The Lost Girl of Astor Street(4)

I set my glass and the bottle of milk on the counter. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.” But that’s exactly how I sound. Joyce would have loved to send Walter to a nice school, a school like she probably went to before her life took a cruel turn.

“Gracious, girl. Again?”

I look up and find Joyce’s gaze is on my bruised right hand, the one clutching the milk bottle. I shrug and pay careful attention as I unscrew the cap.

“Ms. Underhill?”

“How’d you guess?” I keep my gaze on the flour-dusted floor. This is always the worst part of Ms. Underhill’s discipline—bearing the weight of Joyce’s disappointment.

Usually Joyce launches into a lecture about keeping my sassy mouth shut in Home Economics and letting that sweet Miss LeVine teach me a thing or two. Today, she sighs and says, “You should put some ice on it before it swells any worse.”

I feel her gaze on me as I select a chunk of ice, wrap it in a knobby dish towel, and press it to my knuckles. “I wasn’t mouthing off today, I swear. I missed a step in my pattern, is all.”

Joyce’s eyebrows arch. “And is there a reason you missed a step? Perhaps you were too busy chatting or passing notes to pay closer attention?”

I bite my lip and look away.

Her “Mm-hmm,” has a distinct That’s-what-I-thought snap to it.

My knuckles are painfully cold, but that’s okay. Next they’ll be numb. The routine is familiar by now.

“Piper, I know you’ve been raised in a house of boys. You know things a girl shouldn’t know at age eighteen.” She stirs the potato soup simmering on the stove and then turns to me. Her eyes are piercing. “But you’re a young lady. It would do you well to start acting like one.”

The only sound in the kitchen is the whir of the gas stove and the occasional bubble from the pot. Words slide around in my head—I’m trying my best. Ms. Underhill just doesn’t like me. But Joyce would only say that I did that to myself when I—ahem—borrowed Ms. Underhill’s shapeless cardigan last fall and snuck Lydia and me a pastry from the teacher’s room. Or when my infamous ride down the stairwell banister resulted in knocking her over. Or when—

Footsteps pound up the back stairs, and then the door shoves open. In swaggers Walter Thatcher, grinning over the box of groceries.

“There’s a sight for my homesick eyes—Piper Caroline Sail.” He settles the cardboard box on the counter and sweeps off his flat cap.

I find myself hesitating, cataloging the changes in him these last weeks. His already dark skin has grown even darker from California’s sunshine, and his black hair is clipped shorter. But his broad smile is the same, and when he opens his arms, I rush to embrace him. The scents of the grocery store—spices and cardboard—cling to his tweed suit. Walter squeezes me against his thick chest before holding me out at a distance.

“With your hair like that, I might not have guessed it was you. I might’ve thought you were a blonde Clara Bow.”

I touch my bobbed hair. “Father was finally convinced.”

“Or, rather, Miss Miller talked him into it,” Joyce says as she unloads canned goods onto the counter.

I scrunch my nose at the mention of Jane. Joyce’s mouth twitches with a smile when she sees. No lecture this time.

But with Walter in the room, even the mention of my father’s girlfriend can’t spoil my mood. My gaze skims down the length of Walter and up again. “You’re quite tan. I think I’d like to spend part of my year living in California as well.”

Walter leans against the counter. “Maybe you could stow away in my suitcase when I leave next.”

Joyce clears her throat. “The son I raised would never make such a bawdy suggestion.”

Walter grins at his mother and pecks a kiss to her cheek. “Don’t fret, Mother. Piper knows well that I’m teasing.”

“Why don’t the two of you go for a walk?” Joyce suggests. “Leave me in peace to do my work.”

“Can you believe this, Pippy?” Walter settles his hat back onto his black curls. “Not even home a day and already my mother is shooing me out the door.”

Joyce smiles at him and turns back to her soup.

Walter winks at me, and I realize just how lonely it’s been since he left in the spring to play minor league ball out west. Initially after Mother died, I was like a pet of sorts to my brothers and Walter. And then as Tim and Nick grew into their adult lives, it became just me and Walter. At eighteen years old, I should be growing into my adult self as well, but behaving like a lady feels like wearing an ill-fitting costume.

Nick is still in Father’s chair, hunkered over the notebook. “Where are you two going?”

“For a walk. Wanna come?”

Nick heaves a sigh as he smooths his sheet of paper. “No, you go ahead. I have a test tomorrow.”

Apparently, becoming a lawyer takes lots of time and energy, even if your father is already one of the most sought-after defense attorneys in Chicago.

“And be safe!” Nick calls after us.

I glance at Walter and roll my eyes as I pull on my hat. That’s become Nick’s constant parting advice since he started studying criminal cases. Ignorance is bliss, it seems, because I never give safety a moment’s thought when I leave the house. Not in a neighborhood like ours, anyway.