It Wasn't Always Like This Read Online Free

supposed, she was like her father. She liked to learn, liked knowing how the world worked, really worked. People like Frank Ryan didn’t care. They were happy to make it all up as they went along. Then again, people and things weren’t always predictable in ways you could learn from books.
    Money would help, Emma reminded herself, and if they got rich, life would improve.
    So she held out hope. Her mother would admire how her father had been right. The business would do well. Florida would be the best thing that had ever happened to any of them. Her mother would stop looking at Mr. Ryan, and Emma could stop worrying. The Ryans didn’t seem to have much money either, at least not that Emma could tell.
    So maybe once they all got rich, everything would work itself out.
    “It’s going to be wonderful,” Emma’s mother kept saying.
    When? Emma kept wanting to ask.
    It was hot and humid, and there was no big city just across the bridge like in New York. Oh, Emma loved the ocean, but she could see the Atlantic back in New York. Sometimes they traveled up to Jacksonville, but that wasn’t much better. Everything smelled salty here—parts of Brooklyn smelled like the ocean sometimes but never this bad—and the streets were too skinny, and it was all too . . . small. It was not an adventure, after all. The grown-ups were too busy getting the Alligator Farm and Museum up and running, too busy rounding up huge scaly gators with enormous jaws and frightening teeth.
    “But the sunrises!” her mother would exclaim when Emma grumbled.
    Secretly Emma found the sunrises beautiful, the way the sun rose as if from underwater, lighting everything golden. But she would reply with a sour face.
    “It’s just the sun. And everything tastes like salt.”
    Mostly Emma thought, You spend too much time goggling at Mr. Ryan, Mama. Thinking about it made her chest feel tight.
    And so it went. Until the day of the hawk. Until Charlie.
    •
    “I’M GOING OUT for a while once we f inish,” Emma’s mother said that morning. She was unwrapping a plate from brown paper, the last of their items that had been left in storage crates from the move. “Do you know that Frank Ryan says there are thousands of ibises? He says they’re exquisite. He knows everything about birds, you know.”
    Her mother loved pretty things. Anything new and different always caught her eye. She was a pretty thing herself, her f igure shapely and slim in her new shirtwaist, even after three children.
    “I hate birds,” said Emma, even though she didn’t. But her mother was removing the wrapper from another dish, the stiff brown paper crackling as she folded it, and so she didn’t hear. “Where are you going, anyway?”
    “I need to get some air. I’ll be back soon.” Her mother fanned at her f lushed face.
    In addition to unpacking, they’d been cooking and baking all morning, making baked ham and yeast rolls and mashed potatoes and green beans and a chocolate cake that was now wilting in the overheated kitchen as it cooled, the icing dripping onto the cake’s platter. The museum sponsors were coming for supper, and Mrs. O’Neill had outdone herself.
    “You watch Jamie and Lucy,” she told her oldest daughter. “Just for a few minutes. I promise.”
    Emma nodded, because she knew her mother would go whether she agreed or not. Another thin dribble of icing slid from the chocolate cake. The air felt heavy and full. Her hair was curling wildly because her mother had been too distracted and busy to help her plait it, and besides, what did Emma care about her hair? Or anything except f inding a way to get her family to move back to Brooklyn where everything didn’t always taste like the sea. It made her feel like she was drowning.
    A plan arose in her brain then. Emma was fond of plans, of f iguring things out and getting the right answer. She hated making mistakes, and everything about Florida felt like a mistake.
    She skimmed across the kitchen and down the