Lucy, to Vida's amazement, didn't seem to be interested at all in Mr. Carson. She did her lessons well, except compositions which Vida helped her with at home. With an elaborate pretense of indifference. Vida tried to get her to say something about Mr. Carson, but Lucy only laughed.
"I guess he's all right. Sure he likes girls. What did you expect?"
Lucy decided against telling about Mr. Carson squeezing her arm, because anyone could see Vida was crazy about him. What I don't like is how he plays with the gold chain on his glasses or sticks his fingers in his vest pocket. He reminds me of how Semy Klug looks up under my skirts when I go upstairs.
When it got too cold to go out during recess without a coat, Vida hid her petticoat back of the cloakroom radiator. One day the inevitable happened—she forgot it.
"What's the matter with your dress, it hangs queer," her mother asked in the suspicious tone with which she greeted any deviation. Never think well of anything, for the world is a cheat.
Vida was dizzy with panic as her mother snatched up the skirt.
"Your pa will switch you for sure, running around with no clothes on like that—that thing next door. Reform school, that's where she belongs, and you too."
I hate Ma, I hate her, I don't care what the Bible says. "I left it in the gym. I forgot it because I was in a hurry." She grabbed the dress from her mother's sullying hand and heard it rip at the waist. I don't care if I am a liar, she thought desperately, slamming the door of her room.
But her mother rushed in as if crazed. "Here I slave and slave to dress you good and bring you up right and see what thanks I get. Tear your good clothes, will you?"
The razor strop beat on her head and Vida put her arms up to shield her face. The rage spent itself and Mrs. Bertrand sniffed in self-pity. "Let that teach you."
Vida lay sobbing on her bed, her ear hot and swelling. Why should I feel I've done something bad? Four years at high school, a prison with no Lucy.
It froze and snowed all November and Congress lay in winter silence listening to the miniature polyphony of sleighbells, clanging streetcars, and shouts of small boys. Storm windows barricaded homes, and parlors were closed off for the winter to concentrate
