The Tin Horse: A Novel by Janice Steinberg

did it, too, because she had a terrible headache; every so often, she whimpered in pain.
    Night, which had been invisible—you closed your eyes in the dark, and then you opened them and it was morning—became a torment of minutes and seconds, a misery of sweat-damp sheets, harsh air from the fires that were burning in the forest to the east of the city, and nasty stickiness whenever Barbara or I shifted positions and any part of our bodies touched in bed.
    During the day, our crankiness flared into war. Everything either of us did annoyed the other and provoked yelps of outrage, even though Mamabegged us to be quiet because of her headache. If one of us was asked to help with anything, we whined that it was the other’s turn. On Labor Day, our family took refuge in Hollenbeck Park with its shade trees and pond. But Barbara and I started a tickling match that soon exploded in screaming and hitting, and Papa marched us back to the stifling house. Exhausted, Mama didn’t murmur a word about how to behave in school when she bathed us that night. She only spoke to tell us to lift an arm or turn so she could reach another part of our feverish bodies.
    None of it, however, not even another uneasy sleep, mattered in the morning. Finally, the giant circle on the calendar marked
the
day, when we woke before six, the momentousness of the first day of school pounding through our veins so hard, our small bodies could barely contain it. Mama poked her head into our room and said, “You’re awake already, too, aren’t you?” She helped us put on our nicest school clothes, drop-waisted gingham dresses, Barbara’s in red and mine blue. Brushing our hair, she hummed the
fusgeyer
song. Then she went to get ready herself, while Papa made us breakfast and Zayde took charge of Audrey.
    We were set to go—Barbara and I fed and clothed, Mama beautiful in her suit and new hat with her curls peek-a-booing on either side—almost an hour before we needed to leave. “Well!” Mama said. “Your teacher will notice the children who arrive early, ready to learn.” She picked up her gloves.
    “Not this early, Charlotte.” Papa’s tense undertone said that he was afraid she was going to make us look ridiculous. “You’ll just be standing on the playground in the heat. Why don’t I read to the girls for a little while?”
    “Yes, all right.” Carefully smoothing her suit, Mama sat on the sofa and automatically reached for the sewing basket next to it. But she didn’t take any work out of the basket; she just sat and stroked the fabric of her jacket.
    Even Papa got infected by our delirium. Reading from
The Secret Garden
, he sometimes read the same line twice or skipped a word. Every so often he glanced at Mama and said, “Don’t you want to take off your jacket for now? Or your hat?”
    “I’m fine,” Mama said, although her face looked red and sweaty.
    At long, long last, we were on our way to Breed Street Elementary School two blocks from our house. Mama had Barbara and me walk on either side of her, holding her hands. Her hand in mine trembled a little. I felt the same trembling inside me. I was alert and happy and scared at the same time. And I noticed a heavy, flowery smell—Mrs. Kalman’s perfume, infusing Mama’s suit and heightened by the warmth of her body under the sun, which was already brutal at eight-thirty.
    Even after delaying our departure, we were among the first to arrive at the school. An older boy, maybe ten years old and looking very important, stood at the entrance to the playground and asked Mama what class we were in. “Both of ’em in kindergarten?” he said. “You sure?”
    “They’re twins,” Mama said.
    He scrutinized us. “No, they’re not.”
    “Fraternal twins, not identical,” Mama said, her voice asking permission in our first encounter with the school’s authority, albeit in the person of a ten-year-old child.
    “Huh, never heard of that,” the boy said, but he pointed us toward the