A Girl from Yamhill by Beverly Cleary Page B

horror, Mary Dell knelt on the sidewalk, placed her palms as if in prayer, and said, “I’m sorry.” Then she rose, and we walked on to school as if nothing had happened. I cannot recall my reply, but I do recall the shame I felt (and still feel) over this incident that was so painful to me. There was no reason Mary Dell should have to be forgiven for a truthful answer to her mother. I wished my mother could be happier, more welcoming to my friends, who were almost never invited to our house.
    A citywide spelling bee was announced. Mother was determined that I should enter. In school, when we took a spelling test, I slid through by somehow imprinting the words in my mind for a few minutes before they faded. If the test was given immediately, I spelled most of the words correctly.
    The Oregon Journal printed whole pages of words in print so small I could not photograph them with my mind. Mother insisted I spell aloud as she pronounced each word. I stood on one foot and then the other, not wanting to spell at all.
    â€œStop wiggling,” ordered Mother. I stared out the window; I scratched. Sullenly I spelled. Mother’s lips compressed into a thin, straight line; my sighs of boredom and resentment grew more gusty.
    When the preliminary spell-down was held in my classroom, I was given beautiful . “Beautiful. B-e-a-u,” I began. Someone gasped, confusing me and making me feel I had made a mistake. I began again. “Beautiful. B-a-e-u—”
    â€œWrong,” judged Miss Sampson. The class giggled. Everyone knew how to spell beautiful . So did I. Even though I felt silly, I was glad to be free of that city spelling bee.
    Mother was so cross with me that I became angry. Without letting her know, I decided to do something bad, something really terrible. I decided to go a whole week without washing my face. That would show her, I thought, not exactly sure what would be shown, except a dirty face. Not washing my face that week gave me great satisfaction, except for one thing: no one noticed, not even Mother.
    Mother bore down on me. “Don’t sit on the edgeof the bed. You’ll break down the edge of the mattress.” “Sit up straight. You’re growing round-shouldered.” “Stop scuffing the toes of your shoes.”
    Clothes became the subject of the sort of argument Mother called a “battle royal.” In winter she was adamant about two things: woolen underwear and high brown shoes that laced.
    â€œNo one at school wears woolen underwear or high brown shoes,” I protested.
    â€œYou catch enough colds as it is,” she said, “and no daughter of mine is going to grow up with thick ankles.”
    â€œWhy don’t you bind my feet while you’re at it?” was my mean and sulky answer.
    â€œDon’t give me any of your back talk,” Mother ordered.
    â€œI don’t care. I hate them,” I cried, tears beginning to come. “I hate them, I hate them!”
    No answer. Thin-lipped, unrelenting silence.
    Every morning, sick with misery, I pulled on that short-legged, drop-seated woolen underwear, laced up those high brown shoes, and toyed with my breakfast in sullen silence before setting off for school, where, I was sure, everyone secretly laughed at my shoes. The underwear I was careful to keep hidden.
    Adults, however, felt free to comment on my appearance, as if a child were unable to hear.“Beverly looks more like her mother every day,” they said, “but she’s just skin and bones.”
    â€œSuch big brown eyes,” they said and canceled out my big brown eyes by adding, “but isn’t it too bad her teeth are so crooked?”
    Shoes and underwear worried me much more than my teeth, which were crooked, overlapping, and leaning in all directions. They were my teeth, and I was accustomed to them.
    Toward spring I had tonsillitis again. In the night, once again the sensation of sinking downward