BEATRICE TAUSS
387
"He's bad!" she said, with authority, silencing the chorus.
"He's bad! " she repeated , and the certainty rang and echoed in
the dreary room . Beside a front seat, at the teacher's right hand,
stood a small, beautiful child, a flower, arm outstretched with its
dainty index finger pointing accusingly. Once more she repeated ,
"He's bad!" and her finger reached out like a lash across the room.
Her pale blonde hair fell silkenly to her shoulders. Superb, she stood
pointing, a quivering accusing angel, outraged, indignant.
"What is your name?"
Again that clear voice, that certainty.
"My name is Robin Sandra."
"Thank you, Robin . Let's all settle down now and continue
writing. I'll take care of this matter. "
"I'm the Princess ," Robin offered.
"Are you?" I studied her large gray eyes, earnestly imploring
due recognition, her delicately flared nostrils , her sweet bud of a
mouth. She was perfect. She was haughty. She stood upright in full
view-demanding, expecting, receiving praise .
"Yes, I'm the Princess and you must excuse me for the rehearsal
when Peter comes to the door."
"I will remember." Robin stood another moment in triumph.
She was dressed in an elaborately ruffled pink "party dress" that
belled slightly above her sweetly dimpled knees. She wore patent
leather shoes with the classic button and white stockings. Ah, you
are a Princess and you have the royal interest in preserving the
status quo. You teach me what's what in the present regime-and ,
above all, who's who .
She sat down at last, not entirely satisfied with her efforts to
keep the world intact.
I turned to the silent offender. He did not protest. He did not
deny. He had merely slunk down in his seat, an emaciated child with
great big black eyes. He had twisted himself into a corner of his seat,
with his knees thrust under him, drinking in the response to his
deed. He shriveled up and withdrew, leaving only those fierce bril–
liant eyes to do battle with the outside world . We studied each other.
Testing. Testing. I met his fierce gaze. Urgent need pushed him.
"What is your name?' We had already spoken intimately. Con–
fusion and a little joy took him by surprise. The joy, rising, glowed
in his eyes. He pointed a bony, nail-bitten finger to the card.
DANIEL.
"Can you write it?"
He nodded. He untwisted his legs. He swung his skinny body
into position. He shot me a look: was this a trap?
