Homesick Read Online Free Page A

just one kind of person. Ever since she’d written in my autograph book, I was afraid that goodness was what she really wanted out of me.
    â€œBe good, sweet child,” she had written, “and let who will be clever.”
    Deep in my heart I knew that goodness didn’t come natural to me. If I had to choose, I would rather be clever, but I didn’t understand why anyone had to choose. I wasn’t even sure that people could choose, although my mother was always saying that if they really tried, people could be whatever they wanted to be. But that was just more grown-up talk. As if wanting to be beautiful (like my mother) could make one bit of difference in my looks. As if trying to beat up Ian Forbes could do anything but land me in trouble. As for being good, I had to admit that I didn’t always want to be.
    Dear Grandma (I wrote in my next letter): I want to warn you so you won’t be disappointed. I’m not always good. Sometimes I don’t even try.
    It was true. I knew I wasn’t supposed to go to the Mud Flats alone, but twice I had managed to sneak off for a quick visit. The boat was gone, already at home on the river, I supposed, but my little friend was there. Each time he had run up to greet me and I had given him an orange. Each time he had called me “American friend” and had walked me back to the Bund.
    Of course I knew I was wrong to disobey my mother but that hadn’t stopped me. Still, I did feel guilty. If my name had been Marjorie, I thought, I would not have been the sort of person to feel guilty. And if it had not been the end of November, with Christmas already in the air, I might not have thought of the perfect way to solve my problem.
    â€œI know what you can give me for Christmas,” I told my mother.
    â€œI’ve already bought your presents.” My mother was writing letters at her little black lacquer desk and she didn’t look up.
    â€œThis wouldn’t cost a thing,” I explained. “It would be easy.”
    â€œWell?” She still didn’t look up.
    â€œYou could give me a new name. That’s what I really want.”
    Now she did look up. She even put down her pen. “And what, may I ask, is the matter with the name you have?”
    â€œI don’t like it. Take it back.” I put my arm around her neck because I didn’t want her to feel bad about the mistake she’d made. “Give me the name Marjorie. Just write it on a gift card and put it in a box. You see how easy it would be.”
    My mother shook her head as if she couldn’t understand how I’d got into the family. “I wouldn’t name a cat Marjorie,” she said.
    Well, of course not! “Marjorie is not a cat’s name,” I yelled. And I stamped out of the room.
    When I asked my father, he simply changed the subject. “I know one present you are getting for Christmas,” he said, “that you’ve never even thought of.”
    He was a good subject-changer.
    â€œAnimal, vegetable, or mineral?” I asked.
    â€œVegetable.”
    â€œHow heavy?”
    â€œAs heavy as a pound of butter.” He’d give me no more clues, but of course I did give it a lot of thought between then and Christmas.
    But I hadn’t forgotten about Marjorie. I was going to Andrea’s for the weekend and I would see what she thought.
    I loved going to the Hulls‘. Not only did they have low ceilings and three children (Andrea, Edward, and David, the adopted one), but the Hull family was different from any I had ever known. They must have believed in goodness because, like us, they were a Y.M.C.A. family, but what they stressed was being free and natural. When the family was alone, for instance, they thought nothing of walking around upstairs without any clothes on. The way Andrea spoke, it was as if she hardly noticed if her parents were naked or not. Moreover, the Hulls seemed to talk together about