R My Name Is Rachel Read online

  Do you remember that night, Miss Mitzi? Sometimes when I remember happy things, it makes me sad.

  Love,

  Rachel

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  On Thursday a week later, I tiptoe into the kitchen before Joey and Cassie are awake. I want to check on the eggs. We’ve learned how to manage the fireplace so the fire never goes out. Inside the eggs, the growing chicks must feel toasty warm.

  I bend over them and check the Xs we’ve marked on each one so we can tell which side is up. We’ve been careful to turn them five times every day. Maybe they get tired of lying on their backs or their stomachs.

  “Come out,” I tell them. “See the world. I have names for you: Abigail, Betsy, Constance—”

  Joey rustles around in the living room. I close my mouth. This talking aloud to myself has got to stop. “Gladys,” I whisper, my nose an inch above the eggs.

  But right now I have other things in mind. I pull on my coat, wind my woolly scarf around my neck, and cut a slice of bread. I bite off chunks that are rock hard. They take a long time to soften in my mouth.

  Out front, I flip open the mailbox even though I know it’s still too early for mail. A tan spider has moved in; he’s spinning a poor-looking web that waves out to nowhere. Maybe even spiders are feeling the Depression.

  I start down the road, swiveling my head back and forth; on one side are the trees, still bare; on the other side is our field. Pop has money in a mayonnaise jar for seed so he can plant corn when he comes back.

  I’m enjoying the view, but I look for Clarence, of course, and I keep my eyes open for mountain lions.

  Nothing to fear.

  There’s something I want to see up close. It’s a really long walk, but I want to see this place alone, in all its faded glory.

  I love that. Faded glory.

  And there it is, up ahead.

  The Warren Harding School.

  “Hello,” I whisper. It’s just like a picture of a school I saw once in a book. It has a bell on top and it hasn’t been painted in a thousand years.

  I walk across the grass, which is mostly mud, and peer in the window, but all I see is a vestibule with a bunch of hooks.

  Sad little hooks with no coats, no hats.

  I wander around the back. Just over my head the window is open the tiniest bit. I stand there, chewing on the edge of my nail. Should I?

  And even as I ask myself, I know I’m going to do it. I look around for something to boost myself up. And like magic, I see the milk crate against the wall.

  Standing on the wooden crate isn’t enough. I have to reach way up to grab the sill, and there’s no way to push open the window.

  I retreat to figure out how to get in. I see that I’ve left a muddy smear on the wall.

  A row of rocks marches along at the edge of the trees. I spend ten minutes bringing the larger ones back to the milk crate. It looks as if I’m building a mountain. It feels that way, too. I’m a little out of breath.

  I stand back and look at my work. Excellent.

  I step up on the rocks and now I can use one hand to shove up the window. I wiggle like a worm and throw myself over the sill and inside.

  Hands on my hips, I take a few breaths and look around. I’m in a little hallway, and there’s a classroom on each side. Only two? I close my eyes. My school in the city has three floors of classrooms, all the way from kindergarten to eighth grade.

  Look forward, Rachel.

  One classroom must be for the little kids. Wiggly drawings of rabbits are tacked up on the wall: one has ears as long as the paper.

  Across the way is the room I might be in. There’s a painting of a tree, and underneath are the words a nest of robins in her hair.

  I say that aloud; the sound almost echoes.

  I would have loved being in this room. I see something else, drawings of daffodils … not bad, better than I could do. I stand in front of the room, taking the pointer from the ledge. “Today we are going to learn about my city,” I tell a nonexistent class. “There’s a ferry that goes back and forth across the river, and a bridge. Dozens of stores are open along the streets.”

  Wait a minute.

  Bunnies down the hall, spring flowers here. I lean against the wall, tapping my lip. The desks have a film of dust over them. The windows are filthy.

  The pictures aren’t from this spring, but maybe last spring. What happened to fall leaves and Thanksgiving? What happened to drawings of sleds and snowflakes?

  Has the school been closed for a year? I gulp down my disappointment. If it’s been closed this long, who knows when it will open again?

  Halfway down the hall, I peer into what must be the principal’s office. The window is shattered; shards of glass lay on the sill, and a vase is on the floor with faded flowers and leaves scattered around.

  I remember Miss Mitzi spilling the irises the afternoon I told her we were leaving. And then another memory of those happy days: all of us shopping and Pop buying Miss Mitzi a flower, which she pinned on her collar. Imagine. Buying a flower for someone who has a flower shop. But Miss Mitzi loved it. I could tell by the color of her cheeks.

  Now I step inside and around a chair that’s been turned over to look at the desk; it has nothing on it, not even a blotter.

  But behind the desk are books on a shelf: The Wizard of Oz, A Girl of the Limberlost. I bend down and run my fingers over a book called Understood Betsy. There must be a dozen books here, not being read, just alone on those shelves, waiting.…

  Waiting?

  Suppose I borrowed one.

  Could I do that?

  It wouldn’t be stealing if I brought it back. Wouldn’t it be just borrowing?

  Outside, a cloud covers the sun; the light in the room is gray now. I shiver. I hear a noise.

  Is someone walking down the hall? I stand there, frozen, but maybe it’s just the wind. I peer into the hallway. No one. But still, I heard something.

  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?

  Dear Miss Mitzi,

  Yesterday we kept watching the eggs. They were twenty-one days old. “Hurry,” I kept saying.

  Cassie said, “A watched pot never boils.”

  But Joey said, “I’m glad these are eggs and not pots.”

  At last the eggs began to crack open. Pop had warned us not to help them. “They have to fight their way out by themselves,” he said. “Otherwise they won’t be healthy.”

  We held our hands behind our backs so we wouldn’t reach out and pull off a piece of shell here and there. They had to struggle so hard to get out.

  But then out they came.

  At first the new chicks were bedraggled, but they dried into yellow fluff. And someday they’ll lay eggs of their own.

  I wish you could see them.

  Do you remember last year? We went to a duck farm. All of us. You made a picnic lunch. We sang “Old MacDonald Had a Farm.”

  Love,

  Rachel

  P.S. Did you ever do anything and didn’t think about it until afterward? Then deep down you knew it was wrong?
/>   CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  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.

  Dear Pop,

  I decided I’m going to write you a letter, even though I can’t send it until we have your address. Cassie and Joey are writing, too. We are fine. How are you?

  We have ten chicks in their box near the fireplace; two didn’t hatch. When you pick the live ones up, they fit right in your palm. They are soft with scratchy little feet—no, I mean claws. Gladys is my favorite.

  I am watching the money, just as you said. Cassie intends to paint her room. She wheeled a wagon out of the barn and has gone to town. That way, she’ll bring back the paint. It’s a long walk. She’ll be gone most of the day.

  Don’t worry. We’re saving. Joey brought us something called fiddleheads from down at the stream. He said he read somewhere that you can eat them, so Cassie boiled them up. They are green with a taste that makes your hair want to stand up straight.

  We ate them anyway, to keep up our strength. This means we didn’t spend the money for two suppers.

  Please write to us as soon as you can. We look for mail every day. Joey and Cassie send their love. I do, too.

  Rachel

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  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 ca
ts and read part of it. It’s as soothing as a cup of sweet hot tea.

  My cat Lazy did come back. I have my fingers crossed that Clarence will, too. Maybe he has to get used to North Lake. Maybe he’s exploring. One day he might say to himself, “Hey, I’d better find out how my old friend Rachel is.” You’ll look out the window, and there he’ll be, waiting for a handout, just like a hobo. I wonder how my old friend Rachel is, too. Missing all of you is like a toothache. I take out a memory every day and it makes me happy again.

  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!