second later, she saw a black cloud rise from the tree, and the faint humming sound changed to a roar. A truly angry roar.
She didn’t remember getting down from the tree, but later she would discover livid rope burns on the insides of her knees, along with a colorful variety of scratches and bruises. She hit the ground running, howling at the tops of her lungs, then stabbing the air with a separate shriek each time she felt another sting.
She headed straight for the pond with its burbling fountain.
Rosa took a flying leap for the clear, calm water. She couldn’t help herself. She was on fire. It was an emergency.
The cool water brought relief as she submerged herself. The places she’d been stung were instantly soothed by the silky mud on the bottom. She broke the surface and saw a few bees still hovering around, so she sat in the shallow water, waving her arms and legs, stirring up brown clouds. She didn’t know how long she sat there, letting the mud cool the stings. She could detect six of them, maybe more, mostly on her legs.
“What in heaven’s holy name is going on?” demanded a sharp voice. A woman rushed out of the house and down the back stairs.
Rosa almost didn’t recognize Mrs. Carmichael in her starched housekeeper’s uniform. The Carmichaels lived down the street from the Capolettis, and usually Rosa only saw her in her housedress and slippers, standing on the porch and calling her boys in to dinner. Everything was different in this neighborhood of big houses overlooking the sea. Everything was cleaner and neater, even the people.
Except Rosa herself. As she slogged to the edge of the pond, feeling the smooth mud squish between her toes, she knew with every cell in her body that she didn’t belong here. Muddy and barefoot, soaked to the skin, bee-stung and bruised, she belonged anywhere but here.
She waited, dripping on the lawn as Mrs. Carmichael bustled toward her. “I can explain—”
“What are we going to do with you, Rosa Capoletti?” Mrs. Carmichael demanded. She was on the verge of being mad, but she was holding her temper back. Rosa could tell. People tried to be extra patient with her, on account of her mother had died on Valentine’s Day. Even Sister Baptista tried to be a little nicer.
“I can get cleaned off in the garden hose,” Rosa suggested.
“Good idea. I hope you didn’t do in any of the koi.”
“The what?”
“The fish.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
Mrs. Carmichael shook her head. “Let’s go.”
As she followed Mrs. Carmichael across the lawn, Rosa glanced at the house and saw a ghost in the window. A small, pale person with a round Charlie Brown head stood staring out at her, veiled by lace curtains. She looked again and saw that the ghost was gone, shy as a hummingbird zipping out of sight.
“Holy moly,” she muttered.
“What’s that?” Mrs. Carmichael cranked opened the spigot.
“Oh, nothing.” It was kind of interesting, seeing a ghost. Sometimes she saw Mamma, but she didn’t tell anyone. People would think she was lying, but she wasn’t.
“Stand right there.” Mrs. Carmichael indicated a sunny spot. The grass was as soft as brand-new shag carpet. “Hold out your arms.”
Rosa’s shadow fell over the grass, a skinny cruciform with stringy hair. An arc of fresh water from the hose drenched her. “Yikes, that’s cold,” she said.
“Hold still and I’ll be quick.”
She couldn’t hold still. The water was too cold, which felt good on the beestings but chilled the rest of her. She jumped up and down as though stomping grapes, like Pop said they used to do in the Old Country.
The ghost came to the window again.
“Who is that?” Rosa asked through chattering teeth.
“He’s Mrs. Montgomery’s boy.”
“Is he all alone in there?”
“He is. Put your head back,” Mrs. Carmichael instructed. “His sister went away to summer camp.”
“I bet he’s lonely. Maybe I could play with him.”
Mrs. Carmichael gave a dry laugh. “I don’t think so, dear.”
“Is he shy?” Rosa persisted.
“No. He’s a Montgomery. Now, turn around and I’ll finish up.”
Rosa squirmed under the impact of the cold stream of water. When the torture stopped, Mrs. Carmichael told her to wait on the back porch. She disappeared into the house, carefully closing the door behind her. She returned with a stack of towels and a white terry-cloth bathrobe. “Put this on, and I’ll throw your clothes in the dryer.”
As Rosa peeled off her wet clothes, Mrs. Carmichael stared at her legs. “Mother of God, what happened to you?”
Rosa surveyed the welts on her feet and legs. “Bee-stings,” she said. “I kicked a hive. It was an accident, I swear—”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Rosa thought it would be rude to point out that she had already tried to explain.
“Heavenly days,” said Mrs. Carmichael, wrapping a towel around her. “You must be made of steel, child. Doesn’t it hurt like hellfire?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It’s all right to cry, you know.”
“Yes, ma’am, but it won’t make me feel any better. The mud helped, though. And the cold water.”
“Let me find the tweezers and get those stingers out. We might need to call a doctor.”
“No. I mean, no, thank you.” Rosa hoped she sounded firm, not impolite. While Mamma was sick, the whole family had had their fill of doctors. “I don’t need a doctor.”
“You sit tight, then. I’ll get the tweezers.”
A few minutes later, she returned with a blue-and-white first-aid kit and used the tweezers to pluck out at least seven stingers. “Hmm,” Mrs. Carmichael mused, “maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea, jumping in the pond. I think it’ll keep the swelling down.” She gently pressed the palm of her hand to Rosa’s forehead, and then to her cheek.
Rosa closed her eyes. She had forgotten how good it felt when someone checked you for fever. It had to be done by a woman. A mother had a way of touching you just so. It was one of the zillion things she missed about Mamma.
“No fever,” Mrs. Carmichael declared. “You’re lucky. You’re not allergic to beestings.”
“I’m not allergic to anything.”
Mrs. Carmichael treated the stings with baking soda and gave Rosa a grape Popsicle.
