On Grace by Susie Orman Schnall Read Free Book Online

this house. I would appreciate it if you would be kinder to your brother.” Trying to move the conversation onto happier subjects and bring back the brotherly love, I say, “So, Hen, did you walk James into class?”
    “Yeah, and he has the same cubby I had when I was in kindergarten. Miss Marsha said she likes to do that for brothers. And she even let us write our names real small with marker way back inside the cubby. I did “James” for him because he can’t write real tiny-like. It was cool.”
    “It was cool,” James repeats, smiling adoringly at his big brother. This undying love for Henry allows James to focus less on the times Henry calls him names, gives him wedgies, spies on him, and splashes him in the bath. Instead, he focuses on the loving things Henry does which are plentiful as well, like generously doling out hugs, stories, and invitations to play baseball. And that’s what makes it all bearable for James. And for me.
    As they finish their snacks, we hear the garage door open.
    “Daddy!” the boys shout, surprised and thrilled that their dad is home so early.

chapter seven
    Being born with a name like Grace can put a lot of pressure on a girl. My mom, the oh-so-elegant Nina Roseman, always made a point to remind me that I should do my best to personify my name. She did not have such requirements or lofty expectations for my older sisters named Eva and Danielle. But I, Grace Julia Roseman, took the assignment seriously.
    One of my first memories is from ballet class. I must have been four or five. I can picture us all lined up in head-to-toe ballet pink, hair in careful buns, standing at the barre waiting for Mrs. Murkowski, the ancient pianist, to begin. As Miss Natalya starts counting and telling us which positions to take, she says, “Remember, girls, be graceful .” Now, when you’re four or five, you don’t necessarily realize that word has any meaning outside of your one and only name. So when Miss Natalya, in her exotic Russian accent, entreated us to be graceful, I heard be like Grace .
    I’d like to think that I was a little surprised that the teacher was asking all of the girls to be more like me. But I’ve seen the photographs from those days: they show a tiny little thing with her chin held high and her smile so proud. Modesty yet unlearned, I bet I believed that all of those little girls were being told to dance just like me.
    My comfortable and sheltered upbringing allowed me to act with grace most of the time. Until I was fourteen, there was no darkness in my life. No opportunity to be less than graceful. True, my parents divorced when I was only three, but I was so young, I didn’t know any differently. I have no memories of them married. Barely any photos of us all as a family. Having my mom and dad in separate houses with separate lives was always my normal. Their divorce didn’t define me, and luckily, they acted in a civil way in front of my sisters and me. They spared us the unfair burden of having to choose who received more love.
    Now, as my husband enters the kitchen, his transgression tainting my family’s headquarters of warmth, tranquility, and love, I beseech myself to act with grace. I will do no less in front of my children.
    “Hey, guys!” Darren says, kissing the boys. He glances at me to get a read. I am blank.
    “Daddy, I get to be Star of the Week next week, the first one in the whole entire class!” James says proudly, the first I have heard of this. I imagine there’s a note in his backpack listing all of the things I now have to do for this honor, including bringing in a nutritious snack for twenty-three kids and creating a poster of all his favorite things.
    “That’s so great, buddy. How was your day, Hen?”
    “Good. We had science today and got to see all the new animals that Mr. Kellogg got over the summer. He got a tarantula, and it’s so cool, and it’s so ugly. And guess what? He said that over Christmas vacation we can volunteer to