Rite of Passage

He pointed at each item and, in fact, seemed more than pleased to help us. I think part of it was the chance to help out eager kiddies, partly he liked me because I was a cute little girl, and part was the sheer joy of operating the bake oven and making the jewelry. The pins were just an excuse for me, though I did find the idea of making them intriguing and the process interesting. I am not a tinkerer, however. Jimmy and Mr. Mitchell both were. They belonged to the let’s-putter-around-and-see-what-happens school and they got on very well together.

We started by picking the copper backing, refining our sketches, and planning the colors we wanted to use. Gradually, I became relegated to the position of observer while Jimmy took over the planning and execution of the jewelry with Mr. Mitchell serving as over-hisshoulder adviser. That was after the first try, particularly mine, turned out badly.

The first I ever saw Jimmy Dentremont he was tinkering, or if he wasn’t at least that’s the way I remember it. He was good at it, too, and that combined with enthusiasm, mild mental myopia, and desire to dominate sometimes carried him away. It wasn’t the first time I’d gotten elbowed to the side by him. I didn’t care for it particularly, either. It was one of the things that made me wonder, our necessary association aside, if I really liked Jimmy.

It wasn’t really an important enough thing to get more than slightly irritated about today, since we had larger goals in mind, but I did resent mildly being put in a position where I had to work just to see enough over Jimmy’s other shoulder to know what was going on. But, at least, having been put in the role of an observer, I did make an effort to observe and I saw more than either Jimmy or Mr. Mitchell.

When our second tries were in the oven, I poked Jimmy and said, “Mr. Mitchell, it’s about lunch time.”

“Hmm?” Jimmy said, turning his attention from the oven to me. It was actually something on the early side for lunch, as Jimmy was perceptive enough to be aware. In his concentration on the job of the moment, our larger purposes had escaped him. I gave him another prod to restore his memory.

I said, “We can go and eat and then come back to see how the pins turned out.”

Jimmy had the good sense to nod.

Mr. Mitchell seemed a little bewildered, mostly I think because he and Jimmy had been in rapport, working together to do the job, and now, all of a sudden, Jimmy was just dropping things and dashing off. But he said, “Oh. All right. Sure.”

When we were in the hall on beyond, Jimmy said, “What I said last week about lies — I was wrong. Boy, did that sound weak: ‘Have to go to lunch.’ ”

“Well, I didn’t notice you thinking up anything better,” I said, quite tartly. I was walking determinedly enough that before Jimmy saw how fast I was going, I was a good bit ahead and he had to push to catch up. It’s my I-mean-business-and-I’m-more-than-just-an-ounce-irked pace.

“What’s the matter with you?” Jimmy asked. “I didn’t mean anything.”

“It’s not that,” I said.

“Well, what is it?”

“Nothing,” I said. Then, “They got the suits about half an hour ago. Venie waved at me. You two had your heads down over the table.”

“I hope they got the smallest there were,” Jimmy said.

Suddenly, I put my hand on his elbow and stopped. “Hold on there. We’d better go back and go around.” I gestured at the hail ahead. “I don’t want to get bawled out by that old witch again.”

Jimmy looked at me with an impish expression. It’s the sort of expression his face, topped by red hair and set between prominent ears, is really fitted for.

“Let’s take a chance,” he said. “Let’s just run for it, and if she comes out we won’t stop at all.”

Maybe it was my moment to be impulsive. The hall stretched before us like a gauntlet. The door to old Mrs. Keithley’s office was open and we were far enough out of her line of sight to allow us a running start. We had to go about thirty yards beyond it, turn a corner left, and then we’d be out of sight and out of practical reach.

“All right,” I said. Feeling like little blonde-haired Susy Dangerfield running between the lines of hostile Iroquois braves, I took off. Jimmy was right with me, on my left, and we pounded along. As we passed the old lady’s office, I shot a glance right, but didn’t see her.

Jimmy out-accelerated me, and as we made for the corner, he was a step or two ahead.

“Hey, slow down,” I said. “She isn’t even there.”

He turned his head to look back as he reached the corner, and still moving at considerable speed crashed blindly into someone. Jimmy bounced off and into the wall, but didn’t fall down. I skidded to a stop at the corner and looked down. It was Mrs. Keithley, white hair and all, sitting flat on her bottom with an expression of affronted dignity on her face. She looked up at me.

“Hello,” I said. “Nice day, isn’t it?” I stepped over her and walked at a very sedate pace down the hail.