R My Name Is Rachel by Patricia Reilly Giff

Author:Patricia Reilly Giff [Giff, Patricia Reilly]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-375-98389-4
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2011-08-09T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

On Thursday a week later, I tiptoe into the kitchen before Joey and Cassie are awake. I want to check on the eggs. We’ve learned how to manage the fireplace so the fire never goes out. Inside the eggs, the growing chicks must feel toasty warm.

I bend over them and check the Xs we’ve marked on each one so we can tell which side is up. We’ve been careful to turn them five times every day. Maybe they get tired of lying on their backs or their stomachs.

“Come out,” I tell them. “See the world. I have names for you: Abigail, Betsy, Constance—”

Joey rustles around in the living room. I close my mouth. This talking aloud to myself has got to stop. “Gladys,” I whisper, my nose an inch above the eggs.

But right now I have other things in mind. I pull on my coat, wind my woolly scarf around my neck, and cut a slice of bread. I bite off chunks that are rock hard. They take a long time to soften in my mouth.

Out front, I flip open the mailbox even though I know it’s still too early for mail. A tan spider has moved in; he’s spinning a poor-looking web that waves out to nowhere. Maybe even spiders are feeling the Depression.

I start down the road, swiveling my head back and forth; on one side are the trees, still bare; on the other side is our field. Pop has money in a mayonnaise jar for seed so he can plant corn when he comes back.

I’m enjoying the view, but I look for Clarence, of course, and I keep my eyes open for mountain lions.

Nothing to fear.

There’s something I want to see up close. It’s a really long walk, but I want to see this place alone, in all its faded glory.

I love that. Faded glory.

And there it is, up ahead.

The Warren Harding School.

“Hello,” I whisper. It’s just like a picture of a school I saw once in a book. It has a bell on top and it hasn’t been painted in a thousand years.

I walk across the grass, which is mostly mud, and peer in the window, but all I see is a vestibule with a bunch of hooks.

Sad little hooks with no coats, no hats.

I wander around the back. Just over my head the window is open the tiniest bit. I stand there, chewing on the edge of my nail. Should I?

And even as I ask myself, I know I’m going to do it. I look around for something to boost myself up. And like magic, I see the milk crate against the wall.

Standing on the wooden crate isn’t enough. I have to reach way up to grab the sill, and there’s no way to push open the window.

I retreat to figure out how to get in. I see that I’ve left a muddy smear on the wall.

A row of rocks marches along at the edge of the trees. I spend ten minutes bringing the larger ones back to the milk crate.

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