Ghost Girl Read Online Free

the sugar off my lemon drops till they turned sour, and dreamed about going to school, trying to imagine myself walking straight through those big double doors with their shiny coat of new paint.



Four

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    When opening day finally came, I was up at dawn, racing through the feeding and milking like I had hot coals in my boots. Aunt Birdy had loaned me Grandpap Lockley’s old pocket watch so I could get to school on time, and Mama had even let the hem out of my Sunday dress. It was blue with a lace collar and little rose-shaped buttons down the front, and even though the sleeves were too short to cover the bony knobs on my wrists, I still felt almost stylish heading off for the first day of school.
    â€œPreacher Jessup says school starts at nine o’clock sharp,” Aunt Birdy had told me.
    As I hiked along the frozen trail, I huddled in my sweater and kept my fists shoved down in the stretched pockets, pulling my hands out only long enough to flip open the case of Grandpap’s watch and check the time on the yellowed dial. I wanted to be there a half-hour early. Maybe I could even get settled in my new desk before the other kids showed up, before Dewey came in whistling and calling me names.
    I took a deep breath and scrambled up the last ridge, feeling my heart bumping against my ribs. Then I saw the schoolyard, and my heart bumped even harder.
    There were people everywhere, mostly men in dark overcoats, with hats pulled down over their eyes. They were clumped around the schoolhouse steps, talking loud and laughing, their breath making puffs of smoke in the shivery air.
    It was strange to see automobiles parked on the bare mountainside, turned every which way. More cars were pulling in, and I saw two marines in green uniforms splattered with mud trying to push another car out of the ditch. They yelled back and forth to each other, straining to be heard over the gunning engine.
    I was standing near the edge of the clearing deciding what to do next when I noticed a woman with her children coming up the trail from Big Meadows. It was Mrs. Woodard and her three wild red-haired boys all dressed in their Sunday best. Mrs. Woodard was carrying her new baby girl wrapped in an old sheepskin saddle blanket.
    All of a sudden, a few men in the crowd by the schoolhouse caught sight of the Woodards. The next thing I knew, the men were swooping down on them like hawks on a nest of baby field mice.
Who were they?
They were pushing too close and shouting questions. I could see Mrs. Woodard grab her baby tighter to her chest and the three boys edging back toward their ma, even though they weren’t the type to turn scared.
    Aunt Birdy would know what to do. I turned to head down the hill toward her place. But it was too late. One of the men looking out over the chestnuts and the foggy valley had already spotted me. He whistled to his partner, and before I could tell my legs to get moving, there they were, standing two steps away, wearing a pair of sugar-sweet smiles.
    â€œHi, there,” said the first fellow. He had a round face, little round eyeglasses, and hair that was combed back flat and shiny against his head. I had never seen a man look so fancy. “Mind if we ask you a few questions?” he said.
    I didn’t answer. The two of them glanced at each other real quick. Then the taller one, with a cigarette dangling from his lip, spoke up. “You can get your picture in the
Evening Star
, sweetheart.” He patted the black case hanging round his neck. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? What’s your name, honey?”
    â€œApril,” I told him. “April Sloane.”
    The swanky one pulled a little pad of writing paper from inside his coat and scribbled something down. “How old are you, April? About nine?” I could hear his pen scratching and smell his spicy hair tonic drifting over. “This your first time going to school?”
    â€œEleven” was all I