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"If Niles didn't throw the spitball, Lillian, then who did?" Emily demanded, her hands on her hips. I gazed at Jimmie Turner, who had thrown it. He looked away quickly. I couldn't tattle on him so I just shook my head.
"All right," Miss Walker said. She glared at the class until everyone looked down at his desk. "That's enough." She looked at Niles. "Did you throw the spitball, Niles?"
"No ma'am," he said.
"You haven't been in trouble before, Niles, so I'm going to take your word this time, but if I see any spitballs on the floor at the end of the day, all the boys in this room will be staying a half hour after school. Is that clear?"
No one spoke. When the school day ended, we filed out quietly and Niles approached me.
"Thanks for standing up for me," he muttered. "I don't know how she can be your sister," he added angrily, glaring at Emily.
"I'm not her sister," Emily happily replied. "She's an orphan we took in years ago." She said it loud enough for all the children to hear. Everyone looked at me.
"No, I'm not," I cried.
"Of course she is. Her mother died in childbirth and we had to take her in," she said. Then she narrowed her eyes and stepped forward to add, "You're a guest in my house; you will always be just a guest. Whatever my parents give you, they give you as a handout. Just like to a beggar," she said, and turned triumphantly to the crowd that had gathered around us.
Afraid I would break out in tears, I ran off. I ran as far as I could. When I stopped, I did cry. I cried all the way home. Mamma was furious with Emily for what she had done and was waiting for her in the doorway when she appeared.
"You're the oldest, Emily. You're supposed to have the most sense," Mamma told her. "I'm very disappointed in you and the Captain's not going to be happy when he hears about this."
Emily glared hatefully at me and charged up the stairway to her room. When Papa came in, Mamma told him what Emily had done and he did give her a bawling out. She was very quiet at dinner and refused to look my way.
At school the next day, I saw many of the children whispering about me. Emily didn't say anything to anyone in front of me anymore, but I was sure she was whispering things to some of them all the time. I tried not to let this stop me from learning and enjoying school, but it was as if a black cloud appeared over my head each morning and traveled with me all the way to school.
But Emily wasn't satisfied by just making me feel uncomfortable and freakish in front of my classmates. I had infuriated her when I had contradicted her about Niles Thompson and the spitball and she was determined to punish me in little ways for as long as she could. I tried to stay away from her and lag behind or rush ahead when we walked to school, and I did my best to avoid her all day.
I complained to Eugenia about her, and my little sister listened sympathetically, but we both seemed to know that Emily would be Emily and there was no way to change her or get her to stop doing and saying hateful things. We tolerated her just the way we would tolerate bad weather. We waited for it to pass.
Only once did Emily succeed in bringing both Eugenia and me to tears at the same time. And for that I vowed I would never forgive her.
3
LESSONS LEARNED
Even though Cotton was unable to come into the house ever since that dreadful day when Eugenia had such a terrible allergic reaction, our cat seemed to have sensed the love and affection Eugenia had for her. Almost every afternoon, after the sun on its journ
ey west- had made its way over our big house, Cotton would come sauntering along and find herself a soft patch of grass beneath Eugenia's window to sprawl over and soak up the warmth. She would lie there purring contentedly and gaze up at Eugenia, who sat on her window seat and spoke to her through the glass. Eugenia was just as excited to tell me about Cotton as I was to tell her about school.
Sometimes, Cotton was still there when I arrived: a snow-like patch of white snuggle in a bed of emerald. I was always afraid she would grow gray and dirty and look like the other cats that lived outside and found their sanctuaries through holes in the stone foundations or in the dark corners of our toolshed and smokehouse. Her milk-white fur would show every spot of dirt and grime, but Cotton was one of those cats who couldn't tolerate a spot of dust on her. She would spend hours and hours licking and washing, caressing her paws and her stomach with her pink tongue, her eyes closed as she worked methodically in long strokes.
Cotton had grown quickly into a muscular, sleek cat with eyes that shimmered like diamonds. Henry favored her more than any of the animals on the plantation and frequently fed her a raw egg, which he said was the reason why her coat was always so rich and shiny.
"She's already the most feared hunter of the bunch," he told me. "Why, I seen her chase a mouse's shadow until she found the mouse."
When Eugenia and I sat in her window seat and talked for hours after school or I read to her, we would both stop to take note of Cotton's comings and goings, but it wasn't her hunting prowess that made her stand out for us. It was the way she would promenade over the grounds of the plantation, moving with an air of arrogance that seemed to say, "I know I'm the most beautiful cat here and you all better remember." Eugenia and I would laugh, and Cotton, who surely heard us, would pause and throw a gaze our way before ambling on to check one of her haunts.
Instead of a collar, we fastened one of Eugenia's pink hair ribbons around Cotton's neck. At first she tried to scratch it off, but in time, she grew used to it and kept it as clean as she kept her fur. It got so our conversations with Mamma and Papa, Louella and the other house servants, as well as with Emily, were always filled with Cotton stories.
After school one gray and stormy day, I came running up the driveway afraid that I wouldn't beat out the downpour that was hovering in the shoulders of the bruised and angry-looking clouds above. I even outran Emily, who walked with her eyes half closed, her mouth sewn so tightly shut it made her thin lips white in the corners. I knew that something I had done or something that had happened that day at school had annoyed and angered her. I thought it might have been the fuss Miss Walker had made over how well I had completed my writing lesson. Whatever was bothering her made her lean frame swell so that her shoulders were hoisted, making her look like a large crow. I wanted to avoid her and her sharp tongue that would spit words designed to cut into my heart.
The gravel flew out from beneath my feet as I dashed up the remaining one hundred or so yards to the front door. Still gasping, I charged into the house, eager to show Eugenia my first written sentences with the word "Excellent" scribbled in bright red ink at the top of the page. I had it clasped in my little fist, waving it in the air like the flag of the Confederacy snapping in the wind of battle against the Yankees depicted in some of our paintings. My feet slapped down on the corridor floor as I jogged my way to Eugenia's room and burst in excitedly.
But I took one look at her and my joy quickly subsided, the air rushing out of my lungs as quickly as the air escaped from a punctured balloon. Eugenia had obviously been crying; her face was still streaked with fresh tears rippling down her cheeks and dripping from her chin.
"What's wrong, Eugenia? Why are you crying?" I asked, grimacing in anticipation of her sad reply. "Does something hurt?"
"No." She ground away the tears with fists no bigger than the fists of some of my dolls. "It's Cotton," she said. "She's disappeared."
