Between Earth and Sky(45)
Alma buried her face in the sheet she was folding to smother a laugh. “Beauty is more a feminine quality.”
“What mean I to say, then?”
Alma glanced beyond her friends at the pack of boys. In her estimation, Asku was more regal than handsome. He sat apart from the others, reading beneath the boughs of a tree, shoulders squared and back straight even in repose, dark eyes ever shrewd. She turned to the others. Frederick had grown so lanky he seemed to trip instead of walk. Walter looked more a boy yet than a man, his cheeks full and ruddy. Her gaze flickered to George, then quickly away. “Well-favored, that’s an expression you could use.”
The boys clumped around a large ball. Frederick tossed it to Walter, who then hurled it forward through the air. Dozens of arms shot up. George’s hand emerged above the rest, fingers splayed, sweat glinting off his skin. He grasped the ball and hugged it against his chest, then barreled through the crowd.
She’d welcomed his departure at the end of summer term when he returned home for the rice harvest. Though his disruptive antics had eased with time, she was ever on guard around him, her stomach tight and tongue ready. He’d made ready friends among the other Indians, making it impossible to avoid his company. Still, she never addressed him, never applauded his stories, never laughed at his tomfoolery.
His return for a second year of schooling had surprised her, though she knew better now than to assume his enrollment voluntary. He continued to sit at the front of the class, sequestered with second-year students half his age and a third his size, feigning illiteracy. Yet instead of balking at the charade, she felt a tug of admiration for his pluck. Three days into the new term, when a sparrow erupted from the flour tin, showering the kitchen in white and sending Mrs. Simms into hysterics, Alma caught herself smiling. When a screw came loose from the classroom furnace, causing the pipe to rattle with every breeze, Alma swallowed a chuckle.
Now, she watched him fight his way through the cluster of boys. He had grown nearly as tall as Frederick, but his shoulders were much broader, his arms ripe with muscle. She’d spent a year glaring in his direction, but never really noticed the exuberance of his smile, the way his cheekbones sharpened his face, the contrast between his burnt-sugar skin and midnight-black hair.
Alma’s fingers drifted to the nape of her neck, winding about strands of hair that had broken free from her chignon. “You could also say comely, dapper, pleasing to behold . . .” The sound of her trailing voice, suddenly deep and breathy, made her straighten. She looked away and busied herself with another sheet. So what if he was—well—all those things? She spread her arms and pulled the linen taut, continuing to shake the fabric long after the wrinkles had fallen out, as if the action might jog her senses.
grabbed the far end of the sheet and brought the corners together. “What about you, Alma?”
Her head snapped up while her stomach plummeted into her knees. “What about me?”
Her friend tugged the sheet. “Aren’t there any boys from La Crosse you fancy?”
Alma grabbed the corners of the sheet from Hoga and finished folding it herself, drawing out the silence as she smoothed out the fabric and arranged it in a perfect square.
Minowe nudged her and giggled. “What about that blond boy from town?”
“You mean Edward Steele?” She tried to keep her voice light, casual, but it was impossible not to smile when she said his name.
snorted. “We heard about your last call at the Steeles’ for days. Edward said this. Edward did that.”
Minowe clutched her breast. “Oh, Edward!”
Alma bunched up a pillowcase and threw it at her. They all laughed.
It was true. He was always the highlight of her visits. The elder Mr. Steele owned the largest lumber mill in La Crosse. They were New Money, but had more than enough of it for her mother to overlook their undistinguished pedigree. Edward had inherited his father’s strong features and his mother’s fair coloring. He was confident and witty and ever in good form. Alma leaned against the clothesline crossbeam and looked up at the azure sky. True, there was haughtiness to his demeanor. He berated the maids and talked ill of the cook staff. Every conversation circled round to his latest hunt or billiard match. But he had more than enough good qualities to make up for that; she was sure.
Minowe sat down on a wicker basket piled with folded laundry, and reclined against the opposite pole. Enough sheets still hung around them that Alma dared lift her dress and petticoats a few inches above her ankles again. They made sense together, she and Edward. A suitable match, as her mother would say. Everyone had imperfections.
An egg-shaped ball covered in strips of worn leather flew through a narrow break in the sheets. It struck the ground and bounced to a stop at Alma’s feet. George barreled through the sheets after it, stopping short when he saw the girls.
Alma gasped at the intrusion and pushed down her skirts. Her fingers fumbled to button her collar. “Can’t you keep your horseplay away from our work?”
George smiled a crooked smile. His steady gaze unnerved her. “You hardly appears to be working.”
Minowe and Hoga giggled, but Alma scowled. She reared back and kicked the ball straight at him. George ducked. It soared just over his head and above the laundry line, arching downward into the yard beyond.
He swiveled his head to follow its trajectory, then turned back to Alma. “Bully, you should join on the team.”