Tiffany’s sports collage
(torn magazines and tissue—it’s really pretty good),
and Michael Stitt’s still life of a fishing reel, rod,
and trout bones (he liked Georgia O’Keeffe after all).
Miss B. talked to Daddy a long time, which I
kind of expected and didn’t really mind, but it was
Daddy who surprised me. At first he asked her about
art class and about the grant program,
but then twice when I walked by on my way to the
cookies and lemonade, he was talking about stuff
that had nothing to do with me
or with school—movies, food, and the new commuter route
that the state was putting through.
Miss B. looked real nice
in her white blouse and long blue skirt.
Her peacock feather earrings
brushed her shoulders when she talked,
and her thick black hair was pinned up in back
with a silver clasp. I couldn’t help noticing how she
was looking at Daddy, and how handsome Daddy looked,
and how much he was talking,
and sometimes even smiling, with Miss B.
It was real quiet going home—we were
all talked out, I guess. I finished my math while Daddy
stopped at the store to get us something special
for breakfast. He came out with six sticky buns,
a half-gallon of milk, and a dozen
red roses in cellophane. I think I smeared
a whole page of equations
when I read the little white card he’d slipped under the ribbon:
Georgia—
I am so proud.
Love, Daddy.
61.
A busy Saturday. Mr. Fitz has entered Ella
in a big show in Harrisburg
tomorrow. He went out there today to scout the competition
and told me to
bathe her,
walk her,
groom her,
braid her mane and tail,
wrap her legs (so they stay clean),
muck her stall,
and bed her down for the night.
It took me from noon till 6:00 to do most of that.
By the time I was done braiding the last bunch of mane,
I told Ella that if she won any ribbons,
I thought it’d only be fair if she’d
share them with me.
While I was locking up the feed bin and pushing the
wheelbarrow with the next-to-last load of
manure behind the barn, Tiffany came running up the hill,
wearing her lacrosse shirt.
“Hey!” I yelled. “Thought you couldn’t play.”
She caught her breath, explained how she’d gone
to a tournament for the day,
and since she still isn’t allowed to play, she’d been the
water girl
stat keeper
snack provider.
“I was soooo bored, Georgia, I nearly went
out of my mind. Thought I’d run up here
and see what you were doing.”
We went back in, grabbed two root beers from Mr. Kesey’s
old soda machine,
and while Ella finished her dinner,
we sat on the hay bales and talked.
She told me about the tournament—
who played and who won and where the teams were from—
and I showed her the program for the horse show
that Ella was entered in.
Then pretty much out of the blue, she said she was
sorry she’d offered me those pills,
sorry she’d lied about Ronnie Kline,
sorry she didn’t tell me about all her
sleepless nights and those days when she felt
shaky and half-sick. She was sorry she didn’t
let me help her.
“I thought if I could just catch up—
take those pills to get me through a few busy weeks—
and then stop taking them…
but then I couldn’t stop, and I couldn’t sleep.
I thought if I told you
I was buying Ritalin from Ronnie Kline,
then you would worry about whether
to tell or not to tell
and that wouldn’t be a fair thing to do to you.”
I told her I’d already figured most of that out,
I’d already been worried.
Tiffany said sorry again. She meant it.
She wanted me to trust her. That’s what I wanted, too,
but I also felt like testing her.
“If you really want me to trust you again,” I said,
“you would grab that other shovel
and finish this mucking.”
Tiffany eyes opened wide in disbelief.
She’s an athlete, so she’s used to
hard work. But she’s also used to playing games
on a nice green field, with a uniform and cleats,
and staying pretty neat. She likes the idea of horses,
behind.
I heard her mumble some four-letter words
as she walked into the stall
with the shovel
and finished the mucking.
62.
Mrs. Yocum called me
down to her office. She called it my “progress visit.”
She wanted to know how I’ve been doing in school,
if Daddy and me had been talking more often, and if my
stomachaches had gone away, or at least if they were better.
She asked if I thought my diary writing was “fruitful,”
which meant, I guess, did it
do me any good.
This time the rabbit in my stomach was small
(it still kicked a bit, but I mostly ignored it).
I told her I’d noticed from my writing
that I have my daddy’s stubborn streak
and his natural shyness, too. Also, I had a lot to say to you
that must have been stored up inside since you died,
and even though I know you can’t answer—
that I’m really writing to my memory—
it felt better to talk to you on paper
than not at all.
She blinked awhile behind her big glasses,
then she asked me if I
wanted to keep writing to you
in my diary.
“Probably, yes,” I said. “Until June…maybe longer.”
It was quiet while Mrs. Yocum made some notes in her folder.
I doodled on my binder
and thought about everything that had happened
since the last time I sat there:
getting that membership in the mail,
spending afternoons at the Brandywine and
sketching like a maniac to get that grant;
worrying about Tiffany, then patching things up;
finding out more about you and writing down
what I might ask you if you were here;
Daddy letting go of some sadness, us talking again…
Finally Mrs. Yocum looked up,
and with a half-smile she said I’d made “good progress”
and that she’d like to see me one more time
before the end of the school year.
Marianne and Tiffany were sitting outside, waiting.
“Okay, you’re next,” Mrs. Yocum said to Tiffany,
who rolled her eyes and whispered:
“At least I miss history.”
I got a pass to my next class from the secretary.
Taped to her desk was a new list:
“Longwood School District Artistically Gifted Program”—
and my name was at the top.
Acknowledgments
M
y sincere thanks to the following people, who contributed their expertise and encouragement during the writing of this book:
Joan Slattery, wise and gracious senior executive editor at Knopf/Crown Books for Young Readers; Allison Wortche, editorial assistant; Eileen Spinelli, children’s author, poet, and ever-cheerful friend; Jane Flitner, assistant educator at the Brandywine River Museum, Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania; Karen Fuchs Guidas, art teacher, Lionville Middle School, Exton, Pennsylvania; Ellen Crowley and her L.M.S. History Club; Susan Brennan, generous friend and reading specialist at Rainbow Elementary School, Coatesville, Pennsylvania; Debbie and Ariel McManus, volunteer readers; Allison Kohn, LCSW; Lisa Parviskhan, D.O.; and, above all, for their constant patience and support, Neil and Leigh Bryant.
J.B.
Also by Jen Bryant
The Trial
A Book Sense 76 Pick
A Bank Street College of Education
Best Children’s Book of the Year
Life is quiet in Katie Leigh Flynn’s New Jersey town. She watches the trains in the railyard with her best friend, Mike, and dreams of the faraway places in her postcard collection.
Then, on a windy night in 1932, a shocking crime shakes Katie’s town, and all of America, to the core: the baby son of aviator and American hero Charles Lindbergh is kidnapped from his crib. A manhunt begins, and when Bruno Richard Hauptmann is captured and accused, Katie, only twelve, finds herself inside the courtroom at the Lindbergh baby trial as an assistant to her reporter uncle.
In a suspenseful novel in poems, Jen Bryant takes us inside one of the most widely publicized criminal cases of the twentieth century.
“Extraordinary…. As Katie says, ‘When a man’s on trial for his life/isn’t every word important?’ Bryant shows why with art and humanity.”
—Booklist, Starred
“Bryant crafts a memorable heroine and unfolds a thought-provoking tale.”
—Publishers Weekly
“It’s not hard to get caught up in the trial itself and in Katie’s trials and triumphs. And it’s easy to fall into the lyrical rhythm of Bryant’s public and private revelations.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“Readers…will be swept along in suspense.”
—The Horn Book Magazine
OTHER YEARLING BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY
THE TRIAL, Jen Bryant
CROOKED RIVER, Shelley Pearsall
TROUBLE DON’T LAST, Shelley Pearsall
GIFTS FROM THE SEA, Natalie Kinsey-Warnock
STEALING FREEDOM, Elisa Carbone
BELLE PRATER’S BOY, Ruth White
UNDER THE WATSONS’ PORCH, Susan Shreve
BAMBERT’S BOOK OF MISSING STORIES, Reinhardt Jung
THE LEGACY OF GLORIA RUSSELL, Sheri Gilbert
A PIECE OF HEAVEN, Sharon Dennis Wyeth
Published by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books a division of Random House, Inc., New York
Text copyright © 2006 by Jen Bryant
Interior illustrations copyright © 2006 by Sarah Hokanson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address Alfred A. Knopf Books for Young Readers.
Yearling and the jumping horse design are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
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Reprinted by arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf Books for Young Readers
eISBN: 978-0-375-89092-5
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