Songbird by Lisa Samson Page A

four years after her disappearance, it was time for me to let her go. At least for a while. I had things to do. A life to get on with. I had breasts, small ones, but breasts, nonetheless, menstrual periods, and hopes for a scholarship to William and Mary someday. Isla Jean Whitehead, just go on and die, and leave me to grow up without your ghost getting in the way.
    Not that you were even all that nice when you left.
    So when Cecile Ferris breezed into my room around 10:15, drink in hand, chiffon fluttering, I was trying to memorize theorems.
    “Myrtle, dear. How is your homework coming along? Isn't it late? Shouldn't you be in bed?”
    Cecile always asked questions in threes. Like some people sneeze three times, every time.
    “Just memorizing theorems for a geometry test tomorrow. It is late, yes ma'am, but I couldn't sleep, so I decided I’d redeem the time and study a little.”
    “What a good child. Now, guess what? Did you know we always have a big Christmas party here? And would you like to sing for us that evening, with Clarke on the piano, of course?”
    Immediately, I thought of what a party here might be like. I pictured an old movie. Lots of swirling gowns, waiters hoisting trays of little foods, the pop of corks, and an underpinning of laughter and conversation.
    “Okay. I will. I like singing with Mr. Ferris.”
    “Perfect! I’ll have my seamstress come and fit you for a gown tomorrow after school. You don't mind, do you? What's your favorite color? And would you be opposed to having it full length?”
    “That sounds fine. I like yellow, and I’ve never had a full-length gown, but I’ve always wanted one.”
    “Perfect, then. Clarke says he'll practice with you after school each day. Do you mind learning some new songs? Will your voice teacher mind? Do you think you can learn enough new old tunes to fill an hour?”
    “It all sounds fine to me.”
    That was the thing about Cecile. All of her questions kept her from being overbearing. She never wanted to force me to do anything I didn't want to do. I sometimes think wealthy charity-minded folk who would even consider taking in a foster child don't quite know how to handle the situation. So they don their kid gloves and hope for the best.
    Lucky for her she got me, a generally genial teenager with a focus on greater things, cause she could have ended up with some horrible girl who'd sneak out and take the car night after night, and poor Cecile wouldn't have possessed the hardware needed for a do-it-yourself project like that!
    The next day I sat next to Clarke at the piano and sang “That Old Black Magic.”
    I liked Clarke. A boyish quality still lightened his overall demeanor, putting an innocent twinkle into his eye, enabling him to appreciate a meal around a breakfast booth with farmers, truckers, and mechanics and still hang out with the blue-bloods at Oakwood Country Club.
    I’m suspicious of most rich people, I’ll say that right up front. Not a good thing for someone in the business of living off others’ donations. Harlan many a time has said, “Look, Charmaine. It's the only way we can minister to all the regular folk. Just because they've got a lot to give doesn't make the gift any less valuable to us or their motives any less pure.”
    So Clarke and I sat there together, that gentry musty smell clouding around us. But I didn't mind. He set his hands on his knees and turned toward me. “What about doing a couple of the more modern tunes?”
    “Like what?”
    “Oh, I don't know. Like ‘Feelings’ or something? Or ‘The Shadow of Your Smile.’”
    “Okay. And how about ‘Sing’?”
    “I don't know that one.”
    “It's by the Carpenters. I love the Carpenters.”
    Clarke stood up. “Let's get on over to the record store at the Plaza.”
    So we went and bought a Carpenters album.
    “Can we go by Billy Joe's for ice cream?” I asked.
    But he shook his head and drove the other way.
    When we pulled up to the house he hurried into