Chapter 8

Rigby joined what was usually called the stage crew at school and learned how to operate projectors, the stage lights and other equipment. The club’s biggest task now, with most of the custodians drafted or gone to better jobs, was to clean the school after classes. It usually took only a half an hour for the twenty-some boys and two girls to empty trash cans, pick up debris, wash blackboards and sweep the steps and halls.

He met kids he hadn’t known in elementary school and made some new friends as they pushed big brooms down the long, wood-floored halls. Then one fall day while he was standing in the milk line in the cafeteria and girl behind him poked his shoulder and said, “Hey, aren’t you the guy I tried to teach how to dance?”

Rigby half turned, smiled, nodded and felt himself blushing. They got their cartons of milk and the girl said, “Come on, let’s sit over here.” They walked down the side corridor where extra tables had been put for the big seventh grade class, sat and Rigby opened his paper bag.

“I’m Marie,” the girl said, sticking out her hand. “We never really met.”

Rigby briefly held her hand and said, “My name’s Rigby.” He nodded and tried to smile while he pulled out a sandwich wrapped in wax paper.

“That’s a new one,” said the girl. “What’s a, I mean who was Rigby?”

He almost laughed. “Oh, it’s a town, up in Canada, and an old English name, an admiral I think, way back, my mother’s family, goes back, I don’t know, hundreds of years. We’ve got this crest in a frame hanging on the wall.”

“No kidding. My name’s Baker. That’s about as ordinary as they come.”

Rigby nodded and chewed. As usual it was peanut butter and jelly. His mother had complained about both of those being rationed so his sandwich was rather thin.

Marie opened her milk and stuck in the straw, smiled at the boy and drank.

Rigby, sitting beside her, opened his milk, drank some from the carton, found it was warm as usual, took a big bite of his sandwich and chewed. Nobody wasted time at lunch and many students had learned to eat in five or ten minutes. There had been a cartoon in the school paper that showed a cafeteria line snaking out of the building and up the street, all the way to the post office and the statue of the Madonna of the Trail.

“You going to the dance next week?” Marie asked.

Rigby shook his head. “Hadn’t thought about it.”

“Do, please. I can teach you how to dance, honest.” She grinned at him.

“Dangerous to your health, I mean your feet.”

She laughed. ‘Come on, at least think about it.”

Rigby nodded and chewed. He knew he wasn’t going.

“Seen any good movies?” the girl asked. Her thin sandwich on crust-free bread was evidently some sort of spread, kind of an orange color with pieces of pickle in it.

“I usually go on Saturday, double features, Westerns mostly. Saw Tom Mix last week.”

She nodded. “Have you seen that Lassie movie?”