The Sweetest Thing by Elizabeth Musser Page A

in her mouth and was busy pinning back her hair and muttering to herself. Finally she said, “I’ve got to get home! Can you try to find Mrs. Chandler’s servant and get him to drive me back?”
    â€œIs that an order?”
    She looked around at me, creased her brow, and grinned. “A request. Please.”
    â€œWhy do you need to get home?”
    â€œWhy? Don’t be an idiot! To help Mamma! To care for Barbara and Irvin. To do a thousand other things.” She pinched her cheeks twice, looked in the mirror again. “I’m as pale as a ghost. And I’ve got things to do for school—getting ready for the yearbook meeting and the May Day celebration and the Phi Pi tea and . . .”
    â€œAre you crazy? Your father just died. No one in the whole wide world expects you to do anything at all about school. And my aunt and loads of other people are there with your mother. She’ll be okay for a while. You should just stay here.”
    She turned on me suddenly. “Mary Dobbs Dillard, I don’t know what planet you come from, but nothing will ever be ‘okay’ again. Don’t you see that?”
    â€œI see that’s what you believe.”
    â€œWhat I believe ?”
    â€œPerri, it’s not up to you to work everything out for your family!”
    â€œAnd who will do it, I ask you? Have you looked at my mother? She is pretty and kind, and she knows how to serve tea and sit with her legs crossed and fix a good pot roast. None of which will earn us a cent.”
    â€œIt will work out. I just know it.”
    â€œYou just know it? Excuse me, but your father didn’t watch his fortunes evaporate in front of his eyes. And your father isn’t dead. You have no idea!” Now two perfect crimson spots appeared on her cheeks. “Call the servant!” she ordered.
    â€œHis name is Hosea,” I said under my breath as I left the room.
    â€œI heard you, Mary Dobbs Dillard!” she called after me. “Don’t you act all condescending, you of all people in your potato-sack dress!”
    I turned around, eyes wide open, and I could tell Perri was horrified by what she had just said.
    The crimson spots turned to a deep red stain, and she mumbled, “Heavens! I’m sorry. I can’t imagine why I said such a thing.”
    I went over to her, grabbed her by the shoulders, and put my nose to within an inch of hers. “You said such a thing because it is absolutely true. This is a potato-sack dress. A lovely Idaho-potato-sack dress, the finest and newest style. All the swell girls are wearing them.” I began wiggling my hips and twirling around, with my hands making circles over my head as I spun and hummed the theme from Madame Butterfly .
    Perri gave a little whimper of a laugh. “You’re insane.”
    â€œPerhaps.”
    â€œAre you trying to get me to laugh again?”
    I shook my head and stopped. With one last shake of my hips, I said, “No. This time, I actually think you need to cry.”
    â€œCry?”
    â€œFor your father.” To my astonishment, she sank onto my bed and burst into tears. Mother always said that tears were a healthy part of grieving. I knew what grieving looked like, from accompanying my father to all his revival meetings and from our own family’s troubles, and I could see what was brewing under the surface in Perri Singleton. Rage. Horror. Fear. And just about anything else that went along with tragedy.
    I certainly didn’t understand all the waves of emotion she was feeling, but I did know how the death of a loved one cut a person in two, and I did know what a father looked like when he saw his family hungry, and I did know the horrible faces of grief and loss that paraded before Father at his tent meetings, and I had seen Mother take the meal she’d prepared for us across town to the family whose daughter just died—and felt my stomach growling because we