Every Single Second Read Online Free Page B

cried Nella. “I didn’t mean it!”
    “I’m going to get killed!” Angela began blubbering like she’d never stop.
    Mom shifted the baby—Bobby it was—on her hip. She grabbed tissues, wiped Angela’s snot, fingered the rip. It was incredible, what Mom could do with one arm.
    “It’s just a seam. I can fix it.”
    Mom whisked the dress through her sewing machine, mending it good as new. Smoothing the skirt, puffing the sleeves, she zipped it safely back inside the bag.
    “I wish you were my mother,” Angela blurted.
    Mom was the world’s least critical person, but this made her frown. “Don’t say that. Just think if your mother heard you say that.”
    Angela rubbed her chin against Bobby’s fuzzy head. “She wouldn’t care.”
    After Angela left, Mom said, “The poor thing was scared to death. What goes on in that house?”
    Nella wasn’t in trouble. Because Angela didn’t tattle. She didn’t say, Nella made me do it!
    “You be nice to Angela,” Mom said.
    “I am! She’s my best friend.”
    “Good. That girl needs a friend like you.”
    The morning of her First Communion, Nella’s father didn’t get out of bed. Dad never got sick, or if he did, he wouldn’t admit it.
    Mom gave orders not to bother him, but just before they left for church, Nella crept upstairs. Her mother had added a wide satin sash to her hand-me-down dress, and Nella had a white veil and shiny white shoes. Nonni, whose usual present was underwear, had given her a white purse with stitched-on pearls.
    She stood in the bedroom doorway. Her father’s face was turned to the wall.
    “Daddy?”
    Nella had seen her father look bad—when the babies kept him up all night, or Nonni was sick, or when he drank too much at the social club. But never this bad. His face was gray. He winced as if looking at her was painful.
    “Daddy?” Maybe he was having a bad dream and couldn’t wake up. She went up on her toes. “See my dress?”
    She put her palm on his forehead, feeling for a fever like Mom did. A mistake. He shrank away, making a sound so terrible, Nella jumped back. Something bad was trapped inside him, and it was trying to escape.
    “Daddy! What’s the matter?”
    “Sorry. I’m so sorry, kiddo.” He caught her hand and kissed her fingers. “Say a prayer for me today.”
    Mr. DeMarco wasn’t at the church either.
    “He had a hard night,” whispered Angela.
    “My father too,” Nella whispered back.
    Yet another sister secret.
    Mrs. DeMarco was there, her hair limp, her eyes rimmed with red. Nella’s mother had all those boys to manage herself, so Anthony was the one who took their photos. Nella’s favorite was her and Angela holding hands with Sister Rosa.
    “My PB and J!” Sister crowed, her cheeks rosy, her face beaming. “My Tick and Tock!”
    They posed in front of St. Amphibalus—two small girls in white dresses, alongside a white stone statue. By some trick of the light or camera, the statue almost looked like it was about to speak.

What the Statue of Jeptha A. Stone Would Say if It Could
    H ark unto me, Jeptha A. Stone!
    Contrary to appearances, statues are neither stone blind nor stone deaf.
    We see and hear all.
    Then how can it be, one might ask, that we cannot speak? I have spent over a century pondering this. At first I conjectured it was because mortals, frail creatures that they be, could not bear the shock of discovering that blocks of wood and stone have opinions.
    As time went on—and a monument is rich in nothing if not time—I came to another conclusion. I now believe that speech is such a great, such a powerful gift, it has been reserved for those whose hearts yet beat.
    And yet, how many mortals squander that supreme gift?
    As they say nowadays, don’t get me started.

NONNI, CROSS TO BEAR
    now
    E veryone had a cross to bear, Sister Rosa said. Nella’s was named Nonni.
    It was Nella’s job to spend a few afternoons a week with her great-grandmother. Today when she got there, she found