Crossing the Tracks (9781416997054) by Barbara Stuber Page B

know, the truth. So be warned, I’m counting on you.
    Here’s a quiz—if it’s true about Atchison. (Which I’m sure it is.)
    Question: If you take mad, and multiply it by ignored plus tricked, what do you have?
    Answer: Guess who?
    Question: What’s the worst kind of homesick?
    Answer: Homesick for something you wanted that never was.
    Signed:
    Iris Baldwin, the shadow in her father’s palace of grand plans
    P.S. The Nesbitts are happy for you to visit. The sooner the better. They promise to have lots of dead weight for you to lift. Ha!
    P.P.S. I’ll make you a pie. Really! Blackberry or rhubarb. You pick.
    P.P.P.S. Write me back with the answer right now.
    P.P.P.P.S. How are you?
    I’ve counted on Leroy for the truth ever since the sixth grade, when he set me straight about virgins.
    â€œSo, okay, what exactly is a virgin?” I had asked him. “Isn’t it a lady who hasn’t had a baby—like the Virgin Mary?”
    â€œOh God, Iris.” Leroy searched my face, to see if I was kidding, I guess. “Did you look it up?”
    â€œThe Bible doesn’t have a glossary!”
    â€œIn the
dictionary
.”
    â€œYes, but the definitions go in word circles. You have
sisters
, Leroy. You’re thirteen. You know the answer. So tell me!”
    He did. He just explained sexual intercourse and what a virgin isn’t. It was the bravest thing.
    â€œSo no wonder Daddy blew like he’d eaten a tablespoon of pepper when I asked if his girlfriend was a virgin,” I had said. Leroy smiled. “Daddy dropped her on a dime—thought I’d heard rumors about her rep-u-ta-tion! Couldn’t stand the risk of a blemish on
his
.”
    â€œWell, at least you got his attention for once,” Leroy had commented.
    I scratch Marie’s back, thinking maybe I should ask Daddy about Celeste’s virgin status. I could get rid of her, too.
    Dot’s back.
    After weeks of feeling ill, she has her sack dress hiked up in the back and pulled tighter across her belly than Cecil’s overalls. She is definitely not over her
poorly-
ness. Already this morning she’s gotten sick to her stomach three times.From the chicken house I’ve seen Marie follow her between the clothesline and the grassy patch behind the shed. I’ve heard Dot retch, watched her wobble back to the laundry, her back soaked with sweat.
    I abandon my broom and exit the coop. The door bangs shut. Dot turns, glances at my hand as if checking for an egg, and yanks down her dress. She looks pale. Her hair looks dirty and there are dark circles under her eyes. When she reaches to shove a clothespin on the line, I see marks on her arms.
    Bruises.
    My stomach twists.
    Dot turns to face me, plants her fists on her hips, stretches her back, and sticks her stomach out. Then she lifts the hair off her neck with one hand, fans it with the other.
    More bruises.
    Without a word, she looks me right in the eye, rubs the fingertips of both hands back and forth across her belly, then glances toward the shed.
    A notion—a knowing—slips into my mind.
    Dot is pregnant.
    Marie barks at crows filling the telephone line.
    Dot turns away, bends over, and presses the heels of her hands on her eyes. Her shoulders raise and lower.
    Is she
crying
? “Dot?” My voice sounds unexpectedly soft, like Mrs. Nesbitt’s.
    â€œShut up!”
    Dot spits, wipes her mouth, and after a moment snipes, “Oh, and by the way,
you’re
gonna be gone in a week.” Sheresumes pinning clothes as if giving me a generous moment of privacy to absorb
my own
nasty news.
    â€œI saw the letter.” Her tone shifts to
poor, poor Iris
. “Your replacement’s name is Gladys Dilgert. It’s right on the envelope. They’ve kept it a secret from you, but it’s in plain sight on the kitchen table.” She shoos me off. “Go see for yourself.”
    I glue my lips. I will not ask one