part a churchy kind of man.
âBut itâs not a
he
, I donât think,â I said. âOr if it is a
he
itâs a
she
, too. Probably. At least I think it is. A
she
, I mean.â
My father looked at me curiously. âAnnabelle, it would be easier if you just spit it out.â
âAnd I will. I just canât be sure because I didnât see her do it. But I am sure, I guess. It couldnât be anyone else. Unless it was Andy, too.â
It was cold in the woods, the light going quickly, and I was happy to follow my father when he suddenly headed for the open fields above us. He took my hand as we crossed them, cut his stride down to half so I could keep up, and stopped at the top of the lane to pick a dozen apples for the sauce my mother would make that night. Then we went together down the lane through the trees that arched overhead, toward the house.
Only after we got inside and warm, spent a moment with James (my father calling him a âgood little manâ) and another with my mother (who gave us both a long look), did he sit me down in the front room, quieter there than the kitchen, and asked me to say what was on my mind.
So I told him everything from the beginning. About Betty and her threats. About the cucumber-shaped bruise on my hip. How Andy and Betty had become friends so quickly and how furtive they had been for days now. About the quail and what Toby had done. About Andy coming late to school that morning and how the two of them had huddled in the schoolyard at recess, whispering.
I ran out of things to say and realized, to my dismay, that none of it sounded nearly as bad as it had felt at the time, though the memory of that quailâs neck breaking would stay with me for the rest of my days. âSheâs a terrible bully,â I said. âBut I still donât know why I was so scared of her.â
âAnnabelle, why didnât you tell us right when she started up?â
âIt happened in little bits, not all at once, and it wasnât easy to figure out what to do along the way.â I felt like such a terrible fool. âBesides, she said she would hurt the boys if I told anyone. And then she went ahead and hurt James anyway when I wouldnât do what she said.â
My father stood up and scrubbed his jaw with an open hand. âItâs all right,â he said. âI will take care of this now, Annabelle. Your mother and I. But from now on you tell us right away when you have a problem. Do you promise?â
I did. It was an easy promise to make. I had no intention of lying to my father or mother about anything else. I just didnât know how complicated things would become.
CHAPTER NINE
The next day was Saturday. No school. Chores, yes. But usually a chance, too, for some time on my own to spend as I pleased.
Not so, that Saturday.
âYou and your mother and I will be paying a visit to the Glengarrys this afternoon,â my father said when I sat down to breakfast. He used the voice that meant there would be no arguing.
âDo I have to go?â I said anyway.
My father nodded. âSomething important shouldnât be said secondhand. But weâll be right there with you, and youâll feel better afterward. She wonât have anything to hold over your head once itâs all on the table.â
That sounded right, but I still didnât want to go.
James sat across from me, moping over his eggs and worrying the edge of the white bandage across his forehead.
âThis thing itches and itâs dumb,â he said. âI canât think right with it on me.â
To which my mother had a quick answer, wrapping a bandanna around his head, pirate-style. âNow you look like Long John Silver,â she said.
We knew a number of pirates, thanks to Robert Louis Stevenson and my grandmother, who read to us after supper most nights.
In no time at all, James was prancing around the house like a madman, crying
âBut itâs not a
he
, I donât think,â I said. âOr if it is a
he
itâs a
she
, too. Probably. At least I think it is. A
she
, I mean.â
My father looked at me curiously. âAnnabelle, it would be easier if you just spit it out.â
âAnd I will. I just canât be sure because I didnât see her do it. But I am sure, I guess. It couldnât be anyone else. Unless it was Andy, too.â
It was cold in the woods, the light going quickly, and I was happy to follow my father when he suddenly headed for the open fields above us. He took my hand as we crossed them, cut his stride down to half so I could keep up, and stopped at the top of the lane to pick a dozen apples for the sauce my mother would make that night. Then we went together down the lane through the trees that arched overhead, toward the house.
Only after we got inside and warm, spent a moment with James (my father calling him a âgood little manâ) and another with my mother (who gave us both a long look), did he sit me down in the front room, quieter there than the kitchen, and asked me to say what was on my mind.
So I told him everything from the beginning. About Betty and her threats. About the cucumber-shaped bruise on my hip. How Andy and Betty had become friends so quickly and how furtive they had been for days now. About the quail and what Toby had done. About Andy coming late to school that morning and how the two of them had huddled in the schoolyard at recess, whispering.
I ran out of things to say and realized, to my dismay, that none of it sounded nearly as bad as it had felt at the time, though the memory of that quailâs neck breaking would stay with me for the rest of my days. âSheâs a terrible bully,â I said. âBut I still donât know why I was so scared of her.â
âAnnabelle, why didnât you tell us right when she started up?â
âIt happened in little bits, not all at once, and it wasnât easy to figure out what to do along the way.â I felt like such a terrible fool. âBesides, she said she would hurt the boys if I told anyone. And then she went ahead and hurt James anyway when I wouldnât do what she said.â
My father stood up and scrubbed his jaw with an open hand. âItâs all right,â he said. âI will take care of this now, Annabelle. Your mother and I. But from now on you tell us right away when you have a problem. Do you promise?â
I did. It was an easy promise to make. I had no intention of lying to my father or mother about anything else. I just didnât know how complicated things would become.
CHAPTER NINE
The next day was Saturday. No school. Chores, yes. But usually a chance, too, for some time on my own to spend as I pleased.
Not so, that Saturday.
âYou and your mother and I will be paying a visit to the Glengarrys this afternoon,â my father said when I sat down to breakfast. He used the voice that meant there would be no arguing.
âDo I have to go?â I said anyway.
My father nodded. âSomething important shouldnât be said secondhand. But weâll be right there with you, and youâll feel better afterward. She wonât have anything to hold over your head once itâs all on the table.â
That sounded right, but I still didnât want to go.
James sat across from me, moping over his eggs and worrying the edge of the white bandage across his forehead.
âThis thing itches and itâs dumb,â he said. âI canât think right with it on me.â
To which my mother had a quick answer, wrapping a bandanna around his head, pirate-style. âNow you look like Long John Silver,â she said.
We knew a number of pirates, thanks to Robert Louis Stevenson and my grandmother, who read to us after supper most nights.
In no time at all, James was prancing around the house like a madman, crying
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