Thistle Down by Irene Radford Read Free Book Online Page B

why?” She decided to ignore the reference to Pixies.
    “You’re a friend—and an adult. It just seems like you know a lot about people, even though you don’t get out much and all.”
    Like never , Dusty thought.
    “I know a lot about the people who founded this town,” Dusty hedged.
    “But people are people, whether they live now or a hundred fifty years ago. And I need to know how to make this guy notice me.”
    “Invite him to the Ball,” Dusty said flatly. “Girls are allowed to do that now. Especially since it’s work related and you work here.” That was stretching it a bit. Meggie rarely worked even though she showed up every day.
    “That’s a good idea. But how do I know he’ll come?”
    “You don’t. Not unless you ask.” Dusty had answered similar questions from the girls, but usually through email and their tutoring sessions. She smiled a bit inwardly. These girls were her friends. Sort of. And, just like friends, they . . .
    Oh, God, this was starting to sound like a setup. Who was going to be the one to comment that Dusty should follow her own advice and ask Chase to accompany her to the Masque Ball?
    “Thanks, that’s a really good idea.” Meggie retreated with her usual determination and eagerness to return to the lounge and her can of cola. She left the door open a crack.
    Dusty shifted to look at the computer screen. Her eye caught the blinking red light on line two. She hadn’t heard it ring during her conversations, and the girls had strict orders not to tie up the lines with personal calls.
    She pushed the chair away from the desk to go investigate—she dismissed the urge to lift the receiver and listen in—when M’Velle slipped into the office with the same furtive over-the-shoulder-glances as Meggie.
    “May I speak with you?” M’Velle asked. Dusty noticed how her diction and grammar were more precise than Meggie’s more casual style.
    “Yes.” Dusty dragged out the word, suddenly suspicious that someone wanted her distracted and off the phone.
    “It’s about my college application essay,” M’Velle said, approaching the desk more decisively than her initial entrance.
    At least this was something Dusty felt qualified to discuss. “What about the essay? I thought you’d finished it and were just waiting for a work recommendation from Mr. Newberry.”
    “Well, yes. But now there’s this scholarship I found out about and I want to change my essay to fit.”
    “What scholarship?”
    “DAR.”
    “Daughters of the American Revolution. They don’t usually give those to anyone who can’t prove they had an ancestor who fought in the Revolutionary War.”
    “I know. And finding documentation for blacks prior to 1864 is almost impossible. There are only a few bookkeeping entries of the purchase and sale of slaves, often without names. But I’m not all black. My grandfather on my mom’s side is white, and very proud of being able to trace his ancestry back to the Civil War. I think I can prove his family owned land in South Carolina back to the mid-1700s.”
    “So what about your essay?”
    “I want to write about the difficulty in tracing my black ancestry because slaves weren’t citizens and records of births and deaths, and parentage is so spotty, especially if a baby was sired by a white. It’s worse than trying to trace the kings and queens of Pixie. And then I want to compare it to how easy it was to find out about my grandfather’s family.” M’Velle’s eyes lit up with excitement.
    “Sounds like a great topic.” Dusty leaned forward, equally excited. She wanted to bounce ideas off the wall with this girl and help her come up with a solid research plan and outline.
    “But will the DAR approve of it?”
    “That’s another question entirely. My mom might know. She’s a member.”
    “Oh. I thought you knew about every scholarship available.” M’Velle’s expression fell, and her eyes grew dark with resentment and disappointment.
    “Let me send