That’s how you do it.”
I hurry up the ladder. “I know how to swing,” I tell her.
“Well, I want you to watch one more time.” She laughs and jumps on the swing again and flies outside.
A frown as big as Mirabel’s forms on my face. Then Phoebe is back. “Did you watch?”
“Phoebe,” I say, my voice a little hard from the weight of my frown, “I know how to swing.”
“Well, we’ll see,” she says, handing me the rope.
I grab it, and just the weight of it feels good in my hands.
“That’s right,” says Phoebe, stepping close to help. “Yes, that’s good. Now hold on here—”
“Will you stop it?” I can’t help myself. “I KNOW HOW TO RIDE ON A …”
I stop because Phoebe is holding her nose. “What’s that awful smell, Charlie Anne?”
“Oh,” I say, backing down a little, remembering the privy and my boots with the holes in the bottom andhow I stepped in the muck lots of times. And then Phoebe is saying, “You can’t go on my swing smelling like that, Charlie Anne,” and I am backing up, backing down, rushing down that ladder, and the last thing I see is Phoebe with her face all puckered up.
“I don’t want to ride on her stupid swing anyway,” I tell Anna May and Belle as I rush across the road, my eyes already filling with tears.
Their eyes fill with cow-sorrow. They tell me they wouldn’t want to ride on Phoebe’s swing, either.
Mirabel shoos me right back outside. “Don’t come in here until you’ve gotten rid of every bit of that smell.” She hands me soap and tells me to go for a swim in the river. “And bring Birdie.”
We take off our clothes and jump in the cold water, watching the whole time for the oldest Thatcher boy because sometimes he spies on us.
While we are swimming, I tell Birdie about Phoebe’s new swing and about how it can go higher than I’ve ever seen a swing go before.
“Do you think she can see Mama in heaven when she swings so high?” asks Birdie, who is floating on her back as I scrub her hair.
“Probably,” I say, and the thought of that, that Phoebe has a swing so high she can probably see our mama, makes me feel worse than anything.
CHAPTER
13
Mirabel tells me I can make up for my bad behavior by making a vinegar pie to welcome our new neighbor like the good Lord intended.
“I will take the pie over and give it to Mrs. Jolly,” Mirabel is telling me, “and you can go, too, Charlie Anne, if you make it especially good, with a high fluted crust and brown sugar sprinkled on top.”
Mirabel is hanging sheets on the line. She is making me hand her clothespins and watch how she spreads the sheets out just right so they don’t dry with wrinkles.
Mirabel flaps a sheet in front of her. “It’s very important because no one wants to sleep in a mussed bed.” I look over at Belle and Anna May. They could care less about sheets. I roll my eyes.
I measure out the flour and the salt and mix the lard in with a fork until everything looks like little peas. I add enough water until it balls up like a good crust should, then sprinkle flour on the table and roll the whole thing out so it fits the pan.
I am wondering all about Rosalyn and what did she want to come live with Old Mr. Jolly for, when he can’ttake care of a cow as fine as Belle, and about Phoebe, and how I don’t want to see her at all after she clothes-pinned her nose. But I do wonder what happened to her mama, and why does she want to be a maid, anyway. She must hate chores as much as I do. Mostly, I would like some more of those doughnuts.
While the pie is baking, I pull a bucket of water from the well and give my dress a scrubbing right there beside the porch. The water is so cold that my fingers want to know what I am doing, but I keep rubbing my dress with Mirabel’s no-children-allowed special lavender soap until the stains start disappearing. Then I wring it out as best I can and put it back on, sniffing myself one more time, just to make
I hurry up the ladder. “I know how to swing,” I tell her.
“Well, I want you to watch one more time.” She laughs and jumps on the swing again and flies outside.
A frown as big as Mirabel’s forms on my face. Then Phoebe is back. “Did you watch?”
“Phoebe,” I say, my voice a little hard from the weight of my frown, “I know how to swing.”
“Well, we’ll see,” she says, handing me the rope.
I grab it, and just the weight of it feels good in my hands.
“That’s right,” says Phoebe, stepping close to help. “Yes, that’s good. Now hold on here—”
“Will you stop it?” I can’t help myself. “I KNOW HOW TO RIDE ON A …”
I stop because Phoebe is holding her nose. “What’s that awful smell, Charlie Anne?”
“Oh,” I say, backing down a little, remembering the privy and my boots with the holes in the bottom andhow I stepped in the muck lots of times. And then Phoebe is saying, “You can’t go on my swing smelling like that, Charlie Anne,” and I am backing up, backing down, rushing down that ladder, and the last thing I see is Phoebe with her face all puckered up.
“I don’t want to ride on her stupid swing anyway,” I tell Anna May and Belle as I rush across the road, my eyes already filling with tears.
Their eyes fill with cow-sorrow. They tell me they wouldn’t want to ride on Phoebe’s swing, either.
Mirabel shoos me right back outside. “Don’t come in here until you’ve gotten rid of every bit of that smell.” She hands me soap and tells me to go for a swim in the river. “And bring Birdie.”
We take off our clothes and jump in the cold water, watching the whole time for the oldest Thatcher boy because sometimes he spies on us.
While we are swimming, I tell Birdie about Phoebe’s new swing and about how it can go higher than I’ve ever seen a swing go before.
“Do you think she can see Mama in heaven when she swings so high?” asks Birdie, who is floating on her back as I scrub her hair.
“Probably,” I say, and the thought of that, that Phoebe has a swing so high she can probably see our mama, makes me feel worse than anything.
CHAPTER
13
Mirabel tells me I can make up for my bad behavior by making a vinegar pie to welcome our new neighbor like the good Lord intended.
“I will take the pie over and give it to Mrs. Jolly,” Mirabel is telling me, “and you can go, too, Charlie Anne, if you make it especially good, with a high fluted crust and brown sugar sprinkled on top.”
Mirabel is hanging sheets on the line. She is making me hand her clothespins and watch how she spreads the sheets out just right so they don’t dry with wrinkles.
Mirabel flaps a sheet in front of her. “It’s very important because no one wants to sleep in a mussed bed.” I look over at Belle and Anna May. They could care less about sheets. I roll my eyes.
I measure out the flour and the salt and mix the lard in with a fork until everything looks like little peas. I add enough water until it balls up like a good crust should, then sprinkle flour on the table and roll the whole thing out so it fits the pan.
I am wondering all about Rosalyn and what did she want to come live with Old Mr. Jolly for, when he can’ttake care of a cow as fine as Belle, and about Phoebe, and how I don’t want to see her at all after she clothes-pinned her nose. But I do wonder what happened to her mama, and why does she want to be a maid, anyway. She must hate chores as much as I do. Mostly, I would like some more of those doughnuts.
While the pie is baking, I pull a bucket of water from the well and give my dress a scrubbing right there beside the porch. The water is so cold that my fingers want to know what I am doing, but I keep rubbing my dress with Mirabel’s no-children-allowed special lavender soap until the stains start disappearing. Then I wring it out as best I can and put it back on, sniffing myself one more time, just to make
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