ducked away. As the weather grew warmer, he would sometimes be seen slouched down in the back of the Hudson, his legs thrown up over the front seat, reading a book he had taken out of the library. Ellie would call out the window, “Roy, where in Sweden are you going to live?” To which his answer would generally be a loud slam of the rear door of the car. “Roy’s reading all about Sweden. Half the farmers around here came running from there. He wants to
go
there.”
“Really?” asked Lucy. She did not take offense, because her own grandfather who had been a farmer had come from Norway.
“Well, I hope he goes somewhere,” Ellie said. “My father’s worried he’s liable to decide to move in with us. He practicallylives here as it is.” Then, out the window, “Roy, your mother phoned to say she’s selling your bed.”
But by this time he was under the car, the soles of his shoes all that was visible from the second floor. The only time that he appeared to experience the girls as alive was down in the living room, when he wouldn’t move his legs so much as half an inch, and the two had to step over him to get out through the French doors to the back lawn. Generally he acted as though teams had been chosen, himself and his Uncle Julian on one, and the two girls and Mrs. Sowerby on the other.
But if there were such sides, Lucy Nelson had no sense that Irene Sowerby was on hers. Though Mrs. Sowerby was polite and hospitable to her face, Lucy was almost certain that behind her back the woman disapproved of who and what she was. The very first time Ellie had brought her home, Mrs. Sowerby had called Lucy “dear” right off the bat; and a week later Ellie was no longer her friend. She disappeared from her life as unexpectedly as she had come into it, and the person responsible was Irene Sowerby, Lucy was sure. Because of what she knew about Lucy’s family, or because of whatever she had heard about Lucy herself, Mrs. Sowerby had decided that she was not the kind of girl she wanted Ellie bringing home in the afternoons.
That was in September of senior year. In February (as if four months of conduct not quite becoming so refined a young lady hadn’t intervened) Ellie slid a note, all cheery and intimate, into Lucy’s locker, and after school they were walking together up to The Grove. Of course Lucy should have left her own note in return: “No, thank you. You may be insensitive to the feelings of others but you are not going to be insensitive to mine and get away with it. I am not nothing, Ellie, whether your mother thinks so or not.” Or perhaps she should not have given Ellie the courtesy of any reply, and just let her show up at the flagpole at three-thirty to find no Lucy waiting breathlessly to be her idea of a “friend.”
She felt bitter toward Eleanor, not only because she had picked her up so enthusiastically and dropped her so suddenly, but because Ellie’s instantaneous display of affection hadcaused Lucy to make a decision she wouldn’t otherwise have made, and which later she was to regret. But that was not really Eleanor’s fault as much as it was her own (or so she seemed willing to believe as she reread the note scrawled across the blue stationery monogrammed EES at the top). The reason she should have nothing to do with Ellie Sowerby was because she was Ellie’s superior in every way imaginable, except for looks, which she didn’t care that much about; and money, which meant nothing; and clothes; and boys. But just as she had known Ellie to be her inferior, and had gone off with her when invited back for a second afternoon in September, so in the last week of February she followed along once again.
Where else was there to go? Home? As of February 28 she had only two hundred more days to live in that house with those people (times twenty-four is four thousand eight hundred hours—sixteen hundred of them in bed, however) and then she would be down in the new Fort Kean branch of the
go
there.”
“Really?” asked Lucy. She did not take offense, because her own grandfather who had been a farmer had come from Norway.
“Well, I hope he goes somewhere,” Ellie said. “My father’s worried he’s liable to decide to move in with us. He practicallylives here as it is.” Then, out the window, “Roy, your mother phoned to say she’s selling your bed.”
But by this time he was under the car, the soles of his shoes all that was visible from the second floor. The only time that he appeared to experience the girls as alive was down in the living room, when he wouldn’t move his legs so much as half an inch, and the two had to step over him to get out through the French doors to the back lawn. Generally he acted as though teams had been chosen, himself and his Uncle Julian on one, and the two girls and Mrs. Sowerby on the other.
But if there were such sides, Lucy Nelson had no sense that Irene Sowerby was on hers. Though Mrs. Sowerby was polite and hospitable to her face, Lucy was almost certain that behind her back the woman disapproved of who and what she was. The very first time Ellie had brought her home, Mrs. Sowerby had called Lucy “dear” right off the bat; and a week later Ellie was no longer her friend. She disappeared from her life as unexpectedly as she had come into it, and the person responsible was Irene Sowerby, Lucy was sure. Because of what she knew about Lucy’s family, or because of whatever she had heard about Lucy herself, Mrs. Sowerby had decided that she was not the kind of girl she wanted Ellie bringing home in the afternoons.
That was in September of senior year. In February (as if four months of conduct not quite becoming so refined a young lady hadn’t intervened) Ellie slid a note, all cheery and intimate, into Lucy’s locker, and after school they were walking together up to The Grove. Of course Lucy should have left her own note in return: “No, thank you. You may be insensitive to the feelings of others but you are not going to be insensitive to mine and get away with it. I am not nothing, Ellie, whether your mother thinks so or not.” Or perhaps she should not have given Ellie the courtesy of any reply, and just let her show up at the flagpole at three-thirty to find no Lucy waiting breathlessly to be her idea of a “friend.”
She felt bitter toward Eleanor, not only because she had picked her up so enthusiastically and dropped her so suddenly, but because Ellie’s instantaneous display of affection hadcaused Lucy to make a decision she wouldn’t otherwise have made, and which later she was to regret. But that was not really Eleanor’s fault as much as it was her own (or so she seemed willing to believe as she reread the note scrawled across the blue stationery monogrammed EES at the top). The reason she should have nothing to do with Ellie Sowerby was because she was Ellie’s superior in every way imaginable, except for looks, which she didn’t care that much about; and money, which meant nothing; and clothes; and boys. But just as she had known Ellie to be her inferior, and had gone off with her when invited back for a second afternoon in September, so in the last week of February she followed along once again.
Where else was there to go? Home? As of February 28 she had only two hundred more days to live in that house with those people (times twenty-four is four thousand eight hundred hours—sixteen hundred of them in bed, however) and then she would be down in the new Fort Kean branch of the
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