CHAPTER
forty-five

The first time I met Norman’s mother was two days after we’d moved into the apartment over the bakery. I’d been sitting on the steps outside our door while Clara sat inside, pouting over something our dad had said to her earlier in the day.

Instead of tolerating her mood, I’d decided to enjoy the fresh air, library book resting on my knees. It was October and seemed like the perfect time to reread Anne of Green Gables.

I’d just gotten to the chapter where Anne Shirley met Gilbert Blythe for the first time, my very favorite part. Sometimes, when I knew no one was around to hear me, I’d read Anne’s words aloud as if in a play. I liked how sure of herself she was—or at least seemed to be. And I wished I could be sassy just like her.

Thinking I was quite alone, I parted my lips, just about to whisper the lines.

“Now, Miss,” a voice called up to me from the alley below. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

Startled, I clapped the book shut, losing my place. I peeked over the side of the iron stairs to see a round woman with her hands on her hips looking up at me.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I’d called down to her.

“What are you sorry for?”

“Oh, well,” I stammered. “Hello? Sorry.”

“My son Norman told me there were a couple of girls living upstairs,” she said.

My cheeks burned just to know that the handsome boy had spoken of me. To his mother, and in the same breath as my little sister, but still, that was something.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, how old are you?” she asked, crossing her meaty arms under her more than ample bosom.

“I’m fourteen, ma’am,” I answered, holding one of the iron rails. “My sister’s twelve.”

“Haven’t you gone and registered at the school yet?”

“No.” I took in a quick breath. “My father said he would sign us up later.”

“Why not now?” She gaped at me. “I see you can read all right, so you aren’t dumb. And doesn’t that father of yours work at the school?”

I’d tried explaining that our mother was dead, and that Dad wasn’t always one for staying on top of things. What I hadn’t told her was that we had no money for proper clothes or shoes, not to mention any books and pencils we might have had to buy.

That, I was sure, she could have figured out all on her own.

“I’ll set it to rights,” she’d said.

And she had.

By that evening, she’d made a call to the school, ensuring that both Clara and I could go to class the very next morning. She’d marched up to our apartment as soon as my father came home from work and told him that was how it would be.

When he’d balked about the money to pay for new clothes, she’d asked him to come down to her car and help her carry up what the ladies in church had collected for us.

They’d brought in half a dozen dresses each for Clara and me, collected from the closets of a few women at the church who could each spare one. Not a single word had passed her lips about the abominable state of the clothes we’d come to LaFontaine in, and I was grateful.

The fresh-smelling and perfectly pressed dresses were the most beautiful I’d ever hoped to have. I’d worn a pink one with tiny white flowers to my first day of school.

Norm and Albert had walked Clara and me to school that first day, escorting us right to the front steps. And they’d met us there once school was over to make sure we got home all right.

Before Norman went inside the bakery to work, he’d turned to me and smiled.

“You look nice in pink,” he’d said.

I was sure my cheeks flushed enough to match my dress.

It only made me feel better to see that he had blushed too.

When I was in school, all of the grades—from kindergarten to high school—were in the same building. Of course, that was before LaFontaine grew and they put up a new building for the older students.

The elementary took over the old, and when I pulled open the door for Hugo on the day we were to register him, I was surprised to find that it smelled the same as always. But exactly. It was a little wax crayon mixed with newly sharpened pencils with just a little chalk dust for good measure.

“Are you nervous?” I asked, my voice echoing off the walls.

“No,” Hugo answered. “I like to learn.”

Still, he held my hand tight as we walked through the halls, big eyes inspecting everything we walked past, drawing closer to my side with each step.

The school secretary had Hugo and me sit on a bench in the hallway to wait for a meeting with the principal. The walls were the same shade of cream that I remembered and the floors just as shiny and slick as they’d been then.

“Aunt Betty,” Hugo whispered, wiggling in his seat. “I have to . . .”

“Okay,” I said, understanding his urgency. “It’s right across the hall there, do you see it? It’s the door that says ‘boys.’”

He nodded, and I was proud of his ability to recognize the word by sight.

Of course, as soon as the door closed behind him, I was called into the office. The secretary stood in the doorway, smiling down at where I sat on the bench.

“Just one minute, please,” I said. “My nephew is in the restroom.”

“I’m afraid Mr. VanZee can’t wait too long,” the secretary said. “He’s a very busy man.”

“I’m sure he is.”

“Why don’t you go in and I’ll wait for your nephew.” She smiled at me from behind a pair of glasses that were far too large for her face. “Hugo, right?”

“Yes.” I stood. “You’ll send him in?”

She nodded and extended her arm to show me the direction to the office, following behind me.

“Right through there,” she said, stepping around her desk.

I hesitated, half turning back toward her. “I really should wait for Hugo.”

“He’ll be fine.” She rolled a sheet of paper into her typewriter. “He’ll know where to find you.”

As uncomfortable as I was, I still went into the principal’s office and shook his hand over the desk, taking a seat when he asked me to.

“Mrs. Sweet, it’s nice to meet you,” he said. “Now, I see you’re wanting to enroll . . .”

He consulted the papers in front of him.

“Hugo Johnson,” I answered. “My nephew.”

“I see.” He squinted at the papers in a way that made me think he could have used a pair of glasses. “Does he live with you? Is this his address?”

He showed me the paper, and I nodded.

“He’s lived with me most of the summer,” I answered. “I’m unsure how long he’ll be with me.”

“Hm. I don’t understand,” the man said, rubbing his chin, which only made the cleft even more pronounced. “He’s just staying with you for the summer?”

“That was what I’d originally thought.”

“His stay is extended, then?” He squinted at me.

“Yes. So, I thought he should start school.” I pointed at the paper. “He’s old enough. And very smart.”

“Uh-huh. But he needs to be registered by a parent or guardian.” He put the papers on his desk, using thumb and finger to square them with the edge. “I’m afraid we can’t enroll him otherwise.”

“Well, I’m not sure what to do exactly,” I said. “I’m afraid my sister is unwell.”

“I’m terribly sorry to hear that.” He said it in such a way that I believed him.

I swallowed hard. “She’s in the hospital. Indefinitely.”

“I see.” He sighed. “Did his mother leave him in your care?”

“Yes,” I answered, looking toward the door, nervous that Hugo hadn’t come in yet.

“That does change matters a bit, doesn’t it?” He made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Tell you what, I’m going to consider you his guardian and let you enroll him. Once his mother is well enough, you bring her in and we’ll have her sign some papers.”

“Thank you,” I said. “May I be excused?”

I felt absolutely foolish as soon as the words came out, and I put a hand to my mouth, knowing that I was blushing.

“You may.” He grinned at me. “We’ll be happy to have Hugo join us in just a week and a half.”

I stepped out, expecting to see Hugo standing at the secretary’s desk or sitting on the floor with a book. But he wasn’t there.

“Did he come in here?” I asked.

The secretary stopped her click-clacking on the keyboard to look around. “Oh, I guess not.”

I rushed out of the office, my heart beating so fast it hurt. In the handful of steps it took for me to reach the hallway, my mind had constructed every bad thing that could have happened to Hugo.

When I reached the hall, I saw him sitting on the bench, bent at the waist and holding his face in his hands, crying quietly, his shoulders bobbing up and down. My heart that had been racing then felt as though it might break for him.

“Sweetheart,” I said, crouching down beside him and putting my hand on his back. “I’m right here. I’m here, Hugo.”

He jumped at me, throwing his arms around my neck so hard I nearly fell over, but I caught myself on the bench.

“It’s all right,” I said again. “I was just in the office.”

“I thought you left me,” he said with stuttering words and shuddering breaths.

“No, Hugo. I would never do that.” I held him tighter, closer. “I wouldn’t leave you like that.”

I stood, holding him close and carrying him down the freshly waxed floor, his muffled sobs echoing off the walls.