Everybody's Daughter by Marsha Qualey Read Free Book Online Page B

time.”
    “Ever?”
    “Andy.”
    He grinned and peeled off the shirt.
    “An undershirt? I’m disappointed.”
    “It’s cold in Minnesota. I like to be warm. Now sit down somewhere and be quiet.” He dusted off the broad surface of the potter’s wheel. “I’d rather use the kick wheel, but it’s broken. This electric wheel is okay, but just barely.”
    “Broken wheels and broken kilns. Things are in sad shape here.”
    He shrugged. “It’s the art department, not the football team.” He switched on the wheel, which began to spin slowly.
    Andy opened a drawer in a nearby cupboard and selected several odd-looking implements. Variations on a stick, Bea decided. He wet a sponge and placed everything on a small table beside the wheel.
    “I hope there is some clay,” he said. “One of the other students was supposed to have made some.” He opened a large plastic container and smiled. “Perfect.” He straddled the potter’s seat and with a movement of his foot sped the wheel. He placed the clay. “If it’s not centered, I can’t get it up. Nothing will form.” He cupped his hands around the spinning clay, and in an instant a mud-gray cylinder rose.
    His concentration was absolute and contagious. Beamer felt the tension in her own hands as she watched him work. She was amazed as, with the slightest hand pressure, the slightest thumb movement, he commanded the mass up and down, in and out.
    His hair had again fallen over his eyes, and he blew upward to displace it. It fell again, and Beamer nearly reached to stroke it into place, then clasped her hands behind her back. She couldn’t disturb him.
    He picked up the sponge and held it against the clay’s interior wall. The sides pushed out, guided by his hands. Suddenly he stopped and turned from the wheel. The clay kept spinning.
    “It’s a bowl.” He switched off the wheel.
    “I can see that. It looks terrific.”
    “Clunky and thick, actually. I just don’t feel like doing more.”
    “I loved watching you do it. Your hands are amazing.”
    He wiggled his clay-crusted fingers. “Magic fingers—all the girls love them. Would you like to see what else they can do?”
    Beamer smiled. “Not tonight, Andy, I promised my mother I wouldn’t stay late. It’s snowing, and you know how she worries.”
    He rose from the wheel. “Just let me clean up and I’ll walk you to the car.”
    Beamer threw away the remains of their dinner, then put on her coat. After washing his hands, Andy crouched by the kiln one more time, made a satisfied noise, then rose. He picked up his shirt and pulled it on.
    “Thank you, Andy.”
    “For what? Putting my clothes back on?”
    “For letting me come here. For letting me watch you make the bowl. Now when I know you’re here, or when I see one of your finished pieces, I can picture you at the wheel.”
    He wrapped his arms around her. “Hey, Bea, I like you, too.”
    “That’s not what I was saying.”
    “Oh yes it was. Why don’t you just say it: I like you, Andy.”
    She touched his forehead with her own and said unintelligibly, “I like you, Andy.”
    He stepped back. “It’s a start. Gets easier the more you do it.”
    “Mr. Experience.”
    “That’s right.” He took her hand. “Bea, I never thought I’d say this, but for some time now I’ve been glad we moved to Minnesota.”
    Beamer zipped her jacket. “Yeah.”
    “That’s all you can say? Yeah?”
    “I’m glad you moved here, too.”
    He crossed his arms and frowned.
    “Okay, how about ‘I’m glad you’re here because…’” His hair had fallen over his forehead again in a soft mound of curls. “Because,” she continued in a gentler voice, “I like you, Andy.”
    He brightened. “That’s better. Nice and clear this time. Can you say more?”
    She stepped forward, kissed him, then whispered in his ear, “You need a haircut.”

Chapter 6
    When Beamer got home, her father was sitting alone in the kitchen. Beamer hugged him. “Welcome