the hall between classes. In the locker room, the popularity clones were all showing off ski tans and photos of beach resorts, chattering like a pack of tropical birds. Marion Hawthorne turned toward Annie. “How was your Christmas, Cassandra?”
“It was fine,” Annie said, adding darkly, “except for the traitor.” Harriet pulled on her pajamas, the same pair she’d worn in Water Mill. It felt like a lifetime ago that she’d been so carefree and happy, had sat on the rug cutting snowflakes with Annie, had slept side by side in the trundle bed, gazing at the faded stars on the ceiling. She felt utterly and completely alone. Not even her notebooks distracted her. She stared at a blank page for what felt like hours, but all she could manage to write was
ANNIE WON’T SPEAK TO ME. WHY IS SHE ACTING SO SHOCKED? SHE KNOWS PERFECTLY WELL I TAKE NOTES. I’M A SPY AND A WRITER. WHAT ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO DO??
What else indeed, she thought, closing the cover. She threw the green notebook back into her trunk, next to the marbled blue sketchbook, and took out the stationery Ole Golly had given her.
Dear Ole Golly , she wrote,
I am having a personal problem. You told me that I should write everything down, and I have. But all is not well. Remember my friend Rosarita, who lived with the Feigenbaums? Her real name is Annie, and she is furious with me. I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me. I know you’re concerned with your upcoming baby and hope all is well in that area
She looked at area , frowning, and crossed the word out.
that department, but I need your help .
Harriet stopped writing. How can she help me? she thought. She’s in Canada. And no grown-up could possibly understand how this feels.
Annie didn’t bend. She avoided Harriet in the halls and kept to herself in class.
She wore clothes that were almost like costumes: a man’s derby hat, thrift-store jewelry, unmatched striped socks. Marion and her sidekicks, Carrie and Rachel, made jeering comments whenever they passed in the hall, and when Annie ignored them, pronounced in a stage whisper meant to be overheard, “She is so weird.” One day after school, Harriet came upstairs from her cake and milk and heard her mother talking to some other woman behind the closed door of the library. It must be one of her idiot friends from the bridge club, thought Harriet, speeding up so she wouldn’t be forced to make conversation. With one foot on the staircase, she stopped short when she recognized the second voice as Barbara Feigenbaum’s.
“I don’t know what to do with that girl. She comes home from school, slams her door, and goes on these crying jags. Hours she spends crying. If I try to go in and comfort her, she has a tantrum. Morris says it’s a needed catharsis, that she trusts us enough to display her repressed emotions, but I just have a feeling that something has changed.”
“In what way?” Harriet heard the tinkling stir of a teaspoon on china. They were both drinking tea, she surmised, so this might be a long conversation. She edged toward the door, being careful to stay to one side so that they wouldn’t see her feet under its bottom edge.
“Boy trouble, maybe.” Harriet held back a snort. Why did everyone think that whatever was wrong with a girl was because of a boy?
Barbara Feigenbaum went on. “She just doesn’t seem like herself. I wondered if Harriet had mentioned anything. Maybe something at school?”
“I wish I could help you, but Harriet isn’t much of a talker. She takes everything in, but she’s very still-waters-run-deep.” Am I? thought Harriet, wondering at this description. I thought I was rather loud.
Her mother continued. “She’s always up there in her room, writing things down in those notebooks of hers. I’m lucky if I get two words from her.” This was a fascinating perspective to get on herself. Could it even be true? I don’t really talk to my mother that much, thought Harriet. What would we
“It was fine,” Annie said, adding darkly, “except for the traitor.” Harriet pulled on her pajamas, the same pair she’d worn in Water Mill. It felt like a lifetime ago that she’d been so carefree and happy, had sat on the rug cutting snowflakes with Annie, had slept side by side in the trundle bed, gazing at the faded stars on the ceiling. She felt utterly and completely alone. Not even her notebooks distracted her. She stared at a blank page for what felt like hours, but all she could manage to write was
ANNIE WON’T SPEAK TO ME. WHY IS SHE ACTING SO SHOCKED? SHE KNOWS PERFECTLY WELL I TAKE NOTES. I’M A SPY AND A WRITER. WHAT ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO DO??
What else indeed, she thought, closing the cover. She threw the green notebook back into her trunk, next to the marbled blue sketchbook, and took out the stationery Ole Golly had given her.
Dear Ole Golly , she wrote,
I am having a personal problem. You told me that I should write everything down, and I have. But all is not well. Remember my friend Rosarita, who lived with the Feigenbaums? Her real name is Annie, and she is furious with me. I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me. I know you’re concerned with your upcoming baby and hope all is well in that area
She looked at area , frowning, and crossed the word out.
that department, but I need your help .
Harriet stopped writing. How can she help me? she thought. She’s in Canada. And no grown-up could possibly understand how this feels.
Annie didn’t bend. She avoided Harriet in the halls and kept to herself in class.
She wore clothes that were almost like costumes: a man’s derby hat, thrift-store jewelry, unmatched striped socks. Marion and her sidekicks, Carrie and Rachel, made jeering comments whenever they passed in the hall, and when Annie ignored them, pronounced in a stage whisper meant to be overheard, “She is so weird.” One day after school, Harriet came upstairs from her cake and milk and heard her mother talking to some other woman behind the closed door of the library. It must be one of her idiot friends from the bridge club, thought Harriet, speeding up so she wouldn’t be forced to make conversation. With one foot on the staircase, she stopped short when she recognized the second voice as Barbara Feigenbaum’s.
“I don’t know what to do with that girl. She comes home from school, slams her door, and goes on these crying jags. Hours she spends crying. If I try to go in and comfort her, she has a tantrum. Morris says it’s a needed catharsis, that she trusts us enough to display her repressed emotions, but I just have a feeling that something has changed.”
“In what way?” Harriet heard the tinkling stir of a teaspoon on china. They were both drinking tea, she surmised, so this might be a long conversation. She edged toward the door, being careful to stay to one side so that they wouldn’t see her feet under its bottom edge.
“Boy trouble, maybe.” Harriet held back a snort. Why did everyone think that whatever was wrong with a girl was because of a boy?
Barbara Feigenbaum went on. “She just doesn’t seem like herself. I wondered if Harriet had mentioned anything. Maybe something at school?”
“I wish I could help you, but Harriet isn’t much of a talker. She takes everything in, but she’s very still-waters-run-deep.” Am I? thought Harriet, wondering at this description. I thought I was rather loud.
Her mother continued. “She’s always up there in her room, writing things down in those notebooks of hers. I’m lucky if I get two words from her.” This was a fascinating perspective to get on herself. Could it even be true? I don’t really talk to my mother that much, thought Harriet. What would we
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