Read Online Missing Sisters -SA by Gregory Maguire - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gregory Maguire
Tags: Fiction, General, Family & Relationships, Social Science, Historical, Family, Juvenile Fiction, Social Issues, Orphans, Twins, Siblings, Adoption, Handicapped, Sisters, People With Disabilities, Orphans & Foster Homes, Special Needs
Ads: Link
immerse herself in a lake that didn’t express any objection to her. And her spirits righted themselves there.
So for a week she stayed more or less on her own. With her long legs, she was an asset on a basketball team and enjoyed the evening game when the supper slop and after-dinner announcements were done. In the skirmishes between the eight girls on each team, a faint gray dust was raised from the bare soil on which they played. The dust hung in the sloping light, and Alice lunged through it dribbling and dodging, but not so engaged that she didn’t suddenly remember the strange light in the kitchen on the morning when the retreat center burned down.
Alice made a basket. Maybe the wreck of the retreat house was around here somewhere? It had been in the mountains, a couple of hours by school bus, like Camp Saint Theresa. “Way to go, Naomi!” screamed her teammates, who seemed to have confused Alice with her more glamorous acquaintance. How they did this was a mystery, as Naomi was giving Alice a wide berth now.
That was the first week. Then the camp director announced a talent show to be held on the night before the session ended. Naomi cornered Alice on the way out of the mess hall and said, “I got a great idea! You and me could do the Eliza Doolittle thing! We already know our parts. You can sing ‘Wouldn’t It Be Loverly’ as ‘Life Would Be So Heavenly’ and then go offstage, and I’ll come on and sing ‘I Could Have Danced All Night.’ But we got to find someone who knows how to play the piano or something.”
“Nah,” said Alice. “Once was enough.”
“We’ll be brilliant,” said Naomi.
“It makes me feel stupid to be the dumb one.”
“First prize,” said Naomi, “is fifty bucks. We could split it.”
“Well,” said Alice. “We got to give some to the piano guy.”
“Deal,” said Naomi.
“Deal,” said Alice with a sinking feeling.
In the second week of the session Alice tried to become chatty with Sally the cabin leader. As a nun in training she might know something about Sister Vincent de Paul. But as far as Alice could figure, if Sally was aiming at being a nun she wasn’t going to make it. She smoked cigarettes and sang Beatles songs to herself while she pinned her hair around plastic rollers the size of beer cans. She said to Alice, “In this business I know as few nuns as I can get away with.” At least that’s what Alice thought she said. “Sister Vincent de Paul?” said Alice again faintly. “Never had the pleasure. What order is she?” asked Sally. “Redemption.” “Hah!” said Sally contemptuously, “Redemptions! The living end!”
Naomi had identified a piano player, a timid girl from Schaghticoke called Wendy Beasley. Naomi had threatened to pull off Wendy’s bathing suit in the lake if she didn’t agree to accompany them in selections from My Fair Lady . Wendy, suffering a nearly terminal case of modesty, succumbed to the pressure. Alice thought that family life wasn’t having a healthy influence on Naomi Matthews. “By the way,” she said one evening, “are you Naomi Harrigan now?”
“Ow oo Naomi Howwigan,” parroted Naomi. “Sorry, Alice, couldn’t resist. Really, you make a perfect Eliza Doolittle. I wonder if you will ever meet a real Henry Higgins to teach you how to talk?” She didn’t answer the question, and Alice didn’t have the nerve to ask it again.
Costumes! Sally found an old black-lace mantilla some lady had left behind in the rustic Chapel in the Pines, which was no more than a concrete floor with a roof and some banners made out of felt, saying PRAISE and REJOICE and BE GLAD. The black lace thing made a perfect shawl. Now all Alice needed was a basket of flowers and a crummy skirt. The kitchen help came up with a wicker picnic basket, and there were more black-eyed Susans and Queen Anne’s lace and daisies in the fields than a whole battalion of Eliza Doolittles could use. Sally also sacrificed a
So for a week she stayed more or less on her own. With her long legs, she was an asset on a basketball team and enjoyed the evening game when the supper slop and after-dinner announcements were done. In the skirmishes between the eight girls on each team, a faint gray dust was raised from the bare soil on which they played. The dust hung in the sloping light, and Alice lunged through it dribbling and dodging, but not so engaged that she didn’t suddenly remember the strange light in the kitchen on the morning when the retreat center burned down.
Alice made a basket. Maybe the wreck of the retreat house was around here somewhere? It had been in the mountains, a couple of hours by school bus, like Camp Saint Theresa. “Way to go, Naomi!” screamed her teammates, who seemed to have confused Alice with her more glamorous acquaintance. How they did this was a mystery, as Naomi was giving Alice a wide berth now.
That was the first week. Then the camp director announced a talent show to be held on the night before the session ended. Naomi cornered Alice on the way out of the mess hall and said, “I got a great idea! You and me could do the Eliza Doolittle thing! We already know our parts. You can sing ‘Wouldn’t It Be Loverly’ as ‘Life Would Be So Heavenly’ and then go offstage, and I’ll come on and sing ‘I Could Have Danced All Night.’ But we got to find someone who knows how to play the piano or something.”
“Nah,” said Alice. “Once was enough.”
“We’ll be brilliant,” said Naomi.
“It makes me feel stupid to be the dumb one.”
“First prize,” said Naomi, “is fifty bucks. We could split it.”
“Well,” said Alice. “We got to give some to the piano guy.”
“Deal,” said Naomi.
“Deal,” said Alice with a sinking feeling.
In the second week of the session Alice tried to become chatty with Sally the cabin leader. As a nun in training she might know something about Sister Vincent de Paul. But as far as Alice could figure, if Sally was aiming at being a nun she wasn’t going to make it. She smoked cigarettes and sang Beatles songs to herself while she pinned her hair around plastic rollers the size of beer cans. She said to Alice, “In this business I know as few nuns as I can get away with.” At least that’s what Alice thought she said. “Sister Vincent de Paul?” said Alice again faintly. “Never had the pleasure. What order is she?” asked Sally. “Redemption.” “Hah!” said Sally contemptuously, “Redemptions! The living end!”
Naomi had identified a piano player, a timid girl from Schaghticoke called Wendy Beasley. Naomi had threatened to pull off Wendy’s bathing suit in the lake if she didn’t agree to accompany them in selections from My Fair Lady . Wendy, suffering a nearly terminal case of modesty, succumbed to the pressure. Alice thought that family life wasn’t having a healthy influence on Naomi Matthews. “By the way,” she said one evening, “are you Naomi Harrigan now?”
“Ow oo Naomi Howwigan,” parroted Naomi. “Sorry, Alice, couldn’t resist. Really, you make a perfect Eliza Doolittle. I wonder if you will ever meet a real Henry Higgins to teach you how to talk?” She didn’t answer the question, and Alice didn’t have the nerve to ask it again.
Costumes! Sally found an old black-lace mantilla some lady had left behind in the rustic Chapel in the Pines, which was no more than a concrete floor with a roof and some banners made out of felt, saying PRAISE and REJOICE and BE GLAD. The black lace thing made a perfect shawl. Now all Alice needed was a basket of flowers and a crummy skirt. The kitchen help came up with a wicker picnic basket, and there were more black-eyed Susans and Queen Anne’s lace and daisies in the fields than a whole battalion of Eliza Doolittles could use. Sally also sacrificed a
Similar Books
