Read Online R My Name Is Rachel by Patricia Reilly Giff - Free Book Online
Authors: Patricia Reilly Giff
Ads: Link
just like a picture of a school I saw once in a book. It has a bell on top and it hasn’t been painted in a thousand years.
I walk across the grass, which is mostly mud, and peer in the window, but all I see is a vestibule with a bunch of hooks.
Sad little hooks with no coats, no hats.
I wander around the back. Just over my head the windowis open the tiniest bit. I stand there, chewing on the edge of my nail. Should I?
And even as I ask myself, I know I’m going to do it. I look around for something to boost myself up. And like magic, I see the milk crate against the wall.
Standing on the wooden crate isn’t enough. I have to reach way up to grab the sill, and there’s no way to push open the window.
I retreat to figure out how to get in. I see that I’ve left a muddy smear on the wall.
A row of rocks marches along at the edge of the trees. I spend ten minutes bringing the larger ones back to the milk crate. It looks as if I’m building a mountain. It feels that way, too. I’m a little out of breath.
I stand back and look at my work. Excellent.
I step up on the rocks and now I can use one hand to shove up the window. I wiggle like a worm and throw myself over the sill and inside.
Hands on my hips, I take a few breaths and look around. I’m in a little hallway, and there’s a classroom on each side. Only two? I close my eyes. My school in the city has three floors of classrooms, all the way from kindergarten to eighth grade.
Look forward, Rachel.
One classroom must be for the little kids. Wiggly drawings of rabbits are tacked up on the wall: one has ears as long as the paper.
Across the way is the room I might be in. There’s a painting of a tree, and underneath are the words
a nest of robins in her hair
.
I say that aloud; the sound almost echoes.
I would have loved being in this room. I see something else, drawings of daffodils … not bad, better than I could do. I stand in front of the room, taking the pointer from the ledge. “Today we are going to learn about my city,” I tell a nonexistent class. “There’s a ferry that goes back and forth across the river, and a bridge. Dozens of stores are open along the streets.”
Wait a minute.
Bunnies down the hall, spring flowers here. I lean against the wall, tapping my lip. The desks have a film of dust over them. The windows are filthy.
The pictures aren’t from this spring, but maybe last spring. What happened to fall leaves and Thanksgiving? What happened to drawings of sleds and snowflakes?
Has the school been closed for a year? I gulp down my disappointment. If it’s been closed this long, who knows when it will open again?
Halfway down the hall, I peer into what must be the principal’s office. The window is shattered; shards of glass lay on the sill, and a vase is on the floor with faded flowers and leaves scattered around.
I remember Miss Mitzi spilling the irises the afternoon I told her we were leaving. And then another memory of those happy days: all of us shopping and Pop buying Miss Mitzi a flower, which she pinned on her collar. Imagine. Buying a flower for someone who has a flower shop. But Miss Mitzi loved it. I could tell by the color of her cheeks.
Now I step inside and around a chair that’s beenturned over to look at the desk; it has nothing on it, not even a blotter.
But behind the desk are books on a shelf:
The Wizard of Oz, A Girl of the Limberlost
. I bend down and run my fingers over a book called
Understood Betsy
. There must be a dozen books here, not being read, just alone on those shelves, waiting.…
Waiting?
Suppose I borrowed one.
Could I do that?
It wouldn’t be stealing if I brought it back. Wouldn’t it be just borrowing?
Outside, a cloud covers the sun; the light in the room is gray now. I shiver. I hear a noise.
Is someone walking down the hall? I stand there, frozen, but maybe it’s just the wind. I peer into the hallway. No one. But still, I heard something.
I take two books off the
I walk across the grass, which is mostly mud, and peer in the window, but all I see is a vestibule with a bunch of hooks.
Sad little hooks with no coats, no hats.
I wander around the back. Just over my head the windowis open the tiniest bit. I stand there, chewing on the edge of my nail. Should I?
And even as I ask myself, I know I’m going to do it. I look around for something to boost myself up. And like magic, I see the milk crate against the wall.
Standing on the wooden crate isn’t enough. I have to reach way up to grab the sill, and there’s no way to push open the window.
I retreat to figure out how to get in. I see that I’ve left a muddy smear on the wall.
A row of rocks marches along at the edge of the trees. I spend ten minutes bringing the larger ones back to the milk crate. It looks as if I’m building a mountain. It feels that way, too. I’m a little out of breath.
I stand back and look at my work. Excellent.
I step up on the rocks and now I can use one hand to shove up the window. I wiggle like a worm and throw myself over the sill and inside.
Hands on my hips, I take a few breaths and look around. I’m in a little hallway, and there’s a classroom on each side. Only two? I close my eyes. My school in the city has three floors of classrooms, all the way from kindergarten to eighth grade.
Look forward, Rachel.
One classroom must be for the little kids. Wiggly drawings of rabbits are tacked up on the wall: one has ears as long as the paper.
Across the way is the room I might be in. There’s a painting of a tree, and underneath are the words
a nest of robins in her hair
.
I say that aloud; the sound almost echoes.
I would have loved being in this room. I see something else, drawings of daffodils … not bad, better than I could do. I stand in front of the room, taking the pointer from the ledge. “Today we are going to learn about my city,” I tell a nonexistent class. “There’s a ferry that goes back and forth across the river, and a bridge. Dozens of stores are open along the streets.”
Wait a minute.
Bunnies down the hall, spring flowers here. I lean against the wall, tapping my lip. The desks have a film of dust over them. The windows are filthy.
The pictures aren’t from this spring, but maybe last spring. What happened to fall leaves and Thanksgiving? What happened to drawings of sleds and snowflakes?
Has the school been closed for a year? I gulp down my disappointment. If it’s been closed this long, who knows when it will open again?
Halfway down the hall, I peer into what must be the principal’s office. The window is shattered; shards of glass lay on the sill, and a vase is on the floor with faded flowers and leaves scattered around.
I remember Miss Mitzi spilling the irises the afternoon I told her we were leaving. And then another memory of those happy days: all of us shopping and Pop buying Miss Mitzi a flower, which she pinned on her collar. Imagine. Buying a flower for someone who has a flower shop. But Miss Mitzi loved it. I could tell by the color of her cheeks.
Now I step inside and around a chair that’s beenturned over to look at the desk; it has nothing on it, not even a blotter.
But behind the desk are books on a shelf:
The Wizard of Oz, A Girl of the Limberlost
. I bend down and run my fingers over a book called
Understood Betsy
. There must be a dozen books here, not being read, just alone on those shelves, waiting.…
Waiting?
Suppose I borrowed one.
Could I do that?
It wouldn’t be stealing if I brought it back. Wouldn’t it be just borrowing?
Outside, a cloud covers the sun; the light in the room is gray now. I shiver. I hear a noise.
Is someone walking down the hall? I stand there, frozen, but maybe it’s just the wind. I peer into the hallway. No one. But still, I heard something.
I take two books off the
Similar Books
