Miss Spitfire by Sarah Miller Read Free Book Online Page A

instead of a lesson. But I can’t let her take charge. I’m the teacher, after all.
    â€œAnd why should the learning stop because the lesson has ended?” I ask myself.
    Yesterday I likened Helen to an infant. Perhaps I should treat her as a baby instead of a student. I wouldn’t force an infant to sit still until she learned to say “mama” would I? Of course not. Children simply absorb words as they go about their ways.
    Very well. That’s what I’ll do with Helen. From this moment I’ll be her shadow, feeding her words like milk from a bottle.
    â€œL-e-a-f,” I announce into her hand as she plucks another one from the vine. “Leaf. Porch. Railing. Vine.” Everything within reach I name for her. I don’t bother making her spell the words back to me. We’ll practice later.
    At first Helen seems interested. Her fingers follow mine. It becomes a game—she touches something, and it makes my fingers wiggle under hers.
    Fence, gate, bench. Tree, shrub, hedge. Stone, dirt, grass.
    We wander through the barn, carriage house, and kitchen, naming tools and animals, furniture and supplies. I begin to think she’s waiting for something to stump me, something I won’t move my hand in response to.
    Soon my constant presence wears on her. She tries to avoid touching anything. But I’m persistent. Everything her hands fall upon as she gropes through the yard, I name. I’m sure she understands that the objects cause my movements, but there’s no way of knowing if she realizes that the movements
name
the objects. But still, I spell. I spell until my fingers growdull and clumsy, until the muscles between my wrist and elbow feel like frayed ropes.
    At last the supper bell rings, and I surrender. Appeased by the sudden stillness of my fingers, Helen allows me to lead her into the house. As we near the dining room, Helen’s nose comes alive, sniffing as though she’s bent on tearing every scent from the air. But I march her past the dining room and the Kellers’ bewildered faces, straight up the stairs to the wash-bowl on my dresser.
    I can hear Captain Keller calling after me to come down for supper, but I pay no mind. If Helen’s going to paw through my food, I’m at least going to see that it’s with clean hands. As far as I can tell, she hasn’t washed in at least two days, and her fingers have been in everything from the rose garden to the cow stalls this afternoon. Besides, I’d like to see the Kellers’ faces when I present them with a well-scrubbed Helen.
    â€œMiss Annie?” Mrs. Keller’s voice drifts up the stairs behind me. “Are you all right?”
    â€œOnly a minute,” I shout back.
    I put Helen’s hands on the pitcher and wait. Nothing. I dip my hand in the water and dribble a little over her fingers.
    â€œWah-wah.” The syllables spurt from her hollow throat as automatically as a dog challenges an intruder. The wordlike sound shocks me for a moment, but Helen’s blank face tells me it’s nothing more than a lingering reaction, just as Mrs. Keller said.
    W-a-t-e-r,
I spell into one hand. She flicks the water at me and tries to back away.
    â€œThink again, little witch,” I tell her, pressing her between my body and the dresser. “You’ll wash whether you like it or not.” Clamping her hands against the pitcher, I force her to pick it up and pour the water into the bowl.
    â€œMiss Sullivan? Miss Sullivan! Supper is on the table.” The captain’s voice is more substantial than his wife’s, but I’ve no time to answer. Plunging Helen’s hands into the water, I scrub for both of us. She does her squirming best to hinder my efforts, dousing me to the elbows. When the captain comes in, I’m having my revenge with a cake of soap and Helen’s face.
    â€œWhat is the meaning of this?” he thunders. Startled, I spin round. Helen twists