The Boy and His Ribbon (The Ribbon Duet, #1)(36)

2005




FOR NINE WEEKS, Della went to school.

I accompanied her every day and waited for her every hour until she was back in my possession. The park across the road offered a convenient place to protect her without lurking outside and earning the wrong sort of attention.

That first day, I investigated every inch of the park and chose a tree high enough to look over the wall separating the school from the street and kept an eye on her. Trees and shade and shadows were my allies as I watched from afar, ready to run to her if she ever needed me.

It meant the chores at the farm went untended, that weeds grew in the veggie patch, and dinner was delayed due to later hunting, but the change in Della was one hundred percent worth it.

All weekend—as I freaked out how to handle her away from me for hours at a time—she’d talked about nothing but school, school, school. My ears rang with what she expected, and her dreams were full of happy thoughts as she tumbled into sleep with a smile on her face.

She’d laid out her clothes for her first day, and I’d swallowed my anxiety, knowing she couldn’t go into public with what she’d chosen: a holey t-shirt and underwear far too small for her with the pair of flip-flops I’d stolen that I’d cut down to fit her.

No way.

That would be a sure way to announce we weren’t a typical family and to invite deeper investigation.

So, as Della slept, I’d sneaked out and patrolled the town, looking for any laundry left on washing lines—hopefully a family with a little girl.

I hadn’t found anything that easy, but I had found a house with a back door unlocked and a little boy’s wardrobe folded neatly on the dining room table along with fresh sheets and towels.

I took two towels, some underwear, a pair of jeans, two t-shirts, and a jumper with a dinosaur on the front. They’d fit Della now that she’d outgrown her other stuff, and it wasn’t like she’d grown up wearing pink princess stuff. She was used to navy, black, and brown.

At least she had clothes that weren’t hand-me-downs and held together with plaited twine.

The morning of her first day, she’d been a vibrating bag of nerves, soaring with excitement to shivering with terror as we’d dressed, had breakfast of freshly gathered milk and eggs from the two hens I’d managed to steal from three farms away, and left the house.

I’d clutched her hand so hard, she’d complained about pins and needles as we strolled as casually as we could onto school property and told the receptionist we’d been invited to attend by the waitress at the diner.

Turned out, the waitress was also the deputy principal and came bouncing from the staff room, whisked Della from my hold, and promised to give her back at precisely three p.m.

And there I’d sat in my tree until three, glowering at every vehicle that entered and every person who exited, making sure no one ran away with my tiny responsibility.

When Della sprinted from the school as the bell rang, I was there to scoop her up and listen to her torrent of adventures from finger painting to a boy who said he had a dinosaur jumper like hers but it had mysteriously disappeared. He reckoned it was gremlins. Not that I had a clue what gremlins were.

I’d winced as she pitied him, all while hoping the kid wouldn’t miss his jumper too much, and it was shop bought and common rather than grandma knitted and unique. What if I’d painted Della as a thief on her first day?

I made a mental note to destroy it and steal her something plain.

At home, she’d shown me everything she’d been given and true to her word, the waitress/deputy principal, had provided her with a red backpack full of crayons, exercise books, a drink bottle, lunch box, and a uniform that Della showcased for me with such joy, I’d struggled to remember why going to school was the most dangerous thing she could do.

Dangerous because as much as I lied to myself that we could run fast enough if we ever got caught, I knew the reality of that happening was slim.

When she was away from me, anything could happen, and I wouldn’t be there to stop it.

I wanted to hate that cute red and white uniform with its dark grey pinafore, frilly socks, and black shiny buckle up shoes, but I couldn’t.

I could only love it because it gave her access to a piece of life I’d been denied, and I wanted her to have it all.

From that day on, red was her favourite colour with only one exception.

Her ribbon.

Every morning, without fail, she’d have me plait or ponytail her hair and thread or bow her favourite blue ribbon. And every evening before bed, she’d have me free it and fall asleep with it wrapped around her fist.

I’d given her stolen teddy bears before. A stuffed unicorn. A talking hamster. But she wasn’t interested in any of them—stuffed or plastic. Nothing, apart from that damn ribbon.

That first week, as we repeated the routine of the day before and I dropped her off to strangers while forcing myself not to threaten them not to touch her, was the hardest week of my life.

I lost weight because I stopped eating while wedged in my tree.

I grew cranky because I didn’t sleep at night listening for noises of people sniffing around our house.

But as the days turned to weeks and Della returned time after time in her red and white uniform with pictures of smiling sunshines and squiggly writing as she learned more than I could teach her, I was forced to learn something, too.