Bridge to Terabithia - Katherine Paterson [21]
Leslie began to laugh. It egged Jess on. Everything the dog did, he imitated, flopping down at last with his tongue lolling out. Leslie was laughing so hard she had trouble getting the words out. “You—you’re crazy. How will we teach him to be a noble guardian? You’re turning him into a clown.”
“R-r-r-oof,” wailed Prince Terrien, rolling his eyes skyward. Jess and Leslie both collapsed. They were in pain from the laughter.
“Maybe,” said Leslie at last. “We’d better make him court jester.”
“What about his name?”
“Oh, we’ll let him keep his name. Even a prince”—this in her most Terabithian voice—“even a prince may be a fool.”
That night the glow of the afternoon stayed with him. Even his sisters’ squabbling about when presents were to be opened did not touch him. He helped May Belle wrap her wretched little gifts and even sang “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” with her and Joyce Ann. Then Joyce Ann cried because they had no fireplace and Santa wouldn’t be able to find the way, and suddenly he felt sorry for her going to Millsburg Plaza and seeing all those things and hoping that some guy in a red suit would give her all her dreams. May Belle at six was already too wise. She was just hoping for that stupid Barbie. He was glad he’d splurged on it. Joyce Ann wouldn’t care that he only had a hair clip for her. She would blame Santa, not him, for being cheap.
He put his arm awkwardly around Joyce Ann. “C’mon Joyce Ann. Don’t cry. Old Santa knows the way. He don’t need a chimney, does he, May Belle?” May Belle was watching him with her big, solemn eyes. Jess gave her a knowing wink over Joyce Ann’s head. It melted her.
“Naw, Joyce Ann. He knows the way. He knows everything.” She squenched up her right cheek in a vain effort to return his wink. She was a good kid. He really liked old May Belle.
The next morning he helped her dress and undress her Barbie at least thirty times. Slithering the skinny dress over the doll’s head and arms and snapping the tiny fasteners was more than her chubby six-year-old fingers could manage.
He had received a racing-car set, which he tried to run to please his father. It wasn’t one of these big sets that they advertised on TV, but it was electric, and he knew his dad had put more money into it than he should have. But the silly cars kept falling off at the curves until his father was cursing at them with impatience. Jess wanted it to be OK. He wanted so much for his dad to be proud of his present, the way he, Jess, had been proud of the puppy.
“It’s really great. Really. I just ain’t got the hang of it yet.” His face was red, and he kept shoving his hair back out of his eyes as he leaned over the plastic figure-eight track.
“Cheap junk.” His father kicked at the floor dangerously near the track. “Don’t get nothing for your money these days.”
Joyce Ann was lying on her bed screaming because she had yanked the string out of her talking doll and it was no longer talking. Brenda had her lip stuck out because Ellie had gotten a pair of panty hose in her Christmas stocking and she had only bobby socks. Ellie wasn’t helping matters, prancing around in her new hose, making a big show of helping Momma with the ham and sweet potatoes for dinner. Lord, sometimes Ellie was as snotty as Wanda Kay Moore.
“Jesse Oliver Aarons, Jr., if you can stop playing with those fool cars long enough to milk the cow, I’d be most appreciative. Miss Bessie don’t take no holiday, even if you do.”
Jess jumped up, pleased for an excuse to leave the track which he couldn’t make work to his dad’s satisfaction. His mother seemed not to notice the promptness of his response but went on in a complaining voice, “I don’t know what I’d do without Ellie. She’s the only one of you kids ever cares whether I live or die.” Ellie smiled like a