Read Online All for a Sister by Allison Pittman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Allison Pittman
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hide in your playhouse. When I call to you again, you will come running out, look at Miss Abby, run up to her, and hug her.”
Celeste pondered this for a moment. “If I want her to comefind me, why do I open the door at all? Why don’t I stay inside and hide?”
“And that,” the cameraman said, “is why you’re some kind of scientist and not a director.”
Daddy chuckled and stood. “What do you suggest?” His question was no doubt directed to any of the grown-ups standing around them, but it was Celeste who answered.
“She should come look through the window and pretend not to see me. And then—” Celeste moved away from her father and stood next to the playhouse—“pretend to look and say, ‘Cel-leste? Where are you?’ And then I’ll come outside because I’ll think I fooled her.”
Daddy’s look of pride warmed her more than any sun ever could.
“How did you think of all that?”
“That’s how Graciela plays.” She didn’t mention that sometimes she pretended Graciela was her mother.
“Well, then, that’s how we’ll do it.” Daddy told the cameraman to set up the next shot and told Abby to take off her coat and hat, making her look like any other mother out playing with her daughter on a lovely day. He bent back down to Celeste and kissed the tip of her nose. “You look beautiful, sunshine.”
She felt beautiful just because he said so, and determined to do the very best that she could to please him. Soon the cameraman’s arm was turning the handle, and at her father’s direction, she stood in front of the playhouse. Looking past Abby’s sullen figure, she saw Graciela standing in the open kitchen door, looking on. She wanted to break away, run into her soft folds, and inhale the familiar scent of coconut and flour, but the sound of the camera took over, and instead she smiled, giving license to her fantasy, and pressed her lips together before saying, “Mama! Come findme!” exaggerating every word and giving a little shrug and a giggle before ducking into her playhouse. She gave one long, sneaky look from behind the door before closing it.
From the semidarkness inside, she could hear Abby shuffling around outside, apparently not doing anything the way Daddy told her to because he kept saying the same things over and over.
Then her face filled the window, blocking out the light, invading the familiar smell of musty lumber with that of a heavy perfume.
“Hey, kid. Don’t make me look bad.”
Celeste couldn’t imagine what she meant by that, and she wished she could stay inside her playhouse until her real mother came home. Or until Graciela called her in for lunch and hot chocolate.
“Act like you’re looking for her,” Daddy was saying. “Put your hand up, like this. No, like this, like you’re searching. Like this.” And then, with an air of frustration, he summoned Celeste outside. Although it wasn’t exactly how they had planned, Celeste popped her head out the window and said, “Here I am!” her eyes finding Abby rather than the camera. Then she swung open the door and stood in the threshold.
“Go to her,” Daddy said.
Celeste brought her hand to her mouth as if to stifle a giggle, knowing it would hide the movement of her lips from the camera. “She needs to kneel down, or they won’t see me.”
“Get down, Abby,” Daddy ordered.
There was nothing about the woman’s expression that made her look like a loving mother. “I’ll get my dress all dirty.”
“I’ll pay for the cleaning.”
Reluctantly Abby knelt in the soft grass.
“Oh, Mama.” Celeste took two small steps and wrapped herarms around Abby’s neck, gently turning their bodies so that she could face the camera head-on. She looked straight into the lens, then up at the sky, pretending to thank God for giving her such a wonderful mother, not letting go until Graciela called her in for lunch.
THE WRITTEN CONFESSION OF MARGUERITE DUFRANE, PAGES 13–24
IT DOES NOT ESCAPE my
Celeste pondered this for a moment. “If I want her to comefind me, why do I open the door at all? Why don’t I stay inside and hide?”
“And that,” the cameraman said, “is why you’re some kind of scientist and not a director.”
Daddy chuckled and stood. “What do you suggest?” His question was no doubt directed to any of the grown-ups standing around them, but it was Celeste who answered.
“She should come look through the window and pretend not to see me. And then—” Celeste moved away from her father and stood next to the playhouse—“pretend to look and say, ‘Cel-leste? Where are you?’ And then I’ll come outside because I’ll think I fooled her.”
Daddy’s look of pride warmed her more than any sun ever could.
“How did you think of all that?”
“That’s how Graciela plays.” She didn’t mention that sometimes she pretended Graciela was her mother.
“Well, then, that’s how we’ll do it.” Daddy told the cameraman to set up the next shot and told Abby to take off her coat and hat, making her look like any other mother out playing with her daughter on a lovely day. He bent back down to Celeste and kissed the tip of her nose. “You look beautiful, sunshine.”
She felt beautiful just because he said so, and determined to do the very best that she could to please him. Soon the cameraman’s arm was turning the handle, and at her father’s direction, she stood in front of the playhouse. Looking past Abby’s sullen figure, she saw Graciela standing in the open kitchen door, looking on. She wanted to break away, run into her soft folds, and inhale the familiar scent of coconut and flour, but the sound of the camera took over, and instead she smiled, giving license to her fantasy, and pressed her lips together before saying, “Mama! Come findme!” exaggerating every word and giving a little shrug and a giggle before ducking into her playhouse. She gave one long, sneaky look from behind the door before closing it.
From the semidarkness inside, she could hear Abby shuffling around outside, apparently not doing anything the way Daddy told her to because he kept saying the same things over and over.
Then her face filled the window, blocking out the light, invading the familiar smell of musty lumber with that of a heavy perfume.
“Hey, kid. Don’t make me look bad.”
Celeste couldn’t imagine what she meant by that, and she wished she could stay inside her playhouse until her real mother came home. Or until Graciela called her in for lunch and hot chocolate.
“Act like you’re looking for her,” Daddy was saying. “Put your hand up, like this. No, like this, like you’re searching. Like this.” And then, with an air of frustration, he summoned Celeste outside. Although it wasn’t exactly how they had planned, Celeste popped her head out the window and said, “Here I am!” her eyes finding Abby rather than the camera. Then she swung open the door and stood in the threshold.
“Go to her,” Daddy said.
Celeste brought her hand to her mouth as if to stifle a giggle, knowing it would hide the movement of her lips from the camera. “She needs to kneel down, or they won’t see me.”
“Get down, Abby,” Daddy ordered.
There was nothing about the woman’s expression that made her look like a loving mother. “I’ll get my dress all dirty.”
“I’ll pay for the cleaning.”
Reluctantly Abby knelt in the soft grass.
“Oh, Mama.” Celeste took two small steps and wrapped herarms around Abby’s neck, gently turning their bodies so that she could face the camera head-on. She looked straight into the lens, then up at the sky, pretending to thank God for giving her such a wonderful mother, not letting go until Graciela called her in for lunch.
THE WRITTEN CONFESSION OF MARGUERITE DUFRANE, PAGES 13–24
IT DOES NOT ESCAPE my
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