Promises to Keep - Ann Tatlock [29]
I waited for a break in traffic before crossing over to Marie’s Apparel.
Mom was in the Accessories Department, ringing up a sale. When she saw me, she smiled and held up one finger to indicate she’d be with me in a minute. When the customer finally waddled off, carrying a package under each arm, I dug the aspirin out of my pocket and handed it to Mom.
“Thanks, Roz,” she said. “I appreciate your coming down here.”
“If you have a headache, Mom, maybe you should just go home and rest,” I suggested.
She pulled a bottle of Coca-Cola from under the counter and took a swig of it to swallow the aspirin. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s not that bad. The aspirin should help. How’s everything at home?”
“Fine, I guess.”
“You get your homework done?”
I nodded. “It’s done. I didn’t have much.”
“Good. Well, run on back now. I’ll be home around five-thirty.”
“Mom?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Can I have some money for an ice cream cone?”
She thought a moment, then smiled. “All right. Consider it a reward for bringing me the aspirin.” She dug a quarter out of her change purse and handed it to me.
“Thanks, Mom!”
I ran out of Marie’s Apparel and into the drugstore next door, where they had a soda counter. I lingered happily over the selection of ice cream, trying to decide on a flavor.
“Make up your mind yet, little miss?” The man behind the counter, wearing a white apron and a white paper serving cap, smiled down at me. He waved a metal scoop over the barrels of ice cream displayed in the open freezer. “Plenty to choose from, but they’re all good.”
“I’ll have a scoop of strawberry, please.”
“In a cake cone?”
“Yeah.”
“Good choice.” He dug a ball of ice cream out of the barrel and plopped it on top of a cone. “Here you go, little miss.”
I paid him, thanked him, and went outside to sit on the bench in front of the store. It was empty when I went in, but someone had sat down while I was inside making up my mind. The bench had plenty of room for two, though, so I sat down, squeezing myself close to the armrest.
As I carved lines in the ice cream with my tongue, I studied my neighbor out of the corner of my eye. She was a girl about my own age, with creamy brown skin and black hair pulled back tightly into two stiff braids. She wore a white blouse, a red pleated skirt, and black patent leather shoes, the toes of which shone brightly, reflecting the noonday sun. Clutched in one hand was the stub of a number 2 pencil; she was using it to scribble furiously in a spiral-bound notebook. I listened to the scratching sound of lead against paper and wondered at the words being poured out in small neat rows across the page.
Finally she paused, lifted the pencil to her mouth, and captured the eraser in the snare of her teeth. She looked across the street, squinting in concentration. I couldn’t help staring, even though Mom said it was impolite to stare. I’d been pulled in her direction by the strength of her desire to capture something and put it into words. She must have felt my gaze, because she released the pencil from her clenched jaw and turned to look at me. Her eyes were deep dark pools, at once serene and glowing with life. In the few seconds we sat staring at each other, she seemed to be gathering her thoughts from distant places and bringing her mind back to the bench in front of the drugstore on Grand Avenue.
I was trying to come up with an apology for staring, but before I could say anything at all, she whispered, “I know you.”
I was hardly aware of the streams of melted ice cream dripping over the lip of the cone and down the rutted bank of my fingers. I had forgotten to grab a napkin from the canister on the counter inside.
“You’re in Miss Fremont’s class, right?” she asked.
I nodded. “Whose class are you in?”
“Mrs. Oberlin’s.”
“That’s right. Now I remember. I’ve seen you at school.”
“Yeah. You’re new here.”
“We moved here this summer. From Minnesota.”
She lifted her chin in understanding. “What’s your name?”
“Rosalind. But everyone calls me Roz.”
“Roz what?”
“What do you mean, Roz what?”
“What’s your last name?