The Wonder of Charlie Anne (22 page)

“Yes,” says Rosalyn. “Like with Phoebe.” She reaches over and takes Phoebe’s hand and then I reach over and take her other hand and we all watch Phoebe’s
eyes fill up with tears. We can tell she doesn’t want to talk about it, so we don’t press her with a lot of questions. Sometimes you just have to let somebody be.

Then it is time for reading.

Rosalyn says she’s going to call each of us up and read with us alone. Then the ones who are done will go with Phoebe for some extra reading help if they need it.

She hands out some paper and says that while we are waiting, we can write about how we are getting by during these hard times we are living in, and if our writing is not ready for that, we can draw a picture.

“I will love your work, no matter which you choose,” she says.

I start drawing a vinegar pie. It is my best ever, with a high fluted crust and steam rising out of it, and right beside it I draw all the ingredients: butter, three eggs, vinegar, vanilla and sugar.

All the time I am drawing, I am thinking about the spot under the teacher’s desk and I’m wondering what Old Mr. Jolly has done about the woodshed.

Rosalyn goes oldest to youngest, so Ivy gets called up first. Ivy reads a page from
First Reader
, then Rosalyn says my goodness, you are ready for
Second Reader.
I have that sinking feeling as Rosalyn hands it to Ivy. She is like a plow horse, pushing through row after row of words, without ever tiring at all.

You can see Rosalyn getting all excited, and she hands Ivy
Third Reader.
“I had no idea you were such a good reader, Ivy.”

Then she tells Ivy to read a poem called “Hiawatha’s Childhood,” and Ivy reads the whole thing, even the funny Indian words I have never heard before.

Rosalyn is smiling like she just got a secret present and she tells Ivy good job and good job again and now she can go back to her seat.

And then Rosalyn says it’s my turn.

I shake my head, because now my hands are sweating and my stomach is flipping upside down. Rosalyn giggles, which is not the response I am expecting at all, and she comes over and puts her hand out. “You have nothing to be afraid of.”

Well. I do so have something to be afraid of. That’s the thing.

Rosalyn takes my hand and leads me up front and hands me
First Reader
and asks me what the letters are on the first page.

The letters are jumping again like corn popping, just like they did with Miss Moran. I squint my eyes and stumble. I see all the ds and bs and can’t figure out which is which. The blackboard is giving me comforting looks. It is not very helpful, though, and all I can think about is how good of a reader Ivy is.

Rosalyn takes my hand and squeezes it. “It’s okay, Charlie Anne. I’ll show you a trick. Do you know your left from your right?”

“Yes,” I say, thanking heaven that I milk Anna May on her right side, morning and night.

“Good,” says Rosalyn. “Now make a fist with your left hand, like this. Now put your thumb up.”

I do what she says.

“That is a
b.
See how it has a belly sticking out?”

I nod, feeling a little like a baby, hoping Phoebe can’t see.

“Excellent. Now, do the same thing with your right hand. That is a
d.
Now, let’s write the word
b-e-d.
See how it makes a little headboard, mattress and footboard? Bed starts
b-b-b
with
b
, so you always know which way the belly points.”

I make a little bed, just like she says. “Like this?”

“Yes,” she says, pulling me close so she can whisper in my ear: “This trick never, ever fails.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

Someone should have told me how assistant teachers are pretty bossy.

Since the sun is out and it is getting warm, and Old Mr. Jolly is nearby, Rosalyn tells Sarah and Birdie and me that we can go under the maple trees. Phoebe brings a basket of books. I think, now that I know my
b–d
trick, I am ready for
First Reader
, at least.

“Don’t you want to practice?” Phoebe asks.

“No. I can do it.” I’m a little hurt that she thinks I need so much help.

“Pat, doll, cat, ball, gill, hot, moon,”
I say, opening the first page.

Phoebe has a puzzled look on her face. “You’re not sounding these words out, Charlie Anne.” She looks over my shoulder. “You got some of them right but most of them wrong. They are
pot, ball, cat, doll, girl, hat, moon.”

I pull the book back, making a tiny tear in the page.

Phoebe is looking like she’s wondering what’s gotten into me, and she says there are many confusing
words that she wants to practice with me, and I say okay, but when can we get to the reading, and she says, “Charlie Anne.”

I want to tell her right then and there that she is sounding rather like a know-it-all, but I bite my tongue because I remember that manners book and also because I want to be reading so much—much more than I want to make her mad.

“There are some words that can get us all mixed up. Especially when they are the same word that means two different things. Like
bear,”
says Phoebe.

I am tapping my thumb on my leg. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Sometimes it means a big black bear and sometimes it means trying to hold up a big load. Like a foundation holding up a house.”

Phoebe shows the word to Birdie. “See? They are the same word.”

I am cracking my knuckles. Crack. Crack. Crack.

“Do you see, Charlie Anne?”

“I know all this already.” I am rolling my eyes. Roll. Roll. Roll.

Then Phoebe points to the word
left.
“Sometimes it is a direction, like you put your fork on the left.” She’s starting to sound just like Mirabel.

“And then,” says Phoebe, “sometimes it means Mama left me.”

Then Phoebe wants to tell us a story about her
mama, and I tell her that is very nice and all but when are we going to get to reading?

She looks annoyed. “Charlie Anne, who is the teacher here?”

I want to tell her, I am feeling mighty sorry right now that it is you, but I don’t because I want to get to reading more than I want to do anything, even eat lunch. Plus Mirabel’s dumb little manners book keeps reminding me that I will be losing love and friends if I don’t watch myself. I don’t want to lose Phoebe, but I do want her to get to the reading.

Then Sarah wants a turn and Phoebe gives her
First Reader
and she is so good she jumps right to
Second Reader
and I am feeling all terrible again that I’ll never be as good a reader as anyone else.

Then Birdie wants to know how did Phoebe learn to sing so good, and then we have to hear the whole long story about how her mama told her there was a light inside her and she had a choice: either she could be who she was supposed to be, or she could be a quitter.

“Wasn’t that supposed to be a secret just for me?” I want to know.

Phoebe looks at me very sternly. I feel like I am Anna May being looked at.

“What’s wrong with you?” she wants to know. “It’s just Birdie.”

I don’t know what’s wrong. I give her my most terrible mad look and I’m not even sure exactly why, but right then and there, under that big maple tree, I change my mind about what I told Anna May and Belle: how nothing can tear blood sisters apart.

I ignore the candle Phoebe lights in her window that night, and for the next four days, I tell Mirabel I have a bellyache so bad that I can’t eat and I can’t drink and I need the hot-water bottle, and she tells me to stay in bed. I think as I hear Ivy and Birdie get ready for school that there has never been a girl as pitiful as me.

Rosalyn comes over to check on me one afternoon, but I tell Mirabel I am too sick to talk to her, and I don’t want to talk to Phoebe, either. Especially not Phoebe.

“You are just a faker,” Ivy says, coming in with more peppermint tea.

“I am not,” I say, being careful not to sit up too fast or to look too hopeful that there might be cookies with the tea.

I hear Anna May and Belle wondering what the dickens I’m doing, anyway, and how come Mirabel is coming out with the milk pail.

On Saturday, since there’s no school anyway, I tell myself I might as well get up, and I tell Mirabel I am feeling better and head out for my swing. I ask Anna May and Belle if I look like a bolt of lightning as I soar through the sky and they tell me I do.

I swing and swing and swing on the swing Old Mr. Jolly fixed so fine, and I get myself going higher, higher, higher. I practice pointing my toes up and waving my arm out to the side, just like Phoebe does. Then I lean over backward and let my hair almost touch the ground, and I see Anna May and Belle wondering what I am doing all upside down like that, about to break my neck.

I keep watching for Phoebe so she will see that I am much better than she is at swinging, and then, after a very long time, she comes out her front door and notices me on my swing. She takes her swing into the barn, and I count to thirty so I know she is climbing up to the very top of her hayloft, and then she comes shooting out with her toes pointing up, and she leans over backward, and I think one of her every-which-way braids is actually touching the ground.

Well. I need to get higher so I can get a better start. As soon as Phoebe flies back to her hayloft, I climb off my swing and rush into my barn and come out dragging the apple barrel. I look over at Anna May and Belle. They have stopped munching and are watching me. Even Minnie and Olympia and Bea are looking to see what I am doing.

“I’ll show you,” I tell them, climbing to the top of the apple barrel, slipping just a little because it is not on solid ground, and I jump into my swing and I am flying up, up, up and I am laughing because Phoebe may read better than me, but I am the better swinger.

Then Phoebe comes shooting out of her barn again. Her toes are pointed up and she lets go, first one hand and then the other. Then when her swing goes as high as it can, she jumps and lands with a little roll. She stands, says “Ta-da” and curtsies.

Believe me, I don’t even bother to clap. Instead, I look around for something higher to climb onto.

I look over at Belle. She’s looking up at me, wondering what the dickens is taking me so long to figure things out. Why don’t I climb up onto her back?

So I tell her to come on over, but she just stands there looking at me, munching on some grass, and I have to go over and get her. Now, climbing up on a cow is not the easiest thing, especially when you have a swing in your hand. For one thing, Belle won’t hold still.

“Stop walking,” I tell her.

The other problem is cows have such bony backs. Anna May is not so sure about things. She comes over for a closer look.

“Don’t make Belle all skitters,” I tell her, standing up, trying to keep my balance and jumping onto my swing.

But it works, and Belle bolts out of the way, and I fly. I tap my feet and do a little shuffle in the air with my new shoes, and then I notice that Phoebe is swinging even higher.

I let myself slow down and think about how I can go farther. I look up the trunk of the elm tree. I think about how if I could climb up there, I could jump out of the tree.

So, I wrap the ropes around my shoulders and start climbing. Birdie sees me and rushes over, whining, and crying that this time I really will go straight to heaven, and I tell her she has to stop doing this, and to shush, but she starts sobbing, and I tell her to stop being such a baby because Mirabel will hear. Birdie doesn’t understand that when you are so mad at your best friend, you don’t care if you break your neck or not. You just want her to know you are the best at swinging.

“You be quiet, Birdie,” I yell down to her, but she is already running for the house.

As I climb higher, Phoebe shoots out of her barn, a golden bullet, and this time she opens her mouth and starts to sing, and just like all the other times, heaven comes out. She sings so beautifully that even Belle and Anna May pause to see who’s making that wonderful sound.