CHAPTER ONE September 1935 The doors of the small white schoolhouse burst open. Children spilled out into the golden afternoon like bees whose hive had been disturbed. The oldest boys came first, shoving and scowling. Most of them were headed home to help in the fields. Getting out of school early didn''t mean nearly as much to them as it did to Halle, who tumbled out the door arm in arm with Thelma, her best friend. Halle squinted up at the brilliant blue September sky and grinned. It was the kind of blue that made you feel very small but also very hopeful. Taking a deep breath, she filled her lungs with the fresh, sweet air.
She couldn''t wait to get home, fly through her chores, and then spend the rest of this perfect afternoon outside pretending it was still summer. Jennie and Fran, two of the other fifth-grade girls, caught up with Halle and Thelma. "Don''t forget to bring your paper dolls tomorrow, Halle," Jennie said. "So we can make more clothes for them at lunch." "I''ll remember," Halle promised. Jennie dreamed of becoming a dress designer and liked to practice by making paper doll clothes. She especially loved dressing the dolls Halle''s mother had made; she said they looked more like real girls than store-bought paper dolls. She called Mama an artist.
"Too bad you won''t be here, Thelma," Fran said, trying to keep a straight face. "That''s all right," Thelma said with a shrug. "No one likes the clothes I make anyway. Not even Halle''s dolls." The girls stole quick looks at each other, their eyes merry--then Jennie and Fran gave up trying not to laugh. Even Halle joined in after seeing Thelma''s cheerful smile. "They''re not that bad!" Jennie said, putting an arm around Thelma. "Yes, they are!" Fran said, still giggling.
"They look like potato sacks!" "C''mon, Fran," Jennie said. "I''ll race you to the corner." She and Fran took off running. "Have fun in Buffalo, Thelma!" Jennie called over her shoulder. The grin on Halle''s face faded. Every couple of months Thelma visited her grandmother in the city--going to concerts, museums, operas. Each time she went, she got to miss school on Friday, so she could have three full days in Buffalo. Halle held on to a secret wish that she''d get to go along someday.
"See you Monday," Thelma said. She squeezed Halle''s hand, then turned and skipped toward her father''s car. With a half-hearted wave, Halle watched as Thelma clambered into the front seat. Mr. Moran leaned over to give his daughter a kiss on the cheek before he put the car into gear. Halle sighed and turned toward home. School days without Thelma were not half as much fun. But Halle pushed that gloomy thought away for now.
No use borrowing trouble, as Mama always said. She took the long way home, ducking under barbed-wire fences and tromping through cow pastures. She banged her metal lunch box on fence posts and tree trunks as she walked. She hated that ugly old thing; it looked more like a suitcase than a lunch box. If this one got shabby enough, maybe Mama would agree to buy her a new one. But she had to be patient. Mama did not like it when she asked for things she didn''t need. "Look around you, Halle," she''d say.
"Times are tight. Be grateful for what you have." Well, when Halle looked around, what she saw were shiny new Mickey Mouse lunch boxes like Thelma''s, with separate little trays that kept your sandwich from getting squished by your apple. As soon as she pulled open the screen door, Halle spied a near-empty bushel basket of apples on the floor by the table, and Mama''s trusty silver canning kettle on the stove. She sighed, knowing she''d be lucky to get any free time at all before dinner. "Hi, Glory. How was school?" Mama asked with a tired smile. Halle''s full name was Hallelujah Grace Newton, a fact she didn''t advertise much.
Ever since she was little, Mama had called her Glory. Halle liked the nickname. It made her think not only of the old hymns Mama sang around the house, but also of the cheerful blue morning glories that covered the front porch railings and greeted her every day until the first frost. "Fine," Halle mumbled. She put her lunch bucket on the counter. Mama took one look at the new scuffs on it and said, "We do not have money for a new lunch box. Please take it easy on that one. What do you do, kick it home?" Good idea, Halle thought.
"Grab another paring knife," Mama said. "I meant to have the applesauce done by the time you got home, but this heat is slowing me down." Little tendrils of honey-colored hair had sprung free from Mama''s braid and clung to her damp neck. Her cheeks were flushed with the heat. Her gray eyes, always a dead giveaway to her feelings, were calm today, but lined with weariness. As Halle''s gaze took in the line of sterile canning jars on the counter and the pile of curly apple peels already on the table, evidence of Mama''s long day, she felt bad about banging her lunch bucket around, trying to get something they couldn''t afford.