I CLIMBED DOWN the makeshift ladder to our winter house and sat on the blanket that Nora had spread on the cool ground.

“Your mother home?” she asked.

“Dan knows. About me not being in school. He was there.”

“Your mum’s bound to find out sooner or later. She talks to Mrs. Boulee.”

“She hardly ever sees her. She takes the cream into town in the daytime, when Mrs. Boulee is teaching. When Dad’s with Mum, Mrs. Boulee won’t talk to her, not after Dad punched out Mr. Boulee.”

“She’ll hear about it,” said Nora. “Somebody will tell her. Or she’ll see you.”

“What if she does? I’ll leave. She can’t tell me what to do. I’ll find a job.”

“We’ll find a job together. We’ll go to Vancouver.”

Nora took off the bell necklace and held it out for me. I took it and jingled the bells.

“Roll on your stomach,” she said. I rolled over and lay full length, resting my chin on my hands. The bells smelled tinny. She arranged my hair to one side and smoothed the material of my blouse as if cleaning a blackboard. She began to draw on my back. It felt smooth and ticklish and I relaxed under her hands. After a while, I said, “What are you drawing?”

“I’m writing,” she said.

“What are you writing?”

“You have to guess,” she said.

I followed the circles of her hands on my back. “I don’t know,” I said.

“Guess!”

Slowly she formed the big looped letters of three words, and repeated them over and over. I understood quickly, but didn’t know what to do. I turned over and she continued to write, spelling the words over the sides of my breasts. “You,” she said, mouthing the last word, and forming a u that cupped my breast.