The House You Pass on the Way by Jacqueline Woodson Read Free Book Online Page A

dying.”
    “Yeah,” Trout said, looking away from her. “Somebody dying.” She got quiet, and Staggerlee wondered what she had said wrong.
    “Anyway, Hallique smiled all the time,” Trout said. “I think that’s what I’ll miss the most. The way she laughed at Jonathan’s silly jokes. I think I was closest to Hallique. I could tell her anything.” Trout looked down at the stack. “Ida Mae’s not like that. Ida Mae’s got big plans for me.”
    She held out another picture. “That’s them. Ida and Jonathan.”
    Staggerlee stared at the picture a moment. Ida Mae was short and round. She was waving the camera away the way Mama did sometimes when she had had enough picture taking. But Jonathan was holding her by the shoulders, playfully, as though he was making her stand still for one more. He was handsome, younger than Staggerlee had expected him to be.
    “They’re good-looking,” Staggerlee said finally, handing the picture back.
    Trout nodded. “I know, and I know I don’t look like them either.”
    “You’re good-looking,” Staggerlee said quickly.
    Trout smiled and winked at her. Something about the wink made Staggerlee’s stomach flutter.
    They were driving through Calmuth. The land stretched out green and gold in the sun. Trout leaned back against the cab. “It’s pretty here.”
    “Baltimore pretty?”
    Trout sat up. “You know why Ida is sending me here?”
    Staggerlee frowned. “You wanted to come!”
    “Is that what she said in her letters?”
    “Yeah. Didn’t you want to come? To meet us?”
    Trout leaned back again, looking relieved and pent up at the same time. “It’s bigger than that,” she sighed.
    Trout looked at her a moment, as though she was trying to figure out if Staggerlee would understand something. Then she shook her head.
    “Bigger than what?” Staggerlee asked.
    “Nothing,” Trout said.
    Staggerlee took her harmonica out of her back pocket and started blowing into it. The music surrounded them. She felt scared suddenly that Trout had brought something deep with her, something that concerned both of them. Trout made her feel small and shaky. And her lips were scary, the way they curved into a smile.
    Staggerlee started playing “Moonlight in Vermont.” Over and over she had watched the film clip of her grandmother singing it with Ella Fitzgerald. Their voices together were beautiful. Later in the song, a man came out and started playing the trumpet. Staggerlee played that part now. She felt herself disappearing inside the music.
    “‘Moonlight in Vermont ...,’ ” Trout began to sing.
    Staggerlee frowned, unsure whether or not she had heard right. She had never heard anyone but her grandmother and Ella sing the song, and now here was Trout. She began to play more softly. Trout smiled and continued singing, her voice sweet and low. She sang with her eyes closed, her head thrown back. Staggerlee stared at her mouth, the way it moved to form the words. She felt her throat closing up, felt tears beginning to form behind her eyes. She stopped playing suddenly and stared down at her harmonica.
    “Why’d you stop?”
    “How do you know that song?”
    Trout frowned. “The same way you do, silly. Grandma sang it. We have it on video.”
    They had the same grandmother. Georgia Canan. Somehow that seemed strange to Staggerlee, that this Trout shared her grandmother.
    “We have it on video too,” Staggerlee said.
    Trout stared out at the passing road, smiling. “I like when she and Ella do that little step,” she said, moving her shoulders. “And then they go ‘Oooh oooh oooh. Ooooh.’ I love that.”
    Staggerlee smiled. She loved that part too.
    “You ever been there—to Vermont?”
    Trout shook her head. “I dreamed it, though—when I was real little, I used to have all these ideas about—about what it was like. The way Grandma sings it—that part about the falling leaves and the sycamores.”
    “And the snowlight,” Staggerlee said softly.