The House You Pass on the Way by Jacqueline Woodson

into this room and closed the door. And for the next few weeks, they tiptoed around the house, only disturbing her when it was time for Battle to nurse or on the few occasions when she herself was hungry. The room was painted blue, with a high ceiling and windows facing the river. There was a queen-sized iron bed in one corner, a desk with a lamp on it in the other, and a small blue-and-yellow rug on the floor.
    “This is it,” Staggerlee said, setting Trout’s duffel on the bed.
    Trout whistled under her breath and walked over to the window. She stood there, staring out, her hands in the back pockets of her shorts.
    “Something sad about this room.”
    “Sad,” Staggerlee repeated softly. She remembered how she would tiptoe down the hall and peek in on her mother, who lay sleeping. How bright the room was in the mornings, the yellow-gold light making her mother seem almost holy.
    “I don’t think it’s sad.” She sat down on the edge of the bed and fingered the patchwork quilt. “Our grandmother made this.”
    Trout turned away from the window. She looked at the quilt a moment and nodded. “I know how to do that kind of piecework. Ida Mae taught me.”
    “I’d like to learn one day,” Staggerlee said. “Mama knits but she doesn’t know anything about quilting.”
    Trout smiled. She had the prettiest smile. Laugh for me, Staggerlee wanted to say.
    “I thought I was going to hate quilting at first, but it’s like . . . it’s like you take all these pieces from all these parts of your life and you sew them together and then you have your life all over again, only it’s . . . in a different form.” Trout turned back to the window. “I don’t know if that makes any sense.”
    “Yeah. It does.”
    “What’s that water?” Trout asked.
    “Breakabone River. Daddy says it got its name because so many slaves broke their bones trying to swim it to freedom.”
    Staggerlee started chewing on a cuticle. Mama hated when she did this. She stopped as though Mama had just fussed at her for it. She wanted words—the way Trout had them—for every feeling, it seemed, every thought.
    “Ida Mae didn’t send me here because I wanted to come,” Trout said softly. “She sent me here because she doesn’t like the person I’m growing up to be.”
    Staggerlee stared out the window past Trout. The sun was setting now, beautiful and clear across the water.
    “Who?” She felt her knees trembling and put her hands on them to steady them. “Who are you growing up to be?”
    Trout looked at her a long time. She came over to the bed and sat down beside Staggerlee. It felt strange having her so close. She smelled of lotion. Staggerlee wanted to put her nose in Trout’s hair and sniff hard.
    “Look at this,” Trout said. She spread her hand out next to Staggerlee’s and stared at them. Trout’s skin was dark reddish brown. Staggerlee’s hand looked pale beside it. “Look at how different we are.”
    “It’s just skin,” Staggerlee said. They were sitting shoulder to shoulder. They were whispering now.
    Trout looked at her and smiled. “Can we walk down to the river later?”
    Staggerlee nodded and stood up quickly before Trout could tell her what terrible thing she’d done to get sent here by Ida Mae.
    “I should let you . . . get settled,” she said, moving toward the door. Her legs seemed to be disconnected from the rest of her.
    “Will you come get me later?” Trout asked.
    Staggerlee nodded and pulled Trout’s door closed behind her.

Chapter Nine
    SHE HAD ALWAYS COME TO THE BARN. WHEN SHE WAS little, her parents would find her here, curled up on a bale of hay, her harmonica lying at her side. A long time ago, when Dotti still came here to groom her horse, Buck, Staggerlee would tag along behind her and beg until Dotti lifted her up onto Buck’s back and taught her to ride. But Dotti outgrew Buck, and Staggerlee didn’t care enough about riding to take him over. The morning her father sold him,