Between Earth and Sky(64)

“Waú! You could have told me you were coming.” She pulled back her blanket and let Minowe and climb under. They squeezed in close to keep from falling off the narrow bed.

With lying between them, Minowe rolled onto her side and raised her head. “Okay, Alma. Speak it.”

“What?”

“I told you she’d not tell,” said.

“After Charles’s accident you were . . . gigashkendam apane,” Minowe said. “Sad.”

nodded. “Gloomy.”

“Now, since four weeks, you . . . you act odd. My brother says you don’t study in class, at dinner you don’t eat. You nearly ruined the pie today.”

“You didn’t even brings up the right jars from the cellar,” added. “Who wants to eat a pie made of beets?”

Alma bit her lip. “Sorry about that. I’ve been . . . distracted.”

“We know,” said. “By who?”

“By whom. Who is a subject pronoun.”

turned to Minowe. “Did we mistake and crawl into bed with Miss Wells?”

All three of them giggled into the pillow. Silence followed in the wake of their laughter. Minowe and wore expectant looks, their brown eyes anchored upon her.

Over the years she’d confided everything to them—from silly disagreements with her mother to the arrival of her monthly courses. And she’d meant to tell them about too. After their first kiss, the news had buzzed inside her all through dinner, but in waiting for the right moment, the right mood, and sufficient privacy, the evening had come and gone without it breaching her lips. So, too, passed the next day and the one following. She met again in the stables. They shared a hurried embrace in the stairwell. Notes—hidden between the pages of arithmetic and grammar books—passed between them in class. After each exhilarating encounter, each lingering stare, she’d set out to tell and Minowe. Each time the words stuck like honey to her tongue.

Even now, she struggled to name what she felt, to describe how one errant kiss had grown and deepened into so much more. “I think I’m . . . I’ve fallen in love.”

Minowe gasped. squealed.

“Shh,” Alma said, even as she giggled. “You’ll wake the whole school.”

“With who? I mean with whom?” half whispered. “That Mr. Ellis you danced with at the Christmas party?”

“Actually, it’s—”

“Of course not that stinky man,” Minowe interrupted. “It only can be that sun-haired boy.” She turned to Alma. “It’s Edward Steele you’ve fallen in love with, yes?”

spoke again before she could answer. “There was that other boy at the dance too. What his name? Van . . . Van—”

“Paul Van Steenwyk?” Alma scrunched her nose and shook her head. “No, not him. And certainly not Edward Steele.” She drew the quilt like a hood over her head and leaned in close.

The excitement drained from her friends’ faces. brow furrowed. Minowe jolted upright, losing her balance and falling clear off the bed.

Alma winced at the loud thud. “Are you okay?” She leaned across and offered Minowe her hand.

Minowe batted it away. “What you say?”

“I asked if you were okay.”

“Before that,” Minowe said, still seated on the floor, rubbing her backside.

Alma nodded.

“Giiwanaadizi.”

“I’m not crazy.”

Minowe rattled her head. “Not many months ago you hated him.”

“I didn’t hate him,” Alma said, though she could feel her skin flush with the lie. “We just didn’t get along.”

“Brute, you called him.”

“And swine,” added.

“Dunce. Scoundrel. Fop.”

“Okay, okay. I may have said a few unkind words when he first came. A girl can change her mind.” Alma sat up and traced her fingertips over the brightly colored squares of her quilt. “He’s different now. I’m different now.”

Minowe clambered from the floor and dusted off her nightshirt. Her fingers trembled and her skin looked greenish in the dim light. “Like I says, giiwanaadizi.”

“What’s wrong with us being in love?”

“Us?” Minowe snorted. “You think he love you, too?”

Alma’s gaze retreated to the flickering candle. Wax dribbled down its sides, pooling in the brass drip pan. The camphor smell from the match head still lingered in the air. Did love her? He’d not said as much. Neither had she, though, not until just now. “What’s wrong with you? I thought you wanted and me to get on better.”

Minowe kept her distance from the bed, one foot shuffling back and forth atop the wool rug. She looked to be wrestling with some emotion—sadness perhaps, or anger—and Alma felt immediately contrite. “I’m sorry, I know I should have told you straightaway, I—”

“You’re a gichi-mookomaan-ikwe. He’s an Indian.”

Alma’s muscles tensed. “It never mattered before that I’m white.”

Silence seeped between them like spilled molasses. , still lying beside her on the bed, broke the impasse. “When did all this happen between you and ?”

“About a month ago.”