“We’re doing well, I think. Right, girls?”
Jenessa leaves Mrs. Haskell’s arms and sidles over to my father, climbing into his lap. Mrs. Haskell turns to me, waiting.
“Yes, ma’am. We’re doing right fine,” I say, forcing a smile.
“That’s good to hear. I dare say we may have a happy ending in the making. And they lived happily ever after.’ Who doesn’t love a happy ending?”
I think of Jenessa. We have to stay together. That’s our happy ending.
“Let’s get down to business. I’ll be working with Jenessa today, and you’ll be in a room on your own,” she says, motioning toward a few loose pages on her desk. “These are written tests. Answer what you can.”
She hesitates, and I wait, watching the struggle play across her face.
“Excuse me for asking, but you can read and write, can’t you?”
My cheeks burn.
“Yes, ma’am. We both can. I taught Ness through books. I also taught her her sums. Mama found a chalkboard at a yard sale, and we used that. We had some old schoolbooks, lots of Winnie-the-Pooh books, and the poetry of Mr. Hopkins, Mr. Wordsworth, Lord Tennyson, Mr. Tagore, and Miss Dickinson, to name a few.”
Mrs. Haskell exhales, looking relieved.
“That’s really good, Carey. Jenessa’s lucky to have a sister like you. It’s much easier to teach reading, writing, and numbers to children when they’re younger.”
Nessa grins, like she’s so smart and it’s all her own doing.
“All I ask,” I say, the mama bear rising, “is that you don’t make her talk if she doesn’t want to.”
“Are you sure she can talk?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she talks to me.”
I shift in my seat, feeling like I’m betraying Nessa’s trust. But the fact of the matter is, her choice to remain mute concerns me, too. As if it isn’t bad enough we’re poor, backward folk; Jenessa’s lack of speech is enough to cast her as a freak. She’s so trusting, so innocent. That’s what worries me the most.
“She talks to you? When was the last time?”
I look over at Jenessa, who’s thumbing through a Highlights magazine fished from her backpack. She stares at the page, transfixed by a dog that bears a clear resemblance to Shorty.
“Yesterday.”
My father looks from me to Jenessa. Surprise and relief flood his eyes. He exhales loudly as he fiddles with the ball cap on his head.
He doesn’t want her to be a freak, either.
“What did she say?”
I look over at Nessa again, who seems relaxed, paying no nevermind.
“She said Shorty was hers.”
My father laughs until his eyes tear up and his face turns kidney-bean red. When he finally gets hold of himself, he sputters out the words.
“That’s right, honey. That old hound dog was half-dead when we found him in the woods. I bet she’d understand the feeling more than most. He’s hers all right.”
And that’s the thing about little kids. Even when they’re not listening, they’re listening.
Nessa flies to my father and weaves her arms around his neck. She looks like a twig that’d snap on the first bend, wrapped up in his tree-trunk arms.
I’m overcome by a feeling I don’t know how to hold. It’s the opposite of hardship and worry. The opposite of cigarette burns, dwindling camp supplies, and creek-cold bones.
Mrs. Haskell, her eyes bright, clears her throat. “Okay, folks. Carey, you can see yourself to the room next door. That’s right, the one to the right. Mr. Benskin, you can sit in the waiting room. I’ll be working with Jenessa at the table here. Carey, take these with you.”
She holds out pages. I lean forward in my chair and take them from her hand.
“Please print your name and age on the top right, and answer as many questions as you can. There’s no passing or failing—we just want to see where you are.”
“Yes, ma’am.” My palms sweat and my jeans stick to my legs. “I’ll do my best.”
“Good. Now, Jenessa, your tests are like games. Do you like games?”
Nessa’s eyes grow wide and she nods.
“Good. You sit in the chair right there.”
We drag ourselves out the door, both of us hesitant about leaving her.
“Jenessa will be fine with me. I promise. Now, shoo, you two.”
My father makes his way toward the waiting room, but I linger.
“It’s okay, Carey. Really.” Mrs. Haskell looks me straight in the eye. “She’ll have fun.”
“If she needs me, you’ll send her right next door, ma’am?”
“I will. And I almost forgot.”
Her heels click over to me, and she holds out a long yellow stick with a sharp black tip on one end and a brownish orange cylinder on the other.
“This is a pencil. I know you know what a pen is, right? I saw some in the camper.”
I nod. Black ink, called a Bic. My mom hoarded them in an empty tea can.