Something to Hold by Katherine Schlick Noe

the doorway, the little girl beside her. She hesitates, then they walk toward me. The little girl is clutching the fruit in her hand.
    "Why'd you do that?" Jewel asks.
    I don't know how to answer. A grownup should know better than to talk to a little kid like that. "Just wasn't right," I finally say.
    The little girl reaches up and takes Jewel's hand, and her face seems to relax.
    "Your sister?" I ask.
    "My cousin," says Jewel. "Her name is Tela. She gets paid for chores at the boarding school. So we come get a treat on Fridays before we go home for the weekend." Tela gives me a shy smile.
    The California family rushes out of the store without their bottles of pop. The kids are crying, and they pay no attention to us.
    The sky is fading. At home, Mom is waiting for the milk. "I gotta go," I say.
    "We owe you." Jewel points to the bag.
    I shake my head. "Nah, it's my mom's money."
    Jewel grins, nodding. The cousins cross the street and head back up to the school. As I start walking, I wonder who is coming to pick them up and how long it takes to get home. And I wonder what it's like to live away from your family so that you can go to school.
    The station wagon peels out of the parking lot in a big hurry and screeches around the corner up toward the highway.
Good riddance,
Báshtan.
    When I enter the kitchen, supper preparations are in full swing. Mom puts down the hamburger spatula and takes the sack. She looks inside, counts the change, and then looks at me.
    "How much was the milk?" she asks.
    I knew it.
But I say only, "I bought a pomegranate."
    Another quick glance back into the bag. "Where is it?"
    For what feels like the first time in forever, I give her a big smile. "At the girls' dorm," I say, and go wash up.

The Old Ones
    M R. Nute plows down the aisle, handing out single-edge razor blades. Franklin follows him with squares of cardboard. On our desks, thin sheets of newspaper,
The Madras Pioneer,
are spread out under Dixie cups of tempera paint.
    The social studies manual lies open on Mr. Nute's desk. Holding that fat book up in front of his face, he showed us the page with "Art of the Amazon" in big letters, after reading to us that Amazon tribesmen wore masks and little else. Mr. Nute says we understand a people through their art. He read that in there too.
    Mr. Nute lays a blade on the newspaper that covers my desk.
    "Be careful," he says out over my head. "Keep something under your work at all times. If you cut the desk, you'll be in big trouble."
    Next to me, Pinky tilts her head. "What are we s'posed to do?"
    I shrug. I don't want to draw Mr. Nute's attention. He has been stern with me ever since our conversation about Jewel.
    I pick up the blade, careful to keep my fingers on the safe edge. I've never used a razor blade in art—or anywhere else, for that matter. This could be a
really
bad idea.
    Mr. Nute picks up the teacher's manual and reads aloud, "Cut a diamond shape out of the cardboard. Make it big enough to cover your face."
    The instant Mr. Nute starts talking, we start cutting. The cardboard is thick. The blades make a loud tearing sound as they work through it, drowning him out.
    All of a sudden, Orin lets out a piercing shriek. All heads snap up. Mr. Nute drops the book and sprints over to Orin's desk.
    Orin's head thrashes back and forth as Mr. Nute tries to capture his waving, spurting hand. "
Stop!
" Mr. Nute bellows. "You're getting
blood
on the
cardboard!
" Mr. Nute seizes Orin's bloody wrist and yanks him to his feet. The razor blade flies out of Orin's fingers and lands on Raymond's desk in the next row, spattering blood across the comics and Raymond's shirt.
    "
Geez!
" yells Raymond, shoving himself backwards out of his seat. His foot catches on the desk leg, and he lands butt first in the aisle.
    The gash in Orin's hand sprays blood across Mr. Nute's chest as he drags Orin across the room. They disappear out the door, and I hear Orin howling all the way down to Mr. Shanahan's