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

“Sometimes I sit in my window and imagine what that’s like—snowlight and ski trails.” All her life, she had felt like she was the only one who dreamed about places. The only one who watched those film clips and imagined herself in the places they sang about. And now, here was a girl—sitting close enough to touch, talking about the same things.
    “And I know why you call yourself Staggerlee too.”
    Staggerlee started picking at a cuticle. It was almost too much—like Trout could look right through her and see everything. “Why do you think?”
    “’Cause of Grandpa’s song,” she said, matter-of-fact.
    “Yeah,” she said. But it was more than that. Nothing she could explain to a near stranger. “How come you call yourself Trout?”
    They passed a farm where about a dozen cows were out grazing. Trout watched them, her eyes on the farm until it was long out of sight. “You ever been fishing?” she said, finally.
    “No. I watch people do it. We have a river near us.”
    “When I was little, Jonathan used to take me fishing all the time. We don’t do it much anymore, though. Ida says he should take my boy cousins fishing and leave me to do girl stuff. Thing is—we used to fish for trout. You ever see a trout getting pulled out of water?”
    Staggerlee shook her head. Once she had seen a man hit a fish against the ground so hard, it brought tears to her eyes. It was a bluefish about as long as her arm. Since then, she always looked away when a person had a fish on their line.
    “A trout will fight you real hard,” Trout said. “Trying to get itself free. I’d get one on the line and it’d be leaping all high out of the water.” She sighed. “Sometimes I’d keep it. Sometimes I’d let it go. But even when I let it go, I’d think about its mouth, the way it had this big cut in there—the way I’d hurt it even if I did throw it back.”
    “How come you liked fishing if you didn’t like hurting them?”
    Trout looked at her, her eyes dark and intense. “Something about the way they fought. I guess, without even knowing it, I wanted to learn how to fight like that. I wanted to see this little fish that thought he had so much to live for. That’s why I changed my name. Be a fighter like a trout. You give yourself a name, you have to live up to it, though.”
    “You feel like you have to fight all the time?”
    Trout looked away. “Yeah,” she said. “All the time.”
    She was quiet, her eyes steady on the land they passed. Staggerlee sat holding her ponytail, trying to keep the wind from whipping it into her face. She watched Trout. Her jaw was narrow and strong. It looked like someone had chiseled it out of a piece of dark brown stone. But her chin kept quivering as though she was trying hard not to cry. They drove for a long time before the first tear fell. Trout wiped it away quickly.
    “Don’t stare at me, please,” she said hoarsely.
    They rode the rest of the way in silence.

Chapter Eight
    AT THE HOUSE TROUT SLOWLY CLIMBED DOWN FROM the truck and moved toward the porch where Mama was standing with Battle. She walked like someone older, someone sure of herself. Staggerlee watched them embrace awkwardly, then pull away from each other and smile. Her mother’s smile was small and uncertain.
    “I hope you have a good time here,” Mama said. But her words sounded as though she had practiced saying them.
    “I’ll show her a good time,” Staggerlee said quickly.
    Trout turned and looked at her, a half smile beginning. Staggerlee frowned. She didn’t have words for this—the way Trout . . . the way Trout . . . unsteadied her.
    She took Trout’s duffel from her father. “I—I’ll show you where you’re sleeping,” she stammered.

    TROUT’S ROOM WAS next to Staggerlee’s, and even though it was called a guest room, there had never been a guest in it. Staggerlee looked around. Her mother had slept here. When she had returned from the hospital after having Battle, she had moved