XXXs and OOOs

EVEN BEFORE LOOKING over my shoulder, I know who's giggling behind me. Sure enough, standing there in the crowded hallway, waiting for me to turn around, is Mushmelon. I don't want to talk to her. But Grandpa used to say, "Every life's worth something in God's eyes." So now I stop spinning the combination lock on my locker and turn around and wait for her to say something.

She's way fatter than last year. And the way she holds her books against her hip makes her look even bigger. God's eyes must be huge to take in all of her. It isn't nice to say, I know, but it's true. Next to her, Annie, her best friend, is tiny. Annie's resting her books on her hip, too, but she holds them in a way that makes me want to keep looking.

"Hi, Danny," Mushmelon says to me.

"Hey."

When Mushmelon smiles, her eyes slant up a little at the outside corners. In the morning light, her curly brown hair shines with glints of red and gold, and freckles cover her cheeks and arms like flecks of sand. If she wasn't so big, she might look good. Not as good as Annie, maybe, but good enough.

"Have a decent summer?" Mushmelon asks.

"Yeah, I guess." What else can I say? It was as decent as it could be without Grandpa to share it with.

"You got my letter?" she says. "Huh?" "My letter?"

I wish she'd leave me alone. I need to dig my gym bag out of my locker so I'm not late again for phys ed. Coach Heller thinks he's still in the army. Anyone who shows up late has to do fifty push-ups in the middle of the basketball court in front of the whole class.

Now Mushmelon's looking straight at me. Her dark eyebrows are pulled low together over her flaking, sunburned nose. "This summer? You got it?"

I don't remember getting a letter. Not right away, at least. But then I see the envelope. It's lying on my desk with red XXXs and OOOs scrawled across the back. No way was I going to open that letter. But I can't tell her that.

"Sure, I got it," I say. "Great letter." "How come you didn't write back?"

How come? Last I heard, I want to say, you write back only if you want to.

"Too busy, I guess," I say.

If anybody were to send me a love letter, why'd it have to be Mushmelon? Why couldn't it have been Annie? A kind of electric shock hits me in the stomach when Annie rolls her blue eyes at me. I watch her blond curls swing back and forth across her tanned shoulders as she tugs on Mushmelon's arm.

"Give me a break," Annie says.

"No, wait," Mushmelon says. "I have to ask."

"Ask what?" I say.

"I put in my favorite shells," Mushmelon says in a softer voice, "and sand from my favorite spot on the lake. And sparkles, too. You know, for the Fourth of July?" Sparkles? Who needs sparkles?

She lowers her eyes and studies the red-and-brown tiles on the floor between us.

"Hey, they were great sparkles," I say; only because she looks so disappointed when I don't answer right away.

What I say, though, doesn't seem to matter. Mushmelon's lower lip starts to tremble. "You don't have to lie," she says, "if you never opened it."

"Who's lying?"

How do girls know when you' re lying? And when they know, why do they start crying? Grandpa always told me to tell the truth. But how can I tell Mushmelon the truth? To say I never opened her letter would be like admitting that I wasn't interested in her, not even as a friend. How can I say that? All I know is that this summer, after Grandpa died, I wasn't interested in anything or anybody.

"Told you," Annie says.

Mushmelon leans into Annie and lets out a sob. Annie puts her arm across Mushmelon's shoulders and glares at me as they walk down the hall.

"Hey, wait!" I call out.

The last thing I want is to make Mushmelon cry. But it's too late to apologize. People are looking at us and wondering what's going on. What can I do? If I say something, everybody will think I like her. Or, worse, they'll think she likes me. I kick the bottom of my locker. How can I explain to Mushmelon about the letter? Man, oh man. Girls are such pains. Grandpa had warned me. Now I wish I'd paid more attention.

After digging my gym bag out from under the mess in my locker, I slam the door. I don't want to think about Mushmelon or her letter. But between classes, we pass each other in the hall, and every time I see her whispering to friends or avoiding me, I feel bad about making her cry.

After lunch, Ms. Bell explains the principles of electricity. Usually I pay attention to whatever Ms. Bell tells us. She's one of the few teachers who knows how to make a subject interesting. But this afternoon, instead of concentrating on ions and electrons, I think about Mushmelon at camp all summer, alone, sending letters, waiting for mail, her mailbox empty except for dead moths. Would it have hurt to write back? In my head I hear Grandpa's voice. Be a mensch, Danny, a kind person, and people will be kind to you.

When I get home that afternoon, I search my desk for her letter. It takes a while until I find it in a drawer crumpled under a pile of old papers, sticky baseball cards, and wrinkled gum wrappers. I must have shoved it there weeks ago, but I don't remember anything about it, just the rows of red XXXs and OOOs on the back.

I turn the envelope over. Small shells and grains of sand shift inside, tumbling from one corner to the other. Some of the sand spills out of the seams onto my desk. Who would think of putting sand in an envelope? Or sparkles? Mushmelon must be crazy!

Only after staring at the red XXXs and OOOs for a while do I remember why I didn't open the letter. I can't lie to myself anymore. It had nothing to do with Grandpa. Inside my head I hear a voice. My voice. You were scared. Admit it.

Scared of Mushmelon? I laugh. Yeah, right.

But I know it's true. The idea of getting close to a girl--even a girl like Mushmelon --is scary. "Girls are mysterious," Grandpa used to say. Only he didn't tell me how strange they'd make me feel. Or how I'd want to be with them one minute and not want to be with them the next.

Now I'm tempted to put the letter back in the drawer. I wouldn't have to tell Mushmelon that I found it. But as much as I don't want to read the letter, I know I have to do it. So I tear open the envelope, brush the sand off the folded sheet of paper, and start to read the words written in round, blue letters.

Dear Danny,
We don't know each other very well, but Annie's
always telling me what a great guy you are. So
I figure I'll write you. I've got to write somebody.

It feels funny holding her letter and touching the same paper that she touched. Reading words that flowed down her arm into her pen is like getting inside her head.

Boy, it feels weird. I look down at the paper and keep reading.

My parents want me to stay in the Poconos instead of going back to New Jersey for my grandfather's funeral. The problem is I can't share my feelings with Annie because she'll tell her mom, and then Mrs. O'Shea will tell my mom. And guess what? Mom'll start worrying like crazy. (My mom's a champion worrywart.) I need to tell somebody. So that's why I'm writing you.

I run my fingers through the sand and sparkles scattered on my desk as I finish the letter.

You understand, don't you? About wanting to come home, even if it's only for a memorial service, not a real funeral? Mom's got this big plan to sprinkle Grandpa's ashes into the ocean near Long Beach Island, where we used to go every summer.

I love the beach. So did Grandpa. That's why I'm putting a handful of shells in the envelope and some sand from the beach here. It's like you and Grandpa are here with me now.

It's not a love letter. She wrote to me about her grandfather, who died while she was away at camp. I want to kick myself. If only I had opened it sooner!

I pick up the envelope again and turn it over. The XXXs and OOOs aren't hugs and kisses for me. No, they're for Mushmelon's grandfather, only he's gone. Man! Now I feel even worse than I did this morning. Grandpa had been right. Girls are a mystery. And he'd been right about something else, too. I shouldn't put off things that I might not like doing. The longer I put them off, it seems, the harder they are to do.

I drag a thick phone book out of the hall closet and flip through the pages to find Mushmelon's number. After punching the numbers into the phone, I wait for her to answer, not knowing what I'm going to say. I want to put the receiver down, but I know what Grandpa would say: "You have to call, Danny. Don't put it off any longer."

It's three more rings before Mushmelon's voice floats into my ear. I grip the phone tighter. "Ellen, is that you?" "Hello?" "Hi, it's me."

"Hello? Hello? Who is this?"

I can't move my fingers. It's like they're glued to the phone.

"It's Danny," I say, trying to keep my voice steady, but all I hear is silence. I wait for her to say something else. "'Are you still there?"

"Yes," she says.

"I read your letter."

More silence.

"Did you hear me?" I ask.

"I bet," she says.

"No, seriously, I did. Just now. I read it, like, twice."

"I'm supposed to believe you, um, saved my letter? From this summer?"

"Look, I should have written back, O.K.?"

Silence again.

"I made a mistake and I'm sorry. Really, really sorry."

I can hear her breathing.

"Ellen?"

More silence, more breathing.

"Say something. Please?"

"Thanks," she says.

Her voice sounds far away. If only I could figure out how to bring it closer. "Look, if there's anything--"

"Thanks. For reading what I wrote, I mean."

"Oh, sure. I just hope you'll forgive--" I hear a click. Did she hang up? "Hey, wait a minute!"

Now that I want to talk to her, she's gone. It feels strange wanting to talk to a girl. Not just to any girl, but to Mushmelon. It's even stranger not to think of her as a girl, or as thin or fat, just somebody whose grandfather died and who misses him the way I miss Grandpa.

I stare at the phone, afraid to call back. I know the words will get caught in my throat. Or I'll say something stupid and upset her. I probably shouldn't have bothered calling at all.

The rest of that night, I worry that I said the wrong thing until I finally drift off to sleep.

In the morning, Scotch-taped to my locker, I find a folded sheet of lined yellow paper. My hand shakes a little as I open the note. It's got red handwriting printed neatly inside a red heart.

My friend Randy leans over my shoulder. "Ooh, a love letter!"

I shove him away with my elbow.

"Knock it off, O.K.?"

"Who's it from?"

I hold the paper close to my chest and read it. "Thanks for the call last night. It means a lot to know you understand." The two ls in Ellen's name at the bottom loop as though she tried to make them into tiny red hearts. After reading her note twice, I fold the paper into a small square and tuck it into my shirt pocket.

"Who's sending you love letters?" Randy asks.

"For your information," I say, pulling open my locker, "it's not a love letter."

"Yeah, right. Come on, who sent it? You can tell me."

Randy's one of my best friends, but he likes to joke around a lot. Most of the time, the joking's at someone else's expense. Should I tell him about last night? Maybe. I want to tell somebody. Dragging my gym bag out of the locker, I say, "Swear you won't say anything?" Randy nods. "Swear it?"

He crosses both arms--and all of his fingers--in front of his chest. "Good enough?"

I take a deep breath before telling him. "You ready for this?"

Randy tries to look serious.

"Ellen Mushkin," I say.

He's grinning like he just heard a bad joke. "Are you nuts? Mushmelon?"

"Hey, lay off. I'm telling you, she's O.K." "She's writing you love letters?" Randy shakes his head and looks at me as if he doesn't know who I am. I feel like I've grown an extra head or three eyes. "I don't believe it," he says.

"It's not like that!"

"Wait'll the guys hear," he says, like I'm some kind of freak now.

"Go ahead and tell," I say.

"Hey, there she is!" Randy points down the hall. "Your girlfriend's coming this way. It's like she's got radar vision. Bet she could find you anywhere."

Ellen gives me a shy wave, nothing more than a flick of her fingers under her books.

"Morning," I say.

"Hey, Danny." Her voice sounds warm, not like the other morning or over the phone yesterday afternoon.

"See you later?" I say. "At lunch, maybe?"

Her eyes slant up. She's grinning. It's a wide, pretty smile. "That'd be great." "O.K. See you."

I watch her walk down the hall, her hair shimmering in the light as if it's filled with gold sparkles.

"Ooh, man, later with Mushmelon!" Randy shoves me into the locker.

"Hey, birdbrain, knock it off!" I push him back.

Randy holds up his hands. "O.K., O.K."

The bell rings. I slam my locker shut and jog down. the hall after him.

"Better hurry," Randy says. "My arms still hurt from the last fifty push-ups Heller made us do."

I check my watch as we race through the empty hallway. Another three hours until noon. I'm already looking forward to lunch, to sitting by Ellen and talking about our grandpas.

By Bruce Black

The Four Freedoms

Norman Rockwell at the opening of the Four Freedoms tour, 27 April 1943 (Photo)

Norman Rockwell tossed in his bed, wondering how he could capture the Four Freedoms on canvas. The artiste Wanted to base a series of pictures on President Franklin Delano Roosevelt's inspiring Four Freedoms speech. When most Of Europe had fallen to Adolf Hitler, the president had called on Americans to help stop tyrants such as the German dictator, and he. had Spoken of the freedoms all people deserve.

Rockwell reread President Roosevelt's Words: "The first is freedom of speech and expression--everywhere in the world. The Second is freedom of every person to worship God in his own Way--everywhere in. the World.. The third is freedom from want every where in the world. The fourth is freedom from fear anywhere in the world."

Eleven months after President Roosevelt gave his speech, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, and the United States joined the fight. Now American soldiers were overseas, embroiled in the battles of World War II, and the war was not going well for the Allies. Rockwell wanted to paint the Four Freedoms and offer them as his contribution to [he war effort. He hoped his pictures would help Americans understand what they were fighting for.

Other artists had been commissioned by the government to paint murals, stamps, and prints of the Four Freedoms. They had created lofty images. That wasn't Rockwell's style. But President Roosevelt's language was so high and noble. How could Norman Rockwell portray those freedoms in concrete terms? "I continued to stew over an idea, Rockwell wrote, I tried this and that. Nothing worked."

While he mulled over the problem of the Four Freedoms, he painted another illustration for a magazine cover, went to a town meeting, and attended a Grange supper. One night he went to bed, still struggling to come up with an idea. "As the minutes ticked by, all empty and dark, I suddenly remembered how Jim Edgerton had stood up in a town meeting and said something that everybody else disagreed with. But they had let him have his say. No one had shouted him down. My gosh, I thought, that's it. There it is. Freedom of Speech. I'll illustrate the Four Freedoms using my Vermont neighbors as models."

Rockwell was so excited that he jumped out of bed and bicycled over to tell his friend and fellow illustrator Mead Schaeffer, even though it was three o'clock in the morning. In the next few days, Rockwell made full-size color sketches of what he intended to do. When he and Schaeffer headed to Washington to offer the sketch ideas to the government.

But the government wasn't interested. Rockwell's and Schaeffer's spirits flagged as they were turned down by one official after another. The war was going badly, and government officials were overworked. The Undersecretary of the War Department told Rockwell; "We'd love to print your Four Freedoms, but we can't.… We just don't have the time to spare to arrange it. I think they'd be a fine contribution. We'd be delighted if someone would publish them."

Discouraged, Rockwell and his friend Schaeffer returned home, taking a side trip to see the editor of the Saturday Evening Post, Ben Hibbs. Rockwell, had other pictures to sell, and Hibbs often bought Rockwell's illustrations. Hibbs asked Rockwell about his trip to Washington, and when he showed the editor his sketches of the Four Freedoms, Hibbs got excited. "You've got to do them for us.… Drop everything else. Just do the Four Freedoms."

Rockwell and his friend returned to Vermont, and Rockwell set to work. But things didn't go smoothly. Rockwell painted the first freedom, Freedom of Speech, four times. "I practically finished it twice, finding each time when I had just a few days' work left that it wasn't right." He had started by showing an entire town meeting, but there were too many people in the picture. In the end, he focused on a single man speaking in front of his neighbors.

Then came Freedom of Worship. Rockwell's first sketch was of a country barbershop. A Jew sat in the barber chair being shaved by a Protestant while a Catholic priest and a Negro waited their turns, all of them enjoying one another's company. But the picture seemed to offend the friends who stopped by to see it. "Priests don't look like that," Catholics told Rockwell. His Jewish and Negro Friends didn't like the picture either. Rod well discarded that picture, started another, and tossed that one aside. Finally he painted a varied group of people, hands raised in prayer, each worshiping God in his or her own way.

After that, Freedom from Want and Freedom from Fear came easily. He based them on his original color sketches. For Freedom from Want, Rockwell painted his own family's Thanksgiving turkey with a family gathered around it. "One of the few times," he Said, "I've ever eaten the model." For Freedom from Fear, he painted parents tucking their children safely into bed.

Rockwell brought the finished paintings to the editor of the Saturday Evening Post. The Post printed the series, and they were a tremendous hit. Subscribers requested posters, and the government asked if they could use the images. Eventually the paintings were taken on a nationwide tour. Over a million people came to see Rockwell's Four Freedoms. Four million posters of the paintings were printed. The publicity they generated helped sell over $132 million worth of war bonds to help fund the war effort.

Americans loved the paintings, but Norman Rockwell wasn't completely satisfied with them. "I never liked Freedom from Fear or… Freedom from Want. Neither of them has any wallop," he said. He worried that Freedom from Fear was "rather smug," that the painting suggested Americans could put their children to bed without fear while families were being bombed in Europe. And he saw Freedom from Want as a portrayal of overabundance at a time when families in war-torn nations were going hungry. "I think the two I had the most trouble with--Freedom of Speech and Freedom of Worship--have more of an impact, say more, better." The art critics didn't always agree with Rockwell. In fact, some felt that Freedom from Fear and Freedom from Want were the strongest of the four paintings. You can judge for yourself.

But there's no doubt that Rockwell's Four Freedoms made a major contribution to the war effort. As editor Ben Hibbs said, "Those four pictures quickly became the best known and most appreciated paintings of that era. They appeared right at a time when the war was going against us on the battle fronts, and the American people needed the inspirational message which they conveyed so forcefully and so beautifully." The Four Freedoms are some of the best known and best loved paintings in America. And their message is just as strong today as it was when they were painted--Freedom of Speech, Freedom of Worship, Freedom from Want, and Freedom from Fear for everyone, everywhere in the world.

By Linda Crotta Brennan

Jelly Beans

"Where are you going, Rabbit?" asked Turtle.

"To Duck's store," said Rabbit.

"Duck is having a contest. The one who guesses how many jelly beans are in a jar is the winner."

"I'll go with you," said Turtle. At Duck's store they saw a jar of jelly beans.

Everyone guessed how many jelly beans were in the jar.

"Turtle is the winner," said Duck. He handed Turtle the prize--a gold watch. Turtle began to cry.

"Why are you crying?" Rabbit asked. "You won a watch!"

"I didn't want a watch," said Turtle. "I wanted the jelly beans."

By Bonnie Highsmith Taylor