Unto These Hills by Emily Sue Harvey Page A

Three
    During the fifties, mill hill life hit its zenith. That Saturday, Main Street bustled when kids from three to twenty-three spilled on to her from every avenue. The weekly pilgrimage to the afternoon movie matinee took our parade down Main Street, past folks sitting on porches, some calling out greetings to us.
    With Daniel beside me, and my siblings hooked up with buddies, it was a carefree, ebullient time, when being villagers was our magical, shimmering common bond. For an afternoon, at least, the enchanted silver screen melted us into sterling camaraderie where toleration for even stinkos like Buck Edmonds abounded.
    Today, Tack Turner, an older twenty-something, accompanied Francine, who now mysteriously had money for whatever appetite flared, whether cigarettes, movies, lipstick, or candy bars. It shamed me to know that Tack furnished her funds. Francine, however, had no such qualms; did, in fact, feel entitled.
    Tack, tall and crane-thin, sprouted a shock of walnut-hued hair, abundant except on top. His regular features were too cynical and brooding to be called handsome but his attitude took up the slack. Tack, whose ego knew no bounds, felt that we, the Acklins, were infinitely beneath him in station — with the exception of Francine, of course, whom he regarded as a cross between Sadie Thompson and Cleopatra.
    “Get lost, kid,” I heard him grouse at Timmy, who’d made the mistake of teasingly asking Tack for popcorn money.
    My hackles rose. “Timmy, don’t .” I scowled my disapproval at him. He knew not to beg that jerk for anything. Timmy suppressed a grin and I realized he was simply aggravating Tack for amusement. Daniel fell in beside me, flanked by Walter, his foster-brother.
    “Hey!” Walter playfully cuffed Daniel’s shoulder. “How does something as ugly as you rate such a cute lil’ thang ?” Walter flashed his quick, white grin at me and I thought he’s a blonde James Dean. I smiled back. I liked the eternal-kid Walter, especially the fact that he’d stood up for Daniel through the years.
    “Lucky,” replied Daniel, sliding his arm possessively around my waist. “Just plain lucky.” He winked at me.
    Walter sidled up to Doretha, who walked ahead with Emaline and pointedly ignored her stepbrother, her usual reaction to him. Walter swooped and kissed Doretha’s cheek, did a Daffy-Duck whoop as she disgustedly swiped it away, then scuttled ahead to flirt outrageously with other bobby-soxers. Timmy and Sheila strolled ahead of me, chattering away with Emaline’s sister, Polly, and the Kale kids.
    Pure contentment surged through me when the big brick movie house loomed into view. Like a long, happy Chinese-parade paper-dragon, we wound up wide cement, brick-trimmed steps to the ticket window, where we filed past to pay fifteen-cents apiece to enjoy a long afternoon of silver screen magic. That warm April day, sultry, pouty-lipped Jane Russell and sensuous Marilyn Monroe filled an entire poster beside the window. Bold block letters spelled GENTLEMEN PREFER BLONDES.
    During the lull, while Daniel and I waited in line to pay, he took my hand and lifted it to his lips, unconcerned about onlookers. I grinned at him and was rewarded with that slow, warm smile that revealed perfect white teeth, snowy against his olive complexion. I had to look up to him. At seventeen, he already towered over six-feet and what with hacking tall weeds and grass with that old swing blade so much, he was quite muscular.
    He turned my hand in his, admiring my tapered fingers, a thing that fascinated him. Then, on his thumb, I saw a bleeding blister.
    “Does it hurt?” I asked, alarmed, instinctively cupping the finger.
    He gazed down at the watery sore that looked ready to ooze blood. “Naw.” Up came the chin and the turquoise gaze blazed into mine. “Not a bit.”
    I swallowed back a lump and forced a smile, knowing when to shut up. I quickly air-kissed the finger, then slowly released his hand. “Yeh,