyone secrets I share with you.
Back to the ice pond. As Louie and I start skating, somebody pushed me from behind. "Oooph." That was the sound of air escaping my lungs, rushing out my mouth as fast as a burst penny balloon. A moment later, I was a blob, sprawled on the ice, but when I looked and saw who had pushed me, I grinned. "I'll get you for this, Judy Panter." My grinning, button-nosed fellow sixth-grader, who happens to be a girl, skated off to join a group of girls, some from Howe School, others from a public school across the river and two Catholic grade schools in town.
Upright, I dug one skate blade sideways into the ice. "I'll get you," I yelled. Judy left her group. Although I thought I could take off as fast as the Roadrunner, I was more like Wily Coyote who never can catch Beep-Beep, the missile-launched bird. Finally, I gave up my pursuit when I heard Louie, a Saints Peter and Paul student, call my name. He was skating in a line with my Howe School classmates, including Roger Aton, Bill Schroeder, Jimmy Lokken, Tim Lattimer, and Lee Anunson. They were holding hands. "Wanna join our Whip?" shouted Lee.
"Yeah." I grabbed Louie's gloved hand, which meant I was the other end of the Whip. Lee, as usual, appointed himself Leader. My end could be a lot of fun—or not. We started out, skating behind Lee and each other. The moment Lee yelled, "Whip," each skater had to skate faster than the kid in front of him and form a side-by-side line, instead.
When it was my turn to get even with Louie, Lee and the others alongside him veered left. I was going twice as fast as anyone else, I'll bet. I let go. Zoom! Off I flew like an out of control Fourth of July skyrocket, powerless to change direction. That's why the Whip End often slams into other skaters. As I did. Since it's not on purpose, most of the time, everyone involved laughs. Not this time.
I ran into a pair of high school "Going Steady" sweethearts. I noticed she wore on her gold chain necklace a ring outside her coat, most likely his Junior class ring. Lover Boy's face was all scrunched up. His bottom lip nearly swallowed his nose before he exploded. "What the hell's wrong with you, little man?"
"Nothing." I looked back to my friends. "I was in a Whip. We were having fun."
"Fun? You coulda hurt us, maybe killt us damn it. If you run into us again, you and me are going to Fist City."
"You and I."
"What'd you say?" His face was now so close to mine I could smell his breath, a mix of mayonnaise, garlic, and sauerkraut.
"You should've said, 'You and I are going to Fist City.' That was bad grammar on your part."
Down I went. Ooooh, did I hurt. Once again, I was a blob on the ice. "Pick on somebody your own size," yelled a girl's voice that turned out belong to Judy Panter.
"Your boyfriend—if that's what he is—shouldn't of ran into us," barked Lover Boy.
"Shouldn't have run into us," I yelled, my cheek still hurting, my eye burning.
Lover Boy displayed both fists, as large as muskmelons. "Keep it up, smart ass, and you'll go home tonight with two shiners, not one."
Gordon Bartholomew Hoffman is not stupid. I kept my mouth shut. Lover Boy gave me the finger before he and his Steady skated away a moment after he sneered and said, "You're not such a dumb shit, after all, are you, little man?"
The rest of the Whip soon circled Judy and me. "What's wrong with that guy?" asked Lee.
"He was angry because I ran into him and his girlfriend."
"Then, he shouldn't be skating here," said Bill Schroeder, ever the philosopher. "He should have his own private pond."
"You're telling me." I turned to Judy. "Do I have a black eye?"
"Not yet, but I think you're going to. It's red, almost purple."
I looked to Louie. "I'm going home."
"I'll go with you," said my buddy.
"Me, too," said Judy. "I'll walk with you guys."
Neither Louie or I said anything. When we sat on the wooden bench inside the Warming House, he broke the silence. "I think she likes you."
"Nah," I said, "she's just concerned."
"She likes you. Remember, she pushed you. That means she's got her eyes on you."
Hmmmmm. My brain started working strenuously. (Thanks, Readers Digest Word Power Page). Although I hurt on the outside, the inside of me felt good. Interested in me? Did Judy really like me? Perhaps even love me? I could really like her a lot, I'll bet. We'd probably go steady in high school and after we graduate, get married. Will I still be able to join the Navy? I don't want be a doctor. And I certainly don't want to work in the paper mill.
"Ready to go?" said Louie.
"You okay?"
"Sure, why do you ask?"
"You didn't answer me until I asked you the fourth time. That guy hit you pretty hard."
"Nah, I'm okay."
Well, Diary, I'm tired. I'll write more in you soon and tell you about our walk home.