saying, but I am still holding my hair tight. She steps closer and I know she is trying to see the diamond on my cheek.
I want Pauline. I want her to come and look into my eyes and tell me I am beautiful and how I don’t need to pay any attention to a lady who is looking at me like I am the heel end of a loaf of bread.
“My aunts must be napping but I am sure they will be pleased to make your acquaintance when they are rested, ma’am.”
The chicken pokes its head up from under the lady’s arm. This is more than Peabody can stand. He wiggles out of my grasp and jumps onto the porch and rushes toward the hen. It squawks and gets a wing loose and in an instant is free and flutters to the ground. Peabody pounces on the chicken and the two of them roll around in the dirt, looking like a mess of fur and feathers. The woman screams and I fly down and pull Peabody off, but not before he gets a mouthful of white feathers.
“Brawk-ack!” the chicken squawks.
“Bad dog,” I roar, “bad, bad dog.”
“Oh, my Daphne, my Daphne,” whimpers the lady, scooping her chicken back into her arms and patting it all over to see if a wing is broken.
“I have never met a more disagreeable dog. Make sure it never comes near my chickens again.” Then she turns for the road. “And tell your aunts I will be back to meet them. And I will be writing a letter to the man who owns this property.”
Then she flips open the gate and hurries through. Peabody barks as she marches away.
“That woman sure puts a bee in my bonnet,” chuckles Mrs. Potter, who all of a sudden is standing by the swing, straightening her orange flappy hat.
“I could have used your help,” I say, looking out to where Mrs. Marsh is hurrying down the road.
But Mrs. Potter ignores me. “Come on, Beatrice. We need to go to the market. I understand you like cake.” Then she is limping past me and Peabody is right behind.
50
Ralph’s Market is a small grocery on Main Street between the post office and Sam’s Drugs. Across the street is Roberta’s Dress Shoppe and beside that is a Woolworth’s. Paper signs hang from all the grocery windows: VICKS VAPORUB 59 CENTS, CAMPBELL’S TOMATO SOUP 25 CENTS/3 CANS, COFFEE 85 CENTS/2 LBS, IVORY SOAP 35 CENTS/2 BARS, AND EGGS 64 CENTS A DOZEN .
The street bustles with folks. I cover my face with my hair. There’s a new hole in the bottom of my work boots and the stones on the side of the road cut at my feet.
Mrs. Potter hands me a black leather envelope held together with a thick rubber band. It is worn through in some places and is very heavy with bills. “Make sure you count the money exactly. Don’t let them take it from you before you count everything twice. Or three times would be even better.” She raises an eyebrow to make sure I am listening.
I look up at her quickly. “Aren’t you coming in?”
Mrs. Potter shakes her head. “I’ll stay out here with Peabody. Lie down,” she tells him, and he stands there wagging his stumpy tail. She pulls a tea biscuit from her pocket and holds it up. He flops down. “Get more biscuits,” she tells me.
Three teenage boys in white T-shirts walk out of the store and light their cigarettes. I pull my hair tight. I’ve never been in a store without Pauline.
The boys in the white T-shirts lean against the side ofthe building. One blows little smoke rings in the air. All three are watching me.
“But why can’t you come in?” I glance back at Mrs. Potter and Peabody. Mrs. Potter waves me on. “They don’t let dogs in markets, Bee.”
I hold my hair tight as a bedsheet. I count my steps—fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. Don’t look at them, don’t look at them, don’t look at them . When I have counted twenty-two steps, I am past the boys and I grab the door and hurry inside.
There are plump oranges on the shelf and peaches so ripe I know they will melt in my mouth as soon as they meet my tongue. I load some of each into my cart, along with three fat lemons
I want Pauline. I want her to come and look into my eyes and tell me I am beautiful and how I don’t need to pay any attention to a lady who is looking at me like I am the heel end of a loaf of bread.
“My aunts must be napping but I am sure they will be pleased to make your acquaintance when they are rested, ma’am.”
The chicken pokes its head up from under the lady’s arm. This is more than Peabody can stand. He wiggles out of my grasp and jumps onto the porch and rushes toward the hen. It squawks and gets a wing loose and in an instant is free and flutters to the ground. Peabody pounces on the chicken and the two of them roll around in the dirt, looking like a mess of fur and feathers. The woman screams and I fly down and pull Peabody off, but not before he gets a mouthful of white feathers.
“Brawk-ack!” the chicken squawks.
“Bad dog,” I roar, “bad, bad dog.”
“Oh, my Daphne, my Daphne,” whimpers the lady, scooping her chicken back into her arms and patting it all over to see if a wing is broken.
“I have never met a more disagreeable dog. Make sure it never comes near my chickens again.” Then she turns for the road. “And tell your aunts I will be back to meet them. And I will be writing a letter to the man who owns this property.”
Then she flips open the gate and hurries through. Peabody barks as she marches away.
“That woman sure puts a bee in my bonnet,” chuckles Mrs. Potter, who all of a sudden is standing by the swing, straightening her orange flappy hat.
“I could have used your help,” I say, looking out to where Mrs. Marsh is hurrying down the road.
But Mrs. Potter ignores me. “Come on, Beatrice. We need to go to the market. I understand you like cake.” Then she is limping past me and Peabody is right behind.
50
Ralph’s Market is a small grocery on Main Street between the post office and Sam’s Drugs. Across the street is Roberta’s Dress Shoppe and beside that is a Woolworth’s. Paper signs hang from all the grocery windows: VICKS VAPORUB 59 CENTS, CAMPBELL’S TOMATO SOUP 25 CENTS/3 CANS, COFFEE 85 CENTS/2 LBS, IVORY SOAP 35 CENTS/2 BARS, AND EGGS 64 CENTS A DOZEN .
The street bustles with folks. I cover my face with my hair. There’s a new hole in the bottom of my work boots and the stones on the side of the road cut at my feet.
Mrs. Potter hands me a black leather envelope held together with a thick rubber band. It is worn through in some places and is very heavy with bills. “Make sure you count the money exactly. Don’t let them take it from you before you count everything twice. Or three times would be even better.” She raises an eyebrow to make sure I am listening.
I look up at her quickly. “Aren’t you coming in?”
Mrs. Potter shakes her head. “I’ll stay out here with Peabody. Lie down,” she tells him, and he stands there wagging his stumpy tail. She pulls a tea biscuit from her pocket and holds it up. He flops down. “Get more biscuits,” she tells me.
Three teenage boys in white T-shirts walk out of the store and light their cigarettes. I pull my hair tight. I’ve never been in a store without Pauline.
The boys in the white T-shirts lean against the side ofthe building. One blows little smoke rings in the air. All three are watching me.
“But why can’t you come in?” I glance back at Mrs. Potter and Peabody. Mrs. Potter waves me on. “They don’t let dogs in markets, Bee.”
I hold my hair tight as a bedsheet. I count my steps—fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. Don’t look at them, don’t look at them, don’t look at them . When I have counted twenty-two steps, I am past the boys and I grab the door and hurry inside.
There are plump oranges on the shelf and peaches so ripe I know they will melt in my mouth as soon as they meet my tongue. I load some of each into my cart, along with three fat lemons
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