Dicey's Song by Cynthia Voigt Page A

and her chin went up. “Let’s get going, girl, we’ve got a lot to do.”
    â€œBut I thought we were going to talk,” Dicey said.
    â€œThat too,” Gram said, stepping briskly out.
    Gram took Dicey first to a five-and-ten. They stood in front of a small table covered with wool, while Gram touched the skeins of yarn and made “hnm”sounds. At last she turned to Dicey. “You like any of these?”
    Dicey studied the unnaturally bright colors, greens and reds and yellows. She tried to find one that wasn’t as bad as the rest. “No,” she said.
    â€œNeither do I.”
    Gram marched out and on down the center walkway. When she found a little store with its windows crammed with pillows on which kittens had been embroidered, she entered. At the back of this store, there was a whole wall of wools. Gram started pulling down colors. Dicey looked around. There were a few women in the store, looking at instruction books or studying kits. The saleslady sat on a tall stool behind the counter, her hands busy with thread and canvas. She looked more like one of the summer residents of Provincetown than a saleslady in a mall, Dicey thought. She wore makeup on her eyes, lips, and skin. Her hair had every strand in a particular place. The woman looked up and caught Dicey’s eye. “Can I help you?” she asked. Dicey shook her head and turned her attention back to Gram.
    Gram had pulled down a dozen colors. She had spread them out on the table before her. Every now and then she would touch one and move it around to sit by itself.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Dicey asked.
    â€œSweaters,” Gram answered. “Is there a color you like?”
    â€œYou’re going to make us sweaters?”
    â€œIt’s either that or buy them,” Gram answered grimly.
    â€œI didn’t know you could knit.”
    Gram shrugged. She put her hand on a yellow the color of daffodils. “This looks like Maybeth to me. And a good blue for Sammy, but brown for James, don’t you think.”
    â€œIsn’t that an awful lot of work?”
    â€œCome winter, I’ve got the time. What about you, what do you like?”
    Dicey liked the brown, but Gram pulled out a kind of greeny-bluey skein, flecked with white. “Heather,” she said.
    Dicey liked that all right too, and she liked it more the more she looked at it.
    â€œFeel it,” Gram instructed. Dicey obeyed, and the wool was thick and soft under her fingers. “Heather’s the one I like for you,” Gram said.
    â€œWhat about you?” Dicey asked.
    â€œI’ve got plenty, I don’t have to go out in public,” Gram said. Dicey, her mind on sweaters, thought that Gram should have one in a dusty rose, or maybe in black to set off the snap in her eyes. But Dicey couldn’t knit. Gram paid; Dicey hefted the awkward bag of wool.
    â€œDid your momma teach you to knit?” Gram asked Dicey.
    â€œI can’t do any of that stuff,” Dicey mumbled.
    â€œOh well,” Gram said.
    They walked on, into a two-story Sears and Roebuck that occupied one end of the mall. There, Gram wound her way to the children’s department. She picked out eight pairs of blue jeans, and they went to get in the line by the cash register.
    â€œThat’s — thank you, Gram,” Dicey said. Because their grandmother was buying them clothes.
    â€œChildren can’t wear shorts all year round,” Gram answered. “Maybeth’s teacher is worried about her. She’s not progressing, not to speak of. Mrs. Jackson says the school system has home tutors who are trained teachers and know the kind of work the class is doing. She says, we should get one. She says she doesn’t think it will help, but she wants to try, everything because Maybeth is such a sweet child. She says Maybeth is failing. She says, Maybeth gets along beautifully with her classmates and is very mature.”