How It Happened in Peach Hill (9 page)

With those words of doom, she whisked herself off into the night.

When I went to tenth grade I would be in the same room as Sammy Sloane for six hours a day. The anticipation was almost more than I could bear. But this was not the excuse I used to appease Mama. She was irked that we had come up with such a clever new character and I was being dragged off to waste my time at school.

“It might be good for business,” I said. “It’s risky to depend on Peg for fresh gossip. Her sources are patchy, and she’s not reliable when it comes to details.”

“My customers are not generally attending high school,” said Mama.

“But who is more likely to reveal a dirty family secret than a sulky fifteen-year-old?” I asked.

“I hope you do not include yourself in that description?” said Mama.

Why answer that?

“You may go on a trial basis,” she said. “As long as it does not interfere with my plans.”

I didn’t remind her that Mrs. Newman had no interest in Mama’s plans. She obeyed the law.

Peg made me an egg salad sandwich, wrapped carefully in waxed paper, and packed it with two pieces of shortbread and a bottle of milk.

“If you want to carry it home and eat your lunch here with me, you’ll be welcome, of course,” she said. “But you might make yourself a friend. You’ll want to sit in the yard there at the school, like I used to do, for the noon recess. There will be girls with skipping ropes, boys with balls. You’ll see! A whole crop of new friends.”

“Thank you, Peg.” I kissed her. It was kind of her, but so unlikely that I might have a friend to share cookies with after three hours of high school. I’d find a place to eat and make up stories for Peg.

I wore her skirt again, with a fuzzy white sweater from Mama’s trunk. I dithered while I rearranged my hair—side part or center part? “Bump into” Sammy Sloane or walk alone? Would it be smart or dumb to show up on the first day with a boy? Would he even want to walk with me? Might be one thing in front of my house and quite another in front of all the kids at school.

I chose side part and walk alone. But I’d forgotten about Mrs. Newman. She was waiting on our doorstep, wearing gloves and a scarf that morning, along with her flowery hat. She looked me up and down. She pursed her lips but did not
comment. Peg gave me a squeeze before I set out. My mother had chosen not to bid me good-bye.

I trotted beside Mrs. Newman, scrambling to think of conversation. The weather? That would last one minute, perhaps. A humorous reference to wearing Peg’s skirt? Mrs. Newman might not like to hear me complain.

Mrs. Newman thought of something first.

“You may encounter suspicion, Annie,” she said. “Or teasing. But you may not respond as you did yesterday. I’m depending on you to behave in a mature and responsible manner.”

“I’ll consider that, Mrs. Newman.”

She actually laughed. Then she stopped me in the street and put her hands on my shoulders.

“You’re a smart girl, Annie Grey. Perhaps not quite as smart as you think, but clever enough. I’m not sure what dubious deeds your mother has led you into, but it’s not actually my business. My business is to keep you in school. That’s the law. I’m paid to hunt down truants. If there’s another law you’re breaking, I may trip across it and be forced to make a report under some heading or other, but until then you need to be at school every day, no matter what. If the other students give you a thrashing and leave you bleeding on the pavement outside Bing’s, I’ll pay attention, but until then, you’re on your own, whatever the level of mockery might be. I’m sure you’re clever enough to think up a few names to call them back.”

She clapped my shoulders briskly, bucking me up. We walked on a few paces.

“Perhaps Gwendalen of Stone House could inspire you in
this,” she said. “Her father, Arne the Vast? Now, that is creative naming.” She didn’t look at me, but she chuckled.

I smirked briefly, proud to have succeeded in amusing her. But as we walked, the silence expanded. She was not fooled by Mama’s act. Should I be protesting? Trying to convince her? I’d never had prolonged contact with a scoffer. How dangerous might she be? Did she really not care, except about school? If I mentioned my worries to Mama, she’d have her claws out in a flash. But …

When we arrived at Peach Hill Secondary School, Mrs. Newman took me straight to the office of the principal, who was nowhere in sight. Mrs. Newman explained briskly to the secretary that I was new. The woman polished her glasses and sharpened her pencil before looking up at us.

“Name?”

“Annie Grackle,” I said, following my mother’s edict, “Never use your real name.” Mrs. Newman did not flinch, aside from a quiver in her eyebrow.

“Address?”

“Sixty-two Needle Street.”

“Father’s name?”

“Unknown.”

The secretary blushed to the roots of her bleached and strawlike hair.

“It was an episode of passion,” I added carelessly.

“That is quite enough, thank you,” said Mrs. Newman. She placed her boot firmly across mine and pressed down hard.

The secretary, a Miss Patty Primley, according to the nameplate on her desk, cleared her throat.

“Mother’s name?” she whispered.

“Madame Caterina.” Another pause.

“Occupation?”

“Clairvoyant.” I smiled sweetly, as if I’d said, “Clerk at Murray’s Hardware.”

Mrs. Newman stepped in. “Perhaps I could accompany Annie to her classroom, Miss Primley, so that she doesn’t miss more than necessary. If you could stamp her entry pass, I’ll come back to fill in any missing information on the long form.”

Entering room 305, while class was in progress, was one of the bravest things I’d ever done. Mrs. Newman watched from the door for a moment, as if to remind me of my duty to stay put.

The class fell silent as I came in. The teacher, Mr. Fanshawe, stood by the chalkboard straight ahead of me, with a sea, really, a shimmering sea of faces off to my left. I did not dare to turn my head. My fingers, gripping the entry pass, began to cramp.

Mr. Fanshawe had been tapping the chalkboard with the tip of a pointer. He looked at me, head cocked to one side, and reached out for my pass without lowering his other arm or losing his place.

“Hold this,” he said, indicating that we should do a trade. I was to take the pointer while he examined my pass. Could you die? said the voice in my brain.

I kept my back to the class, my face now blazing like the morning sun, examining rectangles on the chalkboard labeled
ANTECHAMBER
, and
ANNEX
, and
BURIAL CHAMBER
.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mr. Fanshawe, “this is Miss
Annie Grackle. Miss Grackle, sit down there in the second row. Clive Morrison is absent today. We’ll find you a desk of your own tomorrow. See me later for catch-up work.”

He took back the pointer without noticing my catatonic condition. I was forced to turn around and move to my place.

I saw where Sammy Sloane was sitting, two rows over from Clive’s desk and two rows back. Smack in front of Clive’s desk was Delia de Groot. There were other familiar faces swimming to the surface, but I sat down, faced forward and listened hard.

“Well, Miss Grackle,” said Mr. Fanshawe. “The topic under discussion is the religious beliefs of the ancient world. In particular, we are looking at the death practices in Egypt and Mesopotamia, greatly enlightened by the recent discovery of a royal pharoah’s tomb, the tomb of the boy king Tutankhamen. Are you following me?”

Did he mean me to speak out loud?

“Yes, sir,” I croaked. To prove it, I added, “Dead king in Egypt.”

Someone behind me snickered, but the teacher ignored it.

“Who would like to tell Miss Grackle what was uncovered in that tomb?”

Several hands went up. Not that I looked around, but I could feel the air shifting.

“Miss Carlaw?”

Ah, the popular Sally, somewhere close to the window.

“A mummy, sir. The king, all wrapped in linen, embalmed in perfume, inside a golden coffin.”

“Very good. Anyone else? Miss Blaine?”

“Treasure, sir. A throne, and golden boats.”

“Yes. Anyone else? Mr. Pittsfield?”

The boy I knew as Pitts had been waving his fingers almost up Mr. Fanshawe’s nose.

“Food in jars, sir. And dead cats. And the king’s internal organs in another jar.”

There was laughter all around me.

“And what was all this for? Mr. Sloane?”

I caught my breath and turned without thinking to look at Sammy. He saw me, hesitated and then blushed. Oh, that blush thrilled me to the soles of my feet. I heard a noise in Delia’s throat and knew she’d seen it too.

“Uh, it was all for the afterlife, sir. They thought they would need supplies in Heaven, except they called it the Kingdom of the West. I believe they went there, all right, but as spirits, without bodies. They wouldn’t need all that jewelry and junk, so it just stayed in the tomb.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sloane. Do you understand all this, Miss Grackle?”

I was tugged back to attention. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you have anything to contribute on the subject of an afterlife?”

“I hope I die with a clear conscience,” I said, after a moment. “It’s the spirits with regrets who have an agitated afterlife. Though naturally, most of them regret being dead.”

I saw Sammy laughing, and heard everyone else.

“An important point, Miss Grackle,” said Mr. Fanshawe. “Please consider the question, tenth grade: Did the Egyptians look forward to death?” He glanced at the clock above the doorway. “We’ll have to pursue this next lesson. The history
reading for tonight is chapter nine, beginning on page sixty-four of your text. Miss Grackle, come to me at the end of the day for a textbook and missing assignments. Prepare now for Miss Croft.”

A bell trilled in the hallway, formally announcing Miss Croft’s arrival, as Mr. Fanshawe left the room. Quiet groans greeted a tall woman, skinny as a green bean. Mathematics, I guessed, and I was right.

“Display your work, ladies and gentlemen.”

While books thumped and desk lids banged, Delia turned around to hiss at me.

“Can’t you see how embarrassing it is for Sammy Sloane when you stare at him all the time?”

Ouch! She might as well have scratched my face with her fingernails. I blinked to hold back instant tears.

Was it true? Did Sammy cringe when he thought of me? Or was Delia only jealous and purposely slicing me up into little bits? How would I ever learn all the secrets of high school?

As if I hadn’t had enough of Delia, I met her father the same afternoon. Or at least, I witnessed my mother meeting him. I already knew who he was, of course. A person couldn’t live in Peach Hill and not notice the police force. Officer de Groot was tall and wide and hairy. Officer Rankin was the short one I’d seen outside Carlaw’s the day I left first grade. He was slight, with a surprisingly deep voice and a face like a stoat. The yardage in blue serge required to sew Delia’s father’s uniform must have been twice that for his fellow constable. They’d been nicknamed de Gorilla and de Runt long before Mama and I set foot on Needle Street.

I trudged home from school, lugging my new textbooks, kicking leaves and miserably dreaming up clever retorts to spit in Delia’s face. I’d forced all thoughts of Sammy into a dark brain crevice. From the corner of Needle Street I saw a line outside our doorway of more than a dozen women awaiting an audience with Madame Caterina.

Silly geese. If only they knew she mocked them with
every false promise they bought from her. What would they think if they knew she’d sent her own daughter off to school without so much as a wave that morning? Would they be lining up to listen to her nonsense? Humph. But they didn’t know, couldn’t know, would never know.

All I wanted was a wedge of Peg’s pie. I backed up and stomped along the alley behind the house to come in through the kitchen.

The door to the front room was closed. Mama had one of the ladies in with her. Peg was gone early, but she’d left a lemon pie on the table to celebrate my first day of high school. Someone knocked on the front door. The knife slipped from my fingers and skittered across the tiles. I heard Mama and her client in the hall.

“Good,” I muttered, picking up the knife. “Let her answer her own door.” I put a slice of pie on a plate and balanced it on top of my books for the journey to my bedroom.

“Do come back for another session, Miss Chambers. I’m certain we can reduce the size of those warts and contact your sister again. One dollar, please.” The door was opened as Miss Chambers chirruped, “Good-bye.”

Mama said, “Why, Officer! Hello!” Her voice told me she was not pleased. “What an unexpected pleasure!”

Boots shuffled on the wooden floor. “Ma’am,” said a man’s voice. I put down my books and pie and sat on the floor next to them, in the alcove outside the kitchen.

“Would you care to come in for a cup of—”

What would she offer this hefty lout? If it hadn’t been for alcohol being outlawed throughout the country, I’d have guessed he was a whiskey-drinking man.

“A cup of peppermint tea, perhaps? Or a shot of Wilky’s Silk Elixir?” She said the word “elixir” as if it were the naughtiest suggestion she could come up with. I could feel the heat of his blush all the way down the hall.

“Oh, no. No, ma’am, thank you, no, ma’am.”

His boots clicked about on the hard floor, and he couldn’t keep his voice steady even for a sentence.

“I’m here on duty, ma’am.” He got ahold of himself. “There are loiterers outside your door, ma’am. We’re a quiet town, ma’am. We can’t have all this fuss in the street.”

“I’m not sure what you might have heard about us, Officer. Do you know of the miracle that has healed my daughter? After a lifetime of my Annie’s affliction, I’ve been blessed with the gift to cure her. You, with a daughter of your own, you, especially, must know how I feel.” She let that one sink in. Most people fell for the “you, especially” technique.