Read Online Dotty’s Suitcase by Constance C. Greene - Free Book Online

herself to sleep. It didn’t work. She thought about the money she was holding. How much was there? Enough for new shoes for her father?
    â€œMy Uncle Tom said we’re in for a blizzard.” Dotty opened her eyes and sat up straight. “Mr. Kimball’s pigs were hollering, and Uncle Tom says that always means a blizzard’s coming.”
    â€œThat right?” He sounded bored.
    Dotty thought, Why am I so boring? I bet I bore a lot of people. The more interesting I try to be, the more I bore people. Why don’t I shut up and act inscrutable? I am inscrutable. Ever since Dotty had learned that word, she’d been looking for an opportunity to use it in a conversation. So far no occasion had arisen.
    She wished she were older and could flirt with Gary the way her sisters would have. Or Janice. She would have liked him to look at her with admiration in his eyes, the way she’d seen boys look at Mary Beth and Laura. Even if you didn’t think you’d recognize admiration in a boy’s eyes, it was amazing the way you did once you’d seen it. Absolutely amazing. She must remember to tell this to Olive.
    She felt her mouth shiver. She wanted to make him look at her and tell her she was pretty.
    I’ve never been anywhere, she almost said aloud. And now here I am, going to Boonville in a truck with a stranger. Alone. Jud stirred in his sleep. Well, almost alone. Jud was the chaperon. The thought made her smile.
    â€œUnderstand you people had a bank robbery over your way,” Gary said. Dotty’s fingers tightened on the suitcase handle.
    â€œSure did,” she said gaily. “Radio said the robbers were still at large yesterday. Said they were driving a big black car and that they were armed and dangerous and one of ’em had mean, squinty eyes. A lady saw ’em and that’s what she said.”
    If anybody ever had to describe me on the radio, Dotty thought, what would they say? I am not the kind of person people remember. I have a forgettable face.
    Dorothea Frances Fickett, alias Dotty Fickett, aged twelve and a quarter. Brown eyes, brown hair, and sallow complexion. Long hands and feet. Mole on left shoulder. Ugly.
    But possessing a kind heart. Not always. Sometimes. I hope I have a kind heart. A pretty face isn’t everything. As Aunt Martha says, a pretty face can hide a heap of sins. Think of Janice.
    The truck racketed through the night. Dotty’s head fell against Jud and he cried out in his sleep. He looked as if someone had removed all his bones, so relaxed and limp he might’ve been a large doll. Little drops of spittle ran down his chin, and she thought he was looking at her through the slits his eyes made.
    She had never been out this late. Outside, there was nothing but blackness. Soon, she hoped, the lights of Boonville would shine in the distance. She stole a glance at Gary. And discovered he was stealing a glance at her. They stared at one another, as unblinking as a couple of babies.
    â€œHow old are you?” she asked, not having planned to.
    â€œSixteen,” he told her. His bony white ankles shone in the darkness. He didn’t seem to have on any socks.
    â€œYour feet must be cold,” she said.
    â€œNot so’s you’d notice.” He gestured toward the suitcase. “That’s pretty big for such a little girl. You must have all your duds in there. You planning to stay in Boonville awhile?”
    â€œOh, no. Only just the night. Olive’s not expecting me, you see.” Dotty felt her face grow animated, like an actress doing a scene. “Olive and I are best friends,” she went on. He seemed to be listening, giving her his complete attention. It was an exhilarating sensation, to be given the complete attention of such a good-looking boy.
    â€œOlive’s father moved to Boonville to find work. But we write to each other all the time.” Dotty’s lips and eyes and hands moved in unison.