Read Online To Come and Go Like Magic by Katie Pickard Fawcett - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Katie Pickard Fawcett
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and smile, nod, thinking this is just another marching tune.
The loser float comes at the tail end of the parade. All fake flowers and no thrones. The girls sit around the edges dangling their legs over the sides like they’re on a fancy hayride. All the losers wave and smile except Priscilla. She just sits there, her pink dress lost in the rainbow around her.
People know when the show’s over and start to fill the street behind the last float. I see Willie Bright come pushing his way through the crowd and head toward us, and Momma offers him a ride home.
“I thought Priscilla’s dress was prettier than Melody’s,” he says.
“They’re the exact same,” I say. “Identical.”
“But two dresses the same look different on different people,” he says.
Sometimes I think Willie Bright’s too smart for his own good.
C onfessing …
“Chileda!” Pop’s voice is a round, cold stone thrown hard to hit its mark.
Twelve steps down the stairs, then the landing and four more. Maybe ten steps to the living room. I wish it were a million.
Pop’s stretched out in the La-Z-Boy with his after-supper mug of Sanka, waiting for Walter Cronkite. The minute I look at him I know what’s coming.
“Who broke the light shade?” He’s pointing toward the ceiling but looking at me.
I can’t lie. If Pop catches me in a lie, the punishment will be double. I could say Lenny did it and that would be a fact, but not the whole truth. Pop would keep digging until he got to the whole truth.
“We were having a show,” I say. “Lenny and me.”
“A show?” Pop frowns, looks up. “Who broke the light shade?”
“It was thin glass,” I say. “It just fell apart.”
Pop pushes in the footrest and sits straight up in the chair, his face red and his eyes wild. “WHO … BROKE …”
“Lenny hit it with Uncle Lu’s walking stick.”
Pop’s face forms a puzzle. “Now, why would he do that?”
“He was dancing in—”
“LENNY!” Pop shouts so loud it hurts my ears.
That blue light shade cost fifty dollars at the antique fair. They don’t make light shades like that anymore. A naked bulb hanging from a chain like that looks stupid. He wants to know—did we break it today? Yesterday?
“Last month,” I say.
Pop chews on his lip like he’s going to bite a hunk out of it.
“Get your money,” he says, pointing to the stairs, where Lenny’s now standing with his hands in his pockets. “And don’t ever let me catch you dancing in this house again.”
We rush upstairs and empty our banks. I have five dollars and eighty-five cents and Lenny has eight dollars and forty cents. I was going to buy a paperback at the Rexall on Saturday. Lenny had enough for the movies and a milkshake. We had plans.
We pool the coins—pennies, nickels, quarters—anddump them in a brown paper bag. Not nearly enough to pay for the light shade.
When we get back downstairs, Pop’s gone. The car’s gone. Walter Cronkite’s talking to himself in the living room.
“Sorry you can’t dance anymore,” I say to Lenny. I set the paper bag of money on the La-Z-Boy.
“I can’t stop dancing,” he says.
“You have to.”
“We have to be more careful, that’s all.”
“You heard Pop.”
“Nobody will know.”
“You have to tell the truth,” I say.
“Only if you’re asked.”
Lenny seems sure about this. The facts are one thing, the truth is another, and the whole truth is something else. And it’s not entirely a lie to stay quiet if you’re not asked.
I’ve been in bed awhile when I hear the back door slam. The metal stepladder opens with a loud squeak.
I slip out my bedroom door, stand at the railing, and listen. Pop’s toolbox is open at the bottom of the stairs. He comes to the doorway and places the bare bulb and chain from the living-room ceiling onto the hallway rug and takes a plain white light shade from a cardboard box. The living room goes dark except for flashlight rays thatshift and stop and shift
The loser float comes at the tail end of the parade. All fake flowers and no thrones. The girls sit around the edges dangling their legs over the sides like they’re on a fancy hayride. All the losers wave and smile except Priscilla. She just sits there, her pink dress lost in the rainbow around her.
People know when the show’s over and start to fill the street behind the last float. I see Willie Bright come pushing his way through the crowd and head toward us, and Momma offers him a ride home.
“I thought Priscilla’s dress was prettier than Melody’s,” he says.
“They’re the exact same,” I say. “Identical.”
“But two dresses the same look different on different people,” he says.
Sometimes I think Willie Bright’s too smart for his own good.
C onfessing …
“Chileda!” Pop’s voice is a round, cold stone thrown hard to hit its mark.
Twelve steps down the stairs, then the landing and four more. Maybe ten steps to the living room. I wish it were a million.
Pop’s stretched out in the La-Z-Boy with his after-supper mug of Sanka, waiting for Walter Cronkite. The minute I look at him I know what’s coming.
“Who broke the light shade?” He’s pointing toward the ceiling but looking at me.
I can’t lie. If Pop catches me in a lie, the punishment will be double. I could say Lenny did it and that would be a fact, but not the whole truth. Pop would keep digging until he got to the whole truth.
“We were having a show,” I say. “Lenny and me.”
“A show?” Pop frowns, looks up. “Who broke the light shade?”
“It was thin glass,” I say. “It just fell apart.”
Pop pushes in the footrest and sits straight up in the chair, his face red and his eyes wild. “WHO … BROKE …”
“Lenny hit it with Uncle Lu’s walking stick.”
Pop’s face forms a puzzle. “Now, why would he do that?”
“He was dancing in—”
“LENNY!” Pop shouts so loud it hurts my ears.
That blue light shade cost fifty dollars at the antique fair. They don’t make light shades like that anymore. A naked bulb hanging from a chain like that looks stupid. He wants to know—did we break it today? Yesterday?
“Last month,” I say.
Pop chews on his lip like he’s going to bite a hunk out of it.
“Get your money,” he says, pointing to the stairs, where Lenny’s now standing with his hands in his pockets. “And don’t ever let me catch you dancing in this house again.”
We rush upstairs and empty our banks. I have five dollars and eighty-five cents and Lenny has eight dollars and forty cents. I was going to buy a paperback at the Rexall on Saturday. Lenny had enough for the movies and a milkshake. We had plans.
We pool the coins—pennies, nickels, quarters—anddump them in a brown paper bag. Not nearly enough to pay for the light shade.
When we get back downstairs, Pop’s gone. The car’s gone. Walter Cronkite’s talking to himself in the living room.
“Sorry you can’t dance anymore,” I say to Lenny. I set the paper bag of money on the La-Z-Boy.
“I can’t stop dancing,” he says.
“You have to.”
“We have to be more careful, that’s all.”
“You heard Pop.”
“Nobody will know.”
“You have to tell the truth,” I say.
“Only if you’re asked.”
Lenny seems sure about this. The facts are one thing, the truth is another, and the whole truth is something else. And it’s not entirely a lie to stay quiet if you’re not asked.
I’ve been in bed awhile when I hear the back door slam. The metal stepladder opens with a loud squeak.
I slip out my bedroom door, stand at the railing, and listen. Pop’s toolbox is open at the bottom of the stairs. He comes to the doorway and places the bare bulb and chain from the living-room ceiling onto the hallway rug and takes a plain white light shade from a cardboard box. The living room goes dark except for flashlight rays thatshift and stop and shift
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