Uprising by Margaret Peterson Haddix Page A

home?” the sister said.
    And let Pietro wonder what happened to me? Sure. Let him be the one worrying.
Because now she was nearly as mad at Pietro as she was at Signor Carlotti or the guard. Better to be mad than to worry—what had happened to Pietro?
    Bella and the two sisters set off walking, but every time they reached a corner, the sisters looked questioningly at Bella, pointing—right? Left? Straight? Which was it? Everything looked different in the dark, without the crowds, without Pietro leading the way. Sometimes Bella could remember—
Oh, yes, this is where the pigeons always roost on the light posts—go
that way—other times she had to guess and, as often as not, backtrack when nothing looked familiar. But somehow, finally, they reached the front of the Lucianos’ tenement building.
    â€œI live here,” Bella said.
“Grazie.
Thank you.”
    â€œI’m Yetta and she’s Rahel,” the girl said, and she pointed and gestured so Bella understood this as well. “If we can do anything else to help . . .”
    â€œI’m fine,” Bella said stiffly. “Thank you.”
    The hallway and the stairs were dark; Bella stumbled climbing up. She shoved her way into the Lucianos’ apartment, where the entire family and a few of the boarders were crowded around the table making flowers.
    â€œYou missed supper,” Signora Luciano said. “It’s all gone.”
    â€œPietro—” Bella said. “Is Pietro here? Did he come home after work?”
    â€œHaven’t seen him,” Signora Luciano said. Even in the dim light, Bella could see the malice gleaming in her eyes. “What’s wrong—is he two-timing you? Did he take it into his head to move somewhere else without you? Or—was he too stupid to get out of the way when they dropped a pipe in that ditch he was digging?”
    Bella gasped.
    â€œWhere would they take him if he got hurt?” she asked, reaching back for the door. “I have to find him. Who would know where he is? The places he goes at night—the, the bars . . .”
    Signora Luciano laughed.
    â€œNo respectable female would go into places like that,” she said. “You go there, I’d be forced to kick you out. Can’t have you making a bad influence on my girls.” She patted the nearest dirty head, though Bella wasn’t sure that that particular Luciano child was a girl.
    â€œBut, about Pietro—” Bella pleaded.
    The oldest Luciano boy, Rocco, stood up. He was perhaps nine or ten—Bella had barely seen him before, because he was almost always out on the streets selling newspapers or shining shoes.
    â€œI’ll go look for him,” Rocco said.
    â€œYou haven’t done your share of the flowers,” Signora Luciano growled.
    â€œI sold extra newspapers today,” Rocco said. “The swells always feel sorry for the newsboys when it gets cold.”
    Rocco brushed past his mother.
    At the door, he told Bella, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
    Bella sank down on the edge of the bed, even though two of the children and one of the male boarders, Nico, were already sitting there, their hands twisting flowers. Nico leaned over and whispered something to Signor Luciano, and they both laughed. Bella knew they were talking about her, something crude and nasty. Something that made her feel the same kind of shame she’d felt that afternoon, with the guard touching her. Her face flamed, and she focused on praying.
    Please let Rocco come back quickly, with Pietro. Or at least with news that he’s fine, that the only reason he didn’t meet me after work was . . .
    Bella couldn’t think of any good reason that Pietro hadn’t met her.
    The fire in the stove threw scary shadows; the baby whined, then howled, then cried itself to sleep; Signora Luciano woke it up again shouting at everyone to work faster. Bella waited.
    When Rocco