Journey
Page 6
“So,” said Lalo. Lalo began most sentences with so Ms. Minifred, the school librarian, was trying to break him of the habit.
“Get to it, Lalo,” Ms. Minifred said. “You will miss your own marriage when the minister asks you if you take this woman and you begin with so. You will miss the end of your life, too, when you try to leave behind some wondrous words.”
Ms. Minifred liked wondrous words. She loved the beginnings of books, and the ends. She loved clauses and adverbial phrases and the descriptions of sunsets and death. Lalo called her “It Was the Worst of Times Minifred.”
“You are a full-time job, Lalo,” Ms. Minifred told Lalo once after he had asked her twelve questions in a row.
“Thank you, Ms. Minifred,” said Lalo, missing the point.
I wondered what she would do when Lalo went off-island to high school. Maybe she would wither away among all the books with all the words in them until no one could ever find her again unless they opened a book. Or, she might ferment in the library like Mama’s back-porch cider that finally exploded.
“So,” repeated Lalo, “tomorrow you will buy a plaid dress and the year will begin.”
I smiled.
My mother believed in plaid. Plaid meant beginnings. Each year I began school with a plaid dress, then slowly that beginning became the past as I wore jeans and shirts, then shorts when it was hot. In my closet hung five plaid dresses, one for each year, like memorials.
“So,” I imitated Lalo, getting up from the rock and grabbing a clump of chickory, “tomorrow, yes, I will buy a plaid dress and your mother will buy you a new lunch box.”
“And it will be another year like all the other years,” said Lalo happily.
His smile made me smile, but I knew he was wrong. All the years were changed because of what I was missing and no one would talk about. And all the years would be changed even more than Lalo and I knew, for when we walked through the meadow of chickory and meadowsweet, when we climbed up and over the rise to my house, the basket was already in the driveway, a baby sitting in it, crying. My mother stood with her hands up to her face, shocked. My fathers face was dark and still and bewildered. Only Byrd looked happily satisfied, as if something wonderful, something wished for, had happened.
And it had.
Her excitement was here.
Published by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books a division of Random House, Inc., New York
Text copyright © 1991 by Patricia MacLachlan Illustrations copyright © 1991 by Barry Moser
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address Delacorte Press.
Visit us on the Web! www.randomhouse.com/kids
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers
eISBN: 978-0-307-56779-6
September 1993
v3.0