Read Online What Happened on Fox Street by Tricia Springstubb - Free Book Online Page A

too terrible to think that she’d heard those sirens and never guessed. Heard them and ignored them, blissful and ignorant as a baby. That afternoon, someone drew a cruel line down the center of the world and left Mo on the wrong side.
    Now she gripped the arms of her chair.
    â€œDottie’s the one who loves pizzelles,” she managed to say.
    â€œDottie looks more like your mother every day. That head of hair, wild and red as a little fox!”
    Mo couldn’t remember how she and Dottie had wound up at Mrs. Petrone’s that afternoon—had their father brought them here, after the hospital called? Had Mrs. Petrone come and fetched them, squashing Dottie to her big, cushiony chest? Sometimes Mo thought that, if only he’d brought them to Da’s instead, things would have turned out differently. Da would have warded It off, she’d never have allowed It to cross her threshold.
    But Da’s husband had died. Her daughter had gone away and not come back. Four of her toes had wound up in the hospital incinerator. Maybe even Da couldn’t have protected them.
    â€œYou bring that little sister over, and between the two of us we’ll hold her down and give her a nice cut.”
    Dottie hadn’t understood. She’d watched cartoons till her eyes fell out and eaten one pizzelle after another, scattering sugary golden crumbs everywhere. Mo had sat frozen on Mrs. Petrone’s scratchy living-room couch, the pockets of her shorts heavy with stones.
    Because Mo and her mother were going to paint those stones Mo had collected, turn them into bugs and flowers and tiny people. They were going to do it in the backyard, beneath the plum tree. Afterward they were going to sit at the wooden table in the kitchen, the one printed with the secret language of all their dinners together, and eat the ice cream her mother had gone to buy.
    That day Mo had sat perfectly still on the Petrone couch, eyes on the door, certain Mr. Wren would burst in any minute to fetch them home. Maybe their mother would have a big Band-Aid on her head. Or her arm in a sling. That’s what I get for my daydreaming! She’d laugh and they’d hug, but carefully, in case she was still sore.
    Mo had sat on the couch and waited. Her foot fell asleep. Her nose itched, her empty belly ached, Dottie tipped over sideways, sound asleep and drooling on her shoulder. But Mo forced herself to stay still. Still as a stone herself. Because if she froze her own self, she could make the rest of the world stand still, too. If things couldn’t go forward, nothing bad could happen.
    When at last her father had come, Mo jumped up from the couch, but she’d forgotten about her rock-heavy pockets and lost her balance, tipping overbackward. It was exactly like some invisible bully, big and stupid as a furniture truck, had plowed into her.
    She should have held still. Still as a stone!
    Now Mrs. Petrone was pouring Mo a glass of milk.
    â€œYou’re too pale. You need to eat! My mother always made her pizzelles with anise. You know anise, it’s like licorice? I never could stomach it. Chin up, please. I remember…”
    Their father had put his arms around her and Dottie and lifted them, one in each arm, as if they were made of feathers. How strong he was! Even then, never more than then. Back home he took them both into the big bed, where they slept burrowed against him.
    â€œâ€¦though that I’d just as soon forget!” Mrs. Petrone tossed her head and gave her hearty laugh. What had she just said? Mo had lost track. “But what can you do? Some memories you cherish and some break your heart. We don’t get to choose. Our memories choose us.”
    With that she whisked the beauty cape from Mo’s shoulders and handed her the mirror.
    â€œLook what a beauty you are!” she exulted. “Your father’s eyes, dark as midnight! Ah, I remember how your mother wept when I gave you your first