R My Name Is Rachel by Patricia Reilly Giff Read Free Book Online Page A

the kitchen and there’sa glow from the window. We can’t see the peeling paint from here, and the house is much bigger than our old apartment. I’m surprised at the sudden warmth I feel. “Miss Mitzi would say it’s inviting. If President Roosevelt gets rid of this depression, maybe we could ask her …”
    Pop turns to me. “Oh, Rachel.”
    But I have a hopeful feeling. From now on, I’m going to do everything right. I’m going to get the garden ready as soon as I can. We’ll get that goat one of these days. We’ll get the barn ready.
    Oh, President Roosevelt, please hurry
.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    It’s a Tuesday morning in April. Outside, it’s beautiful; but it’s still cold in here. I rub my feet together in bed and angle my head to glance at the drawings that march around the wall.
    I feel as if I know the artist, that corkscrew tail she’s given the dog, the duck with its beak high in the air. I can almost hear it quacking. The girl must have been smiling, maybe laughing, as she drew them.
    Last night I finished my Rebecca book in one burst. I just couldn’t make myself stop turning the pages; it was wonderfully cozy reading by the gas lamp in the kitchen with my coat tucked around me.
    Cassie is standing in the doorway. “Are you ever getting up?”
    “This minute.” I throw back the covers and slide out of bed. The floor is gritty under my feet, but that’s all right.I’ll sweep the whole thing as soon as I can get to it. I have more important things to concentrate on. I’m determined now to get this farm going, the way President Roosevelt is determined to get the country going.
    As I walk along the hall, the back window darkens and the wall suddenly loses its color.
    “Joey!” I scream.
    Head covering the window, he hangs upside down from the roof. “They’ll hear you in Brooklyn,” he calls.
    I see now that Pop is holding on to him from above. It reminds me of Joey reaching for money in the sewer.
    I stand there watching as boards begin to cover the last holes in the roof. I listen to the sounds of the hammer. The hall downstairs is darker now, except for the light coming through the stained-glass window. The sun spears a yellow edge and the wall is a kaleidoscope of buttery lights.
    In the kitchen I turn the chicks’ eggs, then cut a slice of bread. Yesterday Mr. Brancato gave Pop a jar of strawberry jam for payment. I spread some on the bread and a strawberry lands on the crust.
    Fortuitous, Miss Mitzi would say.
    I sit back taking delicate bites, then I crouch down and open the cabinet doors under the sink to see what is in there. In back is a large pot.
    “What are you doing?” Cassie asks.
    “Look at this. We can use this one pot for water at the stream instead of two. It might be easier.”
    “You need two for balance,” she says.
    I don’t look at her. I pull out the pot, gingerly holdingthe wire handle. The inside may be filled with cobwebs and even a live spider.
    But there’s no spider, alive or dead.
    I sit back on my heels. The pot is filled with a small pile of drawings. The colored chalk has smeared a little, but the pictures are wonderful. There is one of the stained-glass window and a few of the field out back filled with cornstalks, their tassels waving in the wind.
    There’s one of the roof. Why would anyone want a picture of a roof, even one with no holes?
    The last one shows the house with its shiny rooster on top. It’s gray and lovely, without a shred of peeling paint in sight. A tray of seeds grows near the doorway.
    Underneath the drawings is an envelope, a little dirty, and marked
marigold seeds
. I run my hands over the edges of the envelope. I can feel the bumps of seeds.
    I grab my coat off the hook and put the envelope in my pocket. Outside, I look up at Pop and Joey crawling along the roof. My hands are clammy as I watch them.
    I head toward the barn and spend an hour digging soil. I plant the seeds in a tray one by one. “Grow,” I tell them.
    I can’t