Lexie wanted to say, Girls in your day didn’t get to have much fun, did they? But Grandma would only call her mouthy. So she kept the thought to herself.
It wasn’t fair for old-fashioned ideas to spoil things. “The ship is carrying more than dolls, Grandma. It’s carrying friendship. And hope. Miss Tompkins says the dolls might keep a war from starting! That’s important!”
“What’s important to an eleven-year-old girl is to grow up safely with a good reputation,” Grandma said. “Because Grandpa and I love you, our job is to see that that happens.”
Arguments rushed into Lexie’s head. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Arguing would just set Grandma’s mind harder.
The thought of walking all the way to San Francisco was no good. Another look at the map in the classroom had told her that. Even if she could walk all the way, a lot of it over mountains, she wouldn’t get there in time.
But she could be as stubborn as Grandma. The cost won’t be as high as Grandma thinks, she promised herself. I won’t need tickets both ways. Once I get to San Francisco, I’m not coming back.
She wondered why she felt a quiver at that. It wouldn’t be the first time she had left friends and gone to a new school. But this time, she would be leaving Grandma and Grandpa. And that made tears well up, so she swallowed hard and reached for the dress pattern, hoping Grandma wouldn’t see them.
“You’ve shown admirable resilience, Electra,” Grandma said, sounding warmer. “A lot of folks, even grown folks, would lose heart at the first setback. You’ve mustered strength and kept on. You can be proud of that.” She cleared her throat. “I don’t mind saying you’ve made me proud.”
The praise surprised Lexie and meant a lot, because Grandma didn’t offer praise lightly. She believed that too much praise spoiled a child. Lexie had heard her say that to Grandpa.
I’m not giving up, she promised herself. I’ll ask again later. As some of the weight left her shoulders, she said, “I’ll ask Mam’selle about changing the pattern to be like the dress she showed me.”
She heard her mistake almost before the words left her lips. Grandma’s brows shot up. She looked as insulted as if Lexie had suggested asking a neighbor for ways to flavor her soup.
“You sketch out that dress you like,” Grandma said. “Between us, we’ll make do.”
Grandma was starting to understand how important this was. Lexie smiled her thanks. When she heard Lexie had written the best letter, wouldn’t even Grandma see that she deserved to sail down to San Francisco with Emily Grace and the other dolls?
A few days later, Lexie cornered Jack while he was stacking firewood behind the house. “Are you still mad?”
He dropped a log on the stack. “I suppose we’re even.”
“I’m glad. Because I need to read my letter for the doll to you. You have good ideas. I like the one about putting in a Japanese poem.”
He looked pleased. Telling him he had a good idea must have made him happy. She rushed on before he could change his mind. “I wrote a new one, one that doesn’t make me sad. Do you want to hear it?”
He shrugged. “Go ahead.”
She brought her haiku to mind:
“My doll travels far,
Her arms open wide for hugs.
Will blossoms greet her?”
“Sounds good.” Jack turned back to the firewood. “You’re turning into a regular Japanese poet.”
Lexie pushed his shoulder in a way that meant she liked hearing that but didn’t believe it. New hope for winning the contest sizzled through her.
For the rest of that week, Lexie spent every spare minute on the dress and the letter. Every time she reread her words, she changed one or two, then the next time changed them back. Finally, on Sunday evening, she decided the letter was ready. It had to be. And the dress was finished, too.
When she gave the new dress to Miss Tompkins Monday morning, the teacher held it up for everyone to see. “You’ve done a fine job, Electra. This dress can certainly travel to Japan with Emily Grace.”
“You didn’t make that,” Louise said from two rows over. “Your grandma did.”
The glow from the teacher’s words vanished like a popped bubble. Lexie felt everyone turning to look at her. Louise had used her superior voice, the one that said, Stay in the shade. The sunlight belongs to me.
“Grandma told me how,” Lexie shot back. “I sewed every single stitch myself!”
Louise’s mouth curved in a half smile that said as clearly as words that Lexie must be lying.
“She made it,” Jack said, surprising her. “I saw her working on it myself. And she did a good job.”
“Oh, Ja-ack,” Ollie taunted.
Jack looked down, color splotching his cheeks. Lexie smiled her thanks, but he wouldn’t look at her. She wondered when he’d seen her working on the dress. Had he come by to end their argument and decided not to interrupt when he saw her sewing with Grandma?
Miss Tompkins called attention to a sentence diagram on the blackboard. Lexie had trouble thinking about adjectives and nouns. Despite Jack’s defense, she kept hearing Louise’s accusation and seeing others glance toward her with doubt in their eyes.
Feeling that Jack was the only one who believed in her, whether he wanted to talk to her or not, Lexie started toward him at noon recess. One of Louise’s friends stopped her. “You’re a liar. Louise said you didn’t make that dress.”
“I did too!”
“She made it,” Jack said, coming over. “Go chase spiders, Alma.”
“Where is Louise?” Lexie asked as Alma kicked dirt toward Jack. “I want to talk to her.”
Alma tossed her head, ignoring Jack as he kicked the dirt in her direction. “I think she went around back to look for woodpeckers.”
“Better not tell her ma,” Jack said. “Mrs. Wilkins says the only birds a lady cares about are the ones she wears on her hats.”
As Alma flounced away, Lexie called, “Tell Louise I’m looking for her.”
“Forget her,” Jack said. “Nobody listens to Louise. Nobody who counts.”
“Thanks.”
He shrugged and walked away, then turned. “This is the big day, remember? They’re going to collect the letters. That’s all that matters.”
Trouble with Louise vanished in a rush. Jack was still her friend, and the day she’d been waiting for was here at last.
Moments later, the class bell rang. As Lexie followed the others inside, all she could think of was the letter. The classroom faded while her mind filled with images of Mama and San Francisco and a big ship at the dock and of herself standing on the pier with Mama, singing good-bye to the dolls.
The others settling into their seats might have been in a separate classroom. For Lexie, the whispers and scrapes of chairs faded. She could think only of the letter. Who would judge? How soon? Would each of them read their letters aloud or just turn them in to be judged?
The letter in her desk was as perfect as she could make it. Or was it? Should she take it out and read it again to be sure?
No, there was no time left. And the letter said exactly what it should, exactly what she wanted. She would leave it in the desk until it was time to hand it in so she wouldn’t be tempted to mess it up with erasures that she would only change and change again.
Instead, she stared at the map with the gold stars over three cities and waited.
The minutes passed slowly, but at last, the classroom door opened. Mr. Wilkins came in with a cardboard box. He meant to collect them, then.
For an awful moment, Lexie panicked. What if Louise’s father threw out the letters and kept just the one written by his daughter? She squeezed her hands together to keep them from shaking. Mr. Wilkins put a lot of store by honor. That’s what Grandpa said. Her letter would be given a fair chance, along with all the others.
Miss Tompkins welcomed their visitor. Turning to the class, she introduced him, as if everyone in the class didn’t already know that Louise’s
father was the head of the school board.
Mr. Wilkins was tall and wore a dress suit as crisp as their principal’s. He looked over the class, not taking any special notice of Louise. Louise didn’t try to draw his attention. She sat model-student straight, with her hands on her desk and her expression serious. Maybe life wasn’t as easy for her as Lexie had thought from looking at her expensive clothes and beauty shop haircuts.
“I understand the boys were not interested in this project.” Mr. Wilkins swept a severe glance over the boys. Even Ollie showed good sense for once and remained silent. “Therefore, it gives me pleasure to announce a prize the school board will award to the girl who has written the best letter.” Mr. Wilkins sounded as serious as Louise looked. Lexie could scarcely draw a breath. Were the rumors true? Would the winner go to San Francisco?
“You have all contributed your efforts and your pennies to purchase and clothe this doll.” He placed one hand on Emily Grace’s head. “You know this doll will join thousands of others on a journey to the country of Japan. Many are already aboard trains traveling across America toward the port of San Francisco. Who can tell me why?”
He pointed to a girl in the first row. She answered promptly. “They’re for children who live in all parts of Japan.”
“Yes.” He motioned to Alma. “But why are we sending dolls to those children? Can you tell us?”
“For peace,” Alma said. “We hope the dolls will carry our message of friendship.”
Lexie knew all that. Everyone did. They had talked about it for weeks and weeks. Why didn’t Mr. Wilkins get to the contest and the mystery prize?
“Dolls from our neighbors will join this doll of yours here in Portland,” Mr. Wilkins said. “A small celebration will be held on the dock beside the Willamette River. We will all wish them a safe journey to San Francisco. With dolls from all over America, they will board a ship and travel across the Pacific Ocean to Japan.”
Lexie shifted in her seat. Others were becoming restless, too. Miss Tompkins’s expression warned them to be patient.
Mr. Wilkins placed his box on the teacher’s desk. “We are planning a farewell ceremony near the wharf here. No doubt it will pale before the grand celebration to be held in San Francisco.”
He looked around the room again. “If only I could be there. Isn’t that what each of you is thinking?” A faint smile made his thin mustache rise. “But perhaps you have heard an exciting rumor. I am pleased to confirm that rumor. One of you will take part in the dolls’ farewell from that California city.”
Mr. Wilkins went on to say that the winner would be named during the send-off party for the dolls planned for the Portland wharf in January. Lexie’s heart pounded so hard she could hear it. Jack could probably hear it from his desk across the aisle.
The girls who had written letters were called to the front of the room, one row at a time, to put their entries into Mr. Wilkins’s box.
Lexie’s turn was coming up. She reached into her desk for her letter, then frowned. Where was the sheet of paper that should have been on top of her books? She slid her hand over, then under the books. Nothing.
She slipped from her desk and knelt on the floor to peer into the opening. Books. Her pencil. An eraser.
“What are you doing?” Jack asked in a whisper.
“My letter. It’s not here.”
“Look again.”
She yanked the books onto the seat.
“Electra,” Miss Tompkins warned, “bring your letter to Mr. Wilkins or sit down.”
“I can’t find my letter! It isn’t here!”
Lexie opened one book after another, shaking them. Nothing fell out. “It’s gone! My letter! It’s gone!”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Miss Tompkins said, sounding as if she really was sorry. “You may have forgotten to bring it with you this morning.”
“No!” Lexie felt inside the desk as if her fingers could find the paper her eyes couldn’t see. Inside, she felt as if she had swallowed an ice-cream sundae all at once. “It was here! Now it’s gone!”
“You probably dropped it on your way to school.” Disapproval made Mr. Wilkins’s voice hard. She didn’t care what he thought. Where was her letter? It had to be here.
She was sure she had put it in her desk before class. She took it out and put it back every day. She took it home with her every night to work on it over and over. What if Miss Tompkins was right? What if the letter was still in her bedroom?
The sick feeling spread up her throat as girls from across the room finished placing their entries in the box. Mr. Wilkins closed the lid.
“Wait!” Lexie grabbed her pencil. “I remember every word. I’ll write it again.”
Mr. Wilkins glanced at the clock on the back wall. “The contest is over, young lady.” He picked up the box. “Good luck to all of you.” He might as well have said all the rest of you! After a nod to Miss Tompkins, he strode to the door.
“But I can write it again. It will just take a minute!” In her mind, Lexie saw Mama on the dock, her brown hair bobbed short and shifting against her cheeks as she turned her head, looking for her daughter.
“Please wait,” she called after Mr. Wilkins. “Please!”
As Mr. Wilkins carried the box of letters into the hall and closed the door behind him, Lexie lurched to her feet. She clamped one hand over her mouth. “Miss Tompkins, I think I’m going to throw up!” She turned and ran for the door.
Behind her, she heard Miss Tompkins say in a worried voice, “Jack, go after her. If she feels up to walking home, please see that she reaches her grandparents safely.”
Once in the hallway, Lexie gulped for air. Her stomach began to settle. She braced one hand on the wall.
Mr. Wilkins stood in the doorway of the principal’s office at the front of the school. Lexie watched him, sickness forgotten. He still had the box of letters.
Where would he take them? Would he leave them in the office until it was time for the judges to read them? Could she write her letter again and slip it into the box when no one was looking?
Jack came up beside her. “You look like puke.”
Maybe Jack would help her get a new entry into the box. She turned to ask him, but down the hall, Mr. Wilkins called good day to the office staff. She spun around as he walked out the front door, still carrying the box.
“Oh, no!” She ran to the door. When she pushed it open, she saw Mr. Wilkins place the box on the backseat of his Packard, then climb behind the wheel.
She ran down the stairs, but she was far too late. Mr. Wilkins drove away. His automobile backfired. She felt the blast all through her body. Her feet kept running, carrying the rest of her with them. When she reached the gatepost outside her grandparents’ house, she stopped and gasped for breath.
“You want me to get your grandma?” Jack asked, coming up beside her.
“No. Go back to school. I’ll be all right.” She leaned her cheek against the flat top of the gatepost. Jack hesitated, but after a moment, she heard him turn and walk away. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks and onto the gatepost.
Much later, she heard the front door. Grandma hurried to her. “Good heavens, child. What has happened to you?”
She felt Grandma’s arm around her, warm and caring, as she led her into the house.
It was a long time before she could tell Grandma about the missing letter. She sat at the kitchen table with a glass of milk Grandma had warmed on the stove. “I don’t care who wins! It doesn’t matter now. And I won’t go to that good-bye party.”
“Of course you will go.” Grandma sat across from her. Her eyes were kind, but her mouth took on the stubborn look Lexie knew all too well. “You are a Lewis, with steel in your spine. You will go to that party, and you will congratulate the girl who wins.”
“I can’t.” But even as she said the words, she felt strength coming back, and with it a mind-set as hard as Grandma’s. If she stayed away, everyone would know why. She didn’t want them
laughing or, worse, pitying her. Grandma was right. “I’ll go.”
“Of course you will.” Grandma patted her shoulder before getting to her feet. “Wash your hands and face, then come help me fix dinner. The best medicine for disappointment is hard work.”
Lexie didn’t know if that was true, but she felt a little better until she ran upstairs and searched all through her room for the letter that wasn’t there.
On the day of the good-bye party for the dolls, Grandpa had to work. Jack’s mother couldn’t leave the boardinghouse, so Jack, Lexie, and Grandma climbed aboard a crowded trolley to ride through a light rain to the Portland wharf.
Jack held on to an overhead strap near Lexie and looked at her as if afraid she might break down. “You okay?”
“Of course.” She made herself smile. “This is going to be the bee’s knees. I can’t wait to congratulate the winner!”
Even though she had used one of Mama’s flapper expressions, she felt Grandma’s approval. A glance at Jack said he didn’t believe her, flapper expression or not.
The Oregon Journal had published a story about the dolls and the farewell celebration. The public was invited, so the school had arranged to use a large warehouse along the dock.
Folding chairs filled the room. Already parents and children were finding seats. Occasional shafts of sunlight broke through the high windows, glimmering over clothing and striping the wood floor. A Christmas tree stood below the stage at one end, but the rest of the room decorations were meant to make the audience think of Japan.
Several dolls sent from other towns and nearby states stood in their upright boxes along a table at the head of the room. Each one had a small suitcase at her feet. The dolls’ tickets and passports lay nearby. They would all leave from here for San Francisco.
The children and their families and friends filed by the tables for a closer look at the dolls. Grandma opened the passport beside Emily Grace. Inside, it gave her name and said she was a good citizen, promising, “She will obey all the laws and customs of your country.”
Grandma marveled. “It’s as though she were going traveling.”
Ship of Dolls Page 8
