The Year the Swallows Came Early by Kathryn Fitzmaurice Page A

just a little.
    He frowned and matted his hair back down with his hand. It stuck to the beads of sweat thathe smeared across his forehead.
    â€œWhat did you say your name was? We’ll need you to sign the signature card before you can get into the box,” Mr. Hughes explained.
    I followed him to the table by the file cabinet. He walked extra slow. Like the heat was making him do things at half speed. Then he pulled open a large drawer that had hundreds of white cards in it, like the old card catalog drawers at the library that tell which shelf each book can be found on.
    â€œEleanor Robinson,” I told him. “Would you like to see my ID? I have one from school with my picture on it.” I handed him my key. I thought, Don’t tell him too much. The secret to lying is to not tell too much. But I couldn’t stop. “Yeah, my mama sent me down here to check on some papers. She wants me to make sure they’re still safe.”
    â€œMiss Robinson,” he said, “you keep the key to open your box, and I will get the matching key to assist you. And you may show me your picture then.”
    â€œOh,” I answered, feeling embarrassed. “See, well, we’ve got some important information I need to take a look at in there. It’s about, well, it’s about something very important.”
    He thumbed through the white cards.
    â€œMy mama has one-fourth ownership in the beauty salon up the street—you may have heard of it, the Secret Styling Hair and Nail Salon—and she wants me to verify her name and vital information on those papers.”
    â€œHmmm,” Mr. Hughes said.
    â€œShe would come herself, but she’s pretty booked up and all. Saturdays are her busiest day. She’s actually done a movie star just recently. So you can imagine her schedule.”
    Mr. Hughes leaned closer to the cards, squinting through his glasses.
    I started to worry that it wouldn’t be under my name after all. My foot tapped the floor. Please be there. Please be there.
    â€œAhh…here we are, Miss Robinson, your signature card. Your name does appear to be onthe account,” he said finally , and placed it on the table. He handed me a pen and pointed to where I should sign.
    â€œThank you.” I smiled to be polite.
    I looked at the card. There were two signatures on it. The first was the same that had been on the letter written to me from Great-grandmother. I knew right away it was her writing. And I realized then that my signature and the one on the card, written by the original Eleanor Robinson, had to match. Otherwise Mr. Hughes was not going to let me into that box. I knew this from going with Daddy last summer to see his coins.
    The second signature was Daddy’s. He’d signed his name in black ink under Great-grandmother’s.
    I leaned over the card, carefully studying my great-grandmother’s writing. It was much fancier than my own writing. I worried that I could not make my handwriting match hers. So I lifted the pen over her signature to get a feel for it, to traceit in the air, but Mr. Hughes cleared his throat real loud to hurry me along.
    â€œSorry,” I told him.
    Then I just signed my name, in the fanciest way I could, with loops on the E and the R , and a big curve up at the end that curled around into a half circle. Kind of like the swirls in peppermint candy. “There!” I said, and put the pen down on that table with a bang.
    Mr. Hughes picked up the card and looked at it up close.
    â€œIs it okay?”
    He held it to the window, letting the light fall onto my handwriting.
    I’m here to tell you that I could barely breathe while I waited for him to make up his mind.
    â€œIt appears to be in order,” Mr. Hughes finally answered. “Let me show you to the safe-deposit boxes.”
    Well, I knew my signature wasn’t anything like Great-grandmother’s, with hers having the self-confidence that comes from