Hidden Hearts by Ann Roberts Page A

whole family of squirrels could take up residence in that empty area between your ears. Might as well seein’ as you don’t have any need for it. You better hope you’re good at makin’ babies.”
    I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to squeeze a baby out of the tiny hole between my legs, and the thought made me study harder but nothing stuck. I’d be in the middle of writing an essay and suddenly I was doodling in the margins, drawing faces or scenery, the thought of the paragraph dropped like a used hankie. I knew it didn’t matter anyway. I always got a D. Teachers gave me just enough to pass, but I thought it was because they liked my drawings.
    “Why were you up in that tree?” she asked.
    “I don’t want your daddy to tear ’em down. They’re my trees, at least they used to be.”
    She frowned but she didn’t get mad. She just poured more lemonade in my glass.
    “I think it’s important to stand up for things you believe in,” she said slowly. “I’m going to go to law school to fight for civil rights someday. You might find me sittin’ in a tree somewhere, too,” she added with a grin. If she was going to law school, I knew she was smart.  
    I pointed at her algebra book. “Do you like it?” I said. I figured I could at least be nice since she invited me into her house and served me some of the best lemonade I’d ever tasted.
    Her whole face lit up in a way I didn’t understand. Nothing about school excited me except art class. “I like math a lot.”
    “I don’t,” I snorted.
    “Why not?”
    “It’s too hard. There’s so many rules to remember, and if you miss one step, you get the whole thing wrong. I don’t think that’s right,” I added, hoping she could appreciate the injustice of mathematics. “It oughtta be at least half right.” She giggled into her glass and I sat up straight. “Hey, are you makin’ fun of me?”
    “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I just never heard anybody explain it like that. But I guess that’s true. You can’t make a mistake or it’s all wrong.”
    I hung my head thinking that she also thought I was a moron. My cheeks felt hot and I knew if I looked up she’d see my shame. “I need to be going.” I went to the door, my eyes glued to the floor.
    “Where you goin’?”
    “I need to get home,” I whispered. “Thanks for the lemonade.”
    When I heard the door shut behind me I broke into a run, heading into the orchard that we no longer owned. I was trespassing and I didn’t care. I zigzagged haphazardly down the rows of trees that remained, changing direction in a split second and ultimately smashing my forehead into a low-hanging branch. I fell backward onto the ground and stared up at the offending tree. Instantly angry, I laughed, picturing the bulldozer clawing at the screaming branches as they ripped away from the trunk. My laughter died in the back of my throat and turned to sobs.
    ****
    “How in the world did you manage to grow a goose egg on the front of your face?” Mama asked when I charged through the back door.
    She was making supper and the sight of her daughter holding her throbbing head in filthy clothes did not deter her from stirring the gravy. When she saw that I was upright and mobile, she returned to her cooking, not particularly interested in my answer.
    But she never was. She seemed to live with a perpetual scowl on her face, and I rarely saw her laugh except on her birthday or one of the few times Pops took her out. She was tiny and small-boned, and the stories she told suggested she’d been a spitfire, ready to take on the world. In the old pictures she’d looked happy. But Pops, Will and I had wiped the smile off her face for good. Her dislike of me probably should’ve made me mad but I felt sorry for her instead.
    Today she wore a colorful blue apron with birds over her plaid pedal pushers and pink blouse. Even though she looked angry she was always a good dresser. She bent over the oven to check