R My Name Is Rachel (8 page)

I take two books off the shelf. I don’t even see which ones they are. I fly down the hall and fumble with the door, but I can’t get it open. I go back to the window and scramble out backward, scraping my wrist as I reach for the stones on the milk crate.

There they are. I’m free.

I dust myself off, and then I see something moving between the trees out back. Is it a deer? But the movement stops.

Is someone watching me? Is it the boy from the first night? The mountain lion boy?

Too bad there isn’t snow. I’d—

But maybe it isn’t the boy. Maybe it’s the teacher.

Quickly I edge around the front of the school, and then I head for home. I have a terrible feeling in my chest. Whatever made me sneak in there? But then I know. I was hoping I’d see something, find something, to remind me of what school is all about.

The books under my coat feel heavy. One edge digs into my skin.

What have I done?

I’m awake early every day, snuggled in bed, reading.

I’ll hate to finish
Anne of Green Gables
. I wish I were just like her. I’d love that good, quiet Matthew, too. But sometimes I stop reading, keep my place in the book with my finger, and wonder: what would Anne say to a girl who’d sneaked into school and borrowed books without asking?

This morning, for the first time, I hear the frogs croaking down at the stream. I tiptoe into the kitchen and open the door to hear them better.

Yes, there they are, just as Pop said. If only he were here to listen to them with me. If only!

I sit at the kitchen table with the money he left us, listening to the chicks peeping in their box. I arrange the dollar bills with their gold seals in front of me, placing them separately, one by one.

A few days ago, with the money from the mayonnaise jar, the dollars covered almost the whole table. Now there’s a hole in the middle. Where did it all go? Before he left, Pop brought home as much food as he could, but we took that long winding road to town and bought seed for the chicks from the grain store.

What else?

Milk from a farmer on the other side of town.

But what is here has to last us until we hear from Pop. No wonder I couldn’t have a dog, or even a goldfish.

I remember Pop saying, “I’ll send money as soon as I can.” He ran his hand through his hair until it poked up in all directions, a sure sign of how worried he was. “I don’t know how long it will take before I’m paid, or before I’ll be able to send mail. I don’t even know how much money it will be.”

Cassie clatters into the kitchen, yawning, her hair a whoosh around her head. “It’s not a good idea to have our money floating around all over the place.” She pushes her bangs off her forehead.

I think of Pop reminding us at the last moment, “You’ll have to learn to live together, to help each other.”

Gaa
, I wanted to say, but then I had a quick thought of Cassie climbing the tree in Brooklyn, holding out the pillowcase for my poor Clarence.

“Want some breakfast, Cass?” I say. “There’s some cereal.”

Cassie shakes her head. Her hair flies. “I’ll do it myself, thank you.”

It doesn’t sound like a real thank-you. What’s the matter
with her this morning? And then I realize it’s Pop’s being gone. “I know, Cassie. I feel sad, too.”

“I wish he’d write to me,” she says. “I’d write back in two minutes.”

Joey comes into the kitchen, his eyes still half closed.

Cassie cuts an uneven slice of bread and takes a huge bite. “Let’s divide the money into three equal parts.”

I frown at her. “What are you talking about?”

“That way it will be even-steven. Some for you, some for Joey. Maybe he’d like a new rooster for the roof.” She looks like the cat that got the cream. “And some for me, of course.”

I stare at her, then sweep the dollar bills off the table onto my lap. Forget about tree climbing and pillowcases and saving a poor cat. But then I remember Pop putting his hand over mine. “The only way this will work,” he said, “is if you and Cassie are friends.”

I try to stay calm. “The money’s not for me. It’s for the rent, for food. We’ll need to be careful.” My voice sounds like Pop’s. I spread out my hands and a dollar floats onto the floor.

“I want to paint my bedroom,” Cassie tells us. “Solid gold. It’ll be gorgeous.”

I bend over to pick up the dollar and another one flies off my lap.

“I’m just going to take a little—” Cassie dives for it.

We scramble on the floor. Her fingers, with the bitten nails, are quicker than mine. She picks up the dollar and grabs another one off the floor. “Just a can of paint,” she says in the freshest voice I could imagine.

“It’s only a can of paint.” Joey echoes her. His voice is soft. “Come on, Rachel.”

“I’ll bring back the change … tons of change, you’ll see,” she says.

I see Pop going down the list of expenses. He tried to smile. “There’s a song ‘Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?’ But you won’t even have a nickel to spare.”

“All right,” I tell Cassie. How am I going to say what comes next? “We do have to divide—”

“Yes, three ways,” Cassie says.

“The work,” I say.

Cassie blows air through her teeth. “What work?”

“There’s cooking and the chicks to feed and a garden to begin …”

Cassie’s nodding. Nodding? “We have to keep this place clean.” She glares at me. “You probably have jelly all over the money.”

It’s true she’s much neater than I am. She likes everything dusted, organized, in its place. For the first time, I wonder what it’s like for her to live in this mess of a farm.

But I keep talking over her voice. “Listen!” I smile, because I have coins in my pocket, my birthday money. “I have money for a goat. It’s just a start. We won’t have milk for a long time.”

Joey jumps up. “That’s great,” he says through a mouthful of cereal.

Cassie cuts another slice of bread for herself. “Now we’re getting somewhere. A gold bedroom and a goat.”

“We have to get the weeds out of the garden, too,” I say, “so we can plant.”

“Gaaa,” Cassie says, looking out the window.

“It will give us food. Vegetables …” I try to remember which ones she likes. What will make her go out there with me?

“How about Brussels sprouts?” Joey says.

She looks horrified.

“Tomatoes,” I say. “Fresh tomatoes.” It’s almost as if I were talking to myself. She loves tomatoes. For some reason, she puts sugar on them.

She does that Jell-O thing with her cheeks. “I could probably cook better than you do,” she says. “If you plant the tomatoes, I’ll make bread crumbs for them and you’d have to cook”—she looks up at the ceiling—“only once a week.”

I’m not going to win this. I try to bargain. “You could clean the kitchen, too.”

She looks around, but before she answers, I tell Joey, “Come on. Let’s go out there.”

He nods and follows me out the kitchen door.

Upstairs is different in the daylight, bright and cheery. Why is it always so unfriendly in the dark?

I get dressed, talking to the duck on the wall. Then I run my fingers over each of my old treasures. “I’ll never forget the city,” I whisper so even the duck doesn’t hear me. I picture Charlie the Butcher and Mrs. Lazarus. I remember Mr. Appleby, look forward. Of course, Miss Mitzi.

And, oh, Clarence.

I look toward the stack of letters on the windowsill, all from Miss Mitzi. Cassie and Joey have piles of letters from her, too.

I go through the letters looking for the one about cats and read part of it. It’s as soothing as a cup of sweet hot tea.

The letter sounds exactly the way Miss Mitzi talks. I wipe my eyes and look out at the garden. It’s still full of long reedy grass and stones, which Joey and I keep pulling and tossing.

Yesterday I felt blisters coming up along my palm, and Joey dropped a rock on his foot. After a while we felt a few drops of rain. “Put your head up, Rachel,” Joey said. “Taste the water on your tongue.”

We felt like pioneers in the desert.

But then it poured. Rivers of rain ran along the soil, making little furrows. In two minutes we were full of mud, so we rushed inside.

It seemed forever before Cassie came back, trudging down the road, her wet hair plastered to her head. She came slowly, pulling the wagon with the can of paint through the ruts in the road.

I opened the door for her and I could see she was ready to cry. I didn’t have the heart to ask her about the change from the paint. Maybe tomorrow.

From upstairs, I can hear her working the pump in the kitchen. I hear the up and down creaking, then water
splashing into the sink. I love that sound. And who would have believed I’d love poking my head and my hands under that gush of icy water to wash my hair and my clothes? It’s so much easier than bringing water from the stream. I almost miss going down there with the pots, though. I always stopped to watch the water bubbling over the shiny rocks and see the small arrows of green poking up their heads between the wide leaves of the skunk cabbages.

In the kitchen we cut the last of the bread and spread it with jam. It’s a good thing there’s a box of crackers up on the shelf left over from the apartment.

Then we set off. We’re on the way to bring home a goat. Someday we’ll have milk!

Goat’s milk, which I’ve never tasted, but still …

Joey is way ahead of us, because Cassie and I are bouncing a ball, playing that game. It’s my turn: “W my name is Wilma and my husband’s name is Woodrow—”

“The cat’s name,” Cassie says.

“What are you talking about? Woodrow Wilson was a president.”

“It’s the cat’s name,” she says firmly.

I miss and the ball bounces away from me. It’s impossible to have a friendship with Cassie. Now she’s naming my cat.

“Clarence,” I say, and catch my breath, because Joey’s reached a bridge over the river.

Before I can stop him, he climbs up and begins to walk along the outside of the railing. He teeters, then balances himself, one arm out; one foot edges in front of the other.

My hand goes to my mouth. I want to yell at him to get down, but I’m afraid if I do, he’ll fall. Next to me, Cassie is frozen.

A moment later, Joey sails off at the end. Safe!

I let out my breath. Joey, always doing something dangerous.

I do yell now. “What’s the matter with you? Have you lost your mind?”

But he just grins at me.

A few steps, and Cassie and I stand at the bridge to look down: a terrifying drop. “Don’t ever do that again,” I call after him, but I could be talking to the air. Already he’s way ahead of us again.

We pass the school, with its faded drawings on the windows. My throat tightens. I just have to hope that no one saw me that day. I’ve spent every free minute reading
Anne of Green Gables
, but with every page, I know I shouldn’t have taken those books.

Cassie gives the ball a bounce. “X my name is—” she begins, and breaks off. “It’s the best luck in the world that the school is closed.”

I know she’s buying time so she can think of a name that begins with
X
, but still it reminds me that there isn’t one thing we agree on.

Ahead of us, Joey stops at the gate with the sign:
GET YOUR GOAT
.