knew Evan to be a bully like his mother Myrtle. Violet had no intention of showing weakness.
“I’d be happy to see you home.”
“No thank you.” Violet glanced toward the street, but a milk wagon prevented her from crossing.
“Wouldn’t want to worry your ma . . . considering.” The bushes shook with nervous laughter.
“Will you please move?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“You’re going to make me late.”
“Did you really kill your sister?”
Violet slammed Evan Two-Times against the tree with such force that the back of his head knocked against the trunk. “Ask me again. I dare you.”
He rubbed his scalp and winced. “Ma’s right,” he said, pushing Violet into the elderberry bushes, causing the crouching boys to scatter like hens. “You are crazy.” Evan took off down the hill after his friends.
Violet tried to wriggle free of the bushes but couldn’t get a grip on anything to push off of. Just as she started to cry, two hands reached in and pulled her to her feet.
“Thanks,” she managed, too ashamed to look up.
“He had it coming, but good.”
“Stanley?” Violet said, recognizing his pinched voice. Of all the saviors in the world, hers had to be Stanley Adamski. Stinky Stanley. Stupid Stanley. Not that she had ever called him those names, but she’d never spoken against those who had, either. For one thing, Stanley did have an odor, which surprised Violet. According to her mother, Polish women had spotless kitchens, so it stood to reason that their children would be clean as well. For another, even though Stanley was a year older than Violet, he hadn’t yet made it out of second grade. He failed due in large part to his poor attendance, but that didn’t stop the bigger boys from calling him a dumb Polack. And from Stanley’s view, all the boys were bigger. He stood four feet tall on his tiptoes, at least six inches shorter than anyone else his age. Even Violet had an advantage over him.
“Thanks again,” she muttered, brushing leaves off her pinafore. “Mother’s expecting me,” she added over her shoulder as she started running down the hill. Once safely on her front porch, she turned to see Stanley waving at the top of the block. She pretended not to notice and darted inside.
Violet pussyfooted into the kitchen so as not to disturb her mother. She found an old biscuit and smothered it with molasses. If she closed her eyes and let the syrup linger on her tongue, she could almost taste Christmas with its ginger cookies and candied sweets.
“Is that you, child?” her mother called from the bedroom.
Violet eyed the biscuit, the last one in the house. “Can I get you something?” she yelled back.
“A cup of tea.”
Violet stoked the fire and placed a half-full kettle on the stove. Brewing tea would make her late getting back to school by a good ten minutes. She hoped Miss Reese wouldn’t make a fuss.
After steeping the leaves, Violet spooned cream off the top of the milk and into the tea. White foam bubbled on top. “That’s money in your pocket,” she said, scooping some into her mouth. It was one of her mother’s favorite sayings.
“If you won’t be needing anything else . . .” Violet said, as she set the cup and saucer on the table next to her mother’s bed.
“Watch!” Grace snapped, snatching a framed photograph, the one taken of Daisy and her friends on the day disaster struck. In the picture, Daisy stood on the far end of the second row, her long hair pulled up in a bow, her white baptism dress illuminated by the sun. While the other six girls stared straight into the camera, Daisy glanced beyond it, her mind seemingly running ahead, her body leaning out, poised to follow. Grace pored over the smile, the laughing eyes. You couldn’t know, my pet, what the day would bring. Of course not, she thought with some relief. She studied the other girls—Flo, Ruth, Marion in the first row, Janie and Susie in the second. No signs, no indications of what was to come. And then, as impossible as it seemed after two months, Grace noticed Violet for the first time. Somehow she’d managed to squeeze into the photograph. Her closed right hand covered most of her mouth; her left clung to the skirt of Daisy’s dress. Violet had been worried about spoiling the picture. She knew she didn’t belong.
“I best be on my way,” Violet said uncertainly. In that instant, the sour smell of vomit reached her nose and choked her. “Been sick again this morning, I see.” Violet held her breath, walked over to the chamber pot, and lifted the container with both hands. Emptying it would delay her another five minutes.
When she finally got out the door, Violet found Stanley waiting for her at the bottom of the steps, holding two fishing poles.
“Ever play hooky?”
CHAPTER THREE
BY THE TIME THEY GOT TO LEGGETT’S CREEK, one of the better fishing spots in the Providence neighborhood of Scranton, and cast their lines, Violet had discovered that Stanley was anything but stupid. He could do numbers in his head, even his times tables up to eight. He could name at least forty of the forty-eight states, including Arizona and New Mexico, which had only been added the year before in 1912. And he could call birds better than the birds themselves.
“Shush,” Stanley said. “Hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“That blue jay,” Stanley whispered as he pointed across the creek toward a thick line of hemlocks.
“I can’t see anything.” Violet stood up and stretched on her toes to see what Stanley saw.
“Listen.”
Violet sat down, closed her eyes, and focused on the bird’s triple-noted whistle, a high-pitched twee-dle-dee, twee-dle-dee, like the old nursery rhyme. The song repeated several times, and then a nearby blue jay, too near for Violet’s comfort, returned the call. Violet leaped up with arms flailing in an attempt to shoo the bird. She’d heard from her neighbor Tommy Davies that blue jays would peck a soul to death. No need to take chances.
Stanley sat at the edge of the creek, doubled over in laughter. “That was me, you silly goose.” He blew into his cupped hands, and the bird sang again. He straightened right up when he saw Violet’s red face. “Aw, come on. I’ll teach you if you like.”
Violet stood, arms folded, mouth turned down, until Stanley had apologized half a dozen times. She thought six an adequate number of “I’m sorrys,” especially since she really did want to learn how to call birds.
“We’ll start with the sparrow. He’s an easy one. Think of your mother when you’ve let her down.”
Violet’s eyes flashed with tears.
“Or a teacher when you’ve made her real mad,” he added quickly. “That’s a better one.” He raced on: “You know, when she makes that tsk, tsk sound with her tongue on the roof of her mouth.” He fired off a series of eight or twelve
