Miss Spitfire by Sarah Miller

the soft flesh under my ribs, or sinking her sharp little heels into my breasts.
    Finally exhaustion and rage drive me outside myself, and I tear the quilt from the bed, obeying animpulse I hardly understand. Perched on a pillow near the headboard, Helen seems wary of the shuddering bed as I yank the covers from the frame.
    Panting, I creep toward her, clutching the quilt to my chest and dragging my feet softly across the floor so she won’t sense my footsteps. With a wild whoop I unfurl the quilt like a canopy over Helen’s head, chortling as she tries to bat it away. Working quickly to avoid her sailing fists, I bring the corners of the cloth together at her ankles. A sharp tug topples Helen from her feet, capturing her like a rabbit in a snare. She claws and howls from inside the makeshift sack, but I pay no attention. Instead I roll her up tighter than a caterpillar in a cocoon, allowing her only the luxury of air. All she can do is yell, but that doesn’t keep me from straddling the whole bundle to keep her from unrolling herself.
    As the minutes stretch by, her screams melt into a sort of drone, and I struggle to hold my eyes open. They’re so sore I feel as if my eyelids are dragging over a layer of sandpaper each time they droop.
    By the time Helen bays herself to sleep, the fire’s died down to nothing but a glow. At last I roll over and close my eyes. A wave of heat pours over them, until I’m sure they’ve turned to liquid. The last thing I’m aware of before I drift away is Helen inching herself away from me, even as she sleeps.

Chapter 17
    The more I think, the more certain I am that obedience is the gateway through which knowledge, yes, and love, too, enter the mind of a child.
    â€”ANNE SULLIVAN TO SOPHIA HOPKINS, MARCH 1887
    Our first fights are brutal but short lived.
    The entire first day Helen will have nothing to do with me and plays with her dolls more than usual. Over and over again she wanders to the door, touches her cheek, and shakes her head. Seeing her so docile and homesick makes me sick at heart, but I show her no mercy. I insist that she dress, wash, and eat like a civilized human.
    All that long day Helen persists in contesting every point to the bitter end. The battles are no easier here, but at least without the Kellers looming over my shoulders, I can discipline her without feeling like a sneak thief.
    Every moment she tries my composure in one way or another. It’s as if she senses my struggle to control myself. Before long I begin to believe she’s trying to bait me into mistreating her.
    But I don’t give in.
    My muscles shimmer with unspent anger when she deals a blow I can’t repay, for fear of mirroring my father’s senseless floggings. When she hurls herself to the floor in a tantrum, it takes all my strength to anchor myself against the window seat until she’s spilled every drop of her energy. Hardest of all is keeping her sealed inside this place when I can plainly see she’s thirsting for a familiar touch. But forlorn as she seems, Helen still spurns the slightest brush against my skin, flaring my compassion into pain. Each time she cringes from me, I press my fists to my mouth to keep from striking her. By the time the urge passes, I can feel the print of my teeth against the insides of my lips.
    In bed at night I cry—angry tears—but they bring no relief. I only grow angrier. Beneath it all, my sympathy for Helen makes me rage against myself. The last thing she needs is pity.
    In my despair I curse myself for slighting the Kellers’ small kindnesses. I imagine them in the big house, playing card games while Captain Keller tells droll tales of hunting expeditions gone awry or men who dared to eat watermelons the size of which would sicken a giant.
    Of them all, the one I’m most like in the world is Helen. I could almost laugh to think of it. She’s every bit as wild and willful as I was. No one but