chance with Marie when she is being her so-good self.
When things are singing along like that, it don't matter how many strangers are staring at me from the end of the row.
Before I know it, French Johnny is standing by my elbow breathing his hot-air breath on the place at the top of my head where my braids cross over each other.
“One hundred and thirty-five, thirty-six. Done,” I sing out to my mother and her foot lifts to jog the rail.
French Johnny gives her a wave. She lowers her foot to the floor without starting up the frame and goes back over to clear her scavenger rolls.
“This fellow come from the head office to photograph the frames,” he says. “You move aside, Grace.”
“No,” says the man. He has to shake French Johnny's arm and shout to make himself heard. “I want the girl in the picture too. For scale.”
Neither one of us knows what that word means and he can tell. “It shows how large the machine is if she stands in front,” the man explains. “Those are my instructions.”
French Johnny cocks his head. One of Delia's frames has gone down.
“Hurry it up,” he calls back over his shoulder as he leaves us looking at each other.
17
THE FLASH
The man starts to unpack his equipment. He must be stronger than he looks to be lugging all this stuff on and off trains and up three flights of stairs to the spinning room. He slides a leather pouch off his shoulder and lowers it to the ground ever so slowly as if it's got some kind of treasure inside. Then he unpacks a wooden box with a tube that points straight out of the middle. I can read the name on it and it has the same first letters as mine. Graflex, it says. He props Mr. Graflex up on top of a spindly-looking set of legs splayed out in three directions like a dog trying to stop itself on a hill. Then he comes over to me.
“My name is Lewis Hine,” he says, and sticks out his hand. The ends of his fingers are stained all brown-yellow the way my Pépé's were from his cigarettes. I drop into a curtsy. The mill is a strange place to be curtsying, but I'vegot two new cuts on the top of my right hand and one on the inside and I don't need to stir them up.
His hat tilted to the side, he leans over close, but I pull away quick. He's a strange one. It turns out he is just asking my name. Imagine that. A grown man wanting to know my name.
“Grace,” I say, my voice pitched proper so he can hear it through the buzzing in the room.
“How old are you?”
This is a trick question and I know the answer just fine. “Fourteen,” I say without a blink.
“Really? You don't look that old. You must be about forty-eight inches tall.”
“How do you know?” He talks to me easy the way Arthur does so it don't feel strange to be asking him questions. I can see Arthur out of the corner of my eye watching us the whole time and I like that, for once, Arthur don't know what's going on and I do.
“I measure you against my vest buttons. You come up to number three. That makes you four feet tall.”
Now why would this man care how tall I am? Maybe the head office wants to know the size of the workers. I hope that's not some new way of figuring out how old we are.
“What are you going to do to me?” I ask.
“Take your picture, that's all. Have you ever had your picture taken?”
“Will it hurt?”
“No, Grace. There will be a flash for a second, which will make your eyes sparkle because the room will be a thousand times brighter than it's ever been before. Don'tblink if you can help it. Now I need you to stand here,” he says, and sets me up in front of Marie.
I lean against her and rest my arm on her thread board. When I look up, a handle's popped up out of the top of Mr. Graflex and Mr. Hine is peering down inside like he's looking for something. The tube sticking out has a big old eye at the end of it and that's sliding out toward me and then moving away again. I stick out my tongue at it and when he looks up again, he's chuckling to
When things are singing along like that, it don't matter how many strangers are staring at me from the end of the row.
Before I know it, French Johnny is standing by my elbow breathing his hot-air breath on the place at the top of my head where my braids cross over each other.
“One hundred and thirty-five, thirty-six. Done,” I sing out to my mother and her foot lifts to jog the rail.
French Johnny gives her a wave. She lowers her foot to the floor without starting up the frame and goes back over to clear her scavenger rolls.
“This fellow come from the head office to photograph the frames,” he says. “You move aside, Grace.”
“No,” says the man. He has to shake French Johnny's arm and shout to make himself heard. “I want the girl in the picture too. For scale.”
Neither one of us knows what that word means and he can tell. “It shows how large the machine is if she stands in front,” the man explains. “Those are my instructions.”
French Johnny cocks his head. One of Delia's frames has gone down.
“Hurry it up,” he calls back over his shoulder as he leaves us looking at each other.
17
THE FLASH
The man starts to unpack his equipment. He must be stronger than he looks to be lugging all this stuff on and off trains and up three flights of stairs to the spinning room. He slides a leather pouch off his shoulder and lowers it to the ground ever so slowly as if it's got some kind of treasure inside. Then he unpacks a wooden box with a tube that points straight out of the middle. I can read the name on it and it has the same first letters as mine. Graflex, it says. He props Mr. Graflex up on top of a spindly-looking set of legs splayed out in three directions like a dog trying to stop itself on a hill. Then he comes over to me.
“My name is Lewis Hine,” he says, and sticks out his hand. The ends of his fingers are stained all brown-yellow the way my Pépé's were from his cigarettes. I drop into a curtsy. The mill is a strange place to be curtsying, but I'vegot two new cuts on the top of my right hand and one on the inside and I don't need to stir them up.
His hat tilted to the side, he leans over close, but I pull away quick. He's a strange one. It turns out he is just asking my name. Imagine that. A grown man wanting to know my name.
“Grace,” I say, my voice pitched proper so he can hear it through the buzzing in the room.
“How old are you?”
This is a trick question and I know the answer just fine. “Fourteen,” I say without a blink.
“Really? You don't look that old. You must be about forty-eight inches tall.”
“How do you know?” He talks to me easy the way Arthur does so it don't feel strange to be asking him questions. I can see Arthur out of the corner of my eye watching us the whole time and I like that, for once, Arthur don't know what's going on and I do.
“I measure you against my vest buttons. You come up to number three. That makes you four feet tall.”
Now why would this man care how tall I am? Maybe the head office wants to know the size of the workers. I hope that's not some new way of figuring out how old we are.
“What are you going to do to me?” I ask.
“Take your picture, that's all. Have you ever had your picture taken?”
“Will it hurt?”
“No, Grace. There will be a flash for a second, which will make your eyes sparkle because the room will be a thousand times brighter than it's ever been before. Don'tblink if you can help it. Now I need you to stand here,” he says, and sets me up in front of Marie.
I lean against her and rest my arm on her thread board. When I look up, a handle's popped up out of the top of Mr. Graflex and Mr. Hine is peering down inside like he's looking for something. The tube sticking out has a big old eye at the end of it and that's sliding out toward me and then moving away again. I stick out my tongue at it and when he looks up again, he's chuckling to
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