shirtwaists, Bella found her mind traveling in other directions. She tried to puzzle out the words she heard the other girls usingâ when they called Signor Carlotti an âallrightnik,â their eyes rolling and their noses scrunched up, that was an insult, wasnât it? And what was this âunionâ they kept whispering about?
Mostly, though, Bella thought about Pietro.
Pietro . . .
Just the thought of his name was enough to cheer her up when her back ached and her eyes blurred and her fingers throbbed from her grip on the scissors. In real life, she barely saw him. He walked her to and from work, before and after his own job digging ditches. In the evenings he went out. Just about every conversation they had was in the midst of dodging peddlers, pickpockets, and horse droppings, or in the midst of the Luciano baby crying, Signor and Signora Luciano screaming at each other, the dirty Luciano children punching each other in the stomach.
But in her daydreams, Bella and Pietro sat on the fire escape together, just the two of them. The laundry fluttered and the stars twinkled above them. They gazed into each otherâs eyes. Theyâ
oh, please, donât even imagine this! It will make your hands tremble, youâll cut the shirtwaist! Oh, all right, go ahead. Just be carefulâ
-they leaned in together for a kiss.
Oh, be still, my heart . . .
Bella had heard the other girls talk about going out with boyfriends to dances, or to the moviesâshe knew what they were saying because they demonstrated bits and pieces of the dance steps, they gestured the scope of a huge movie screen. So she tried to imagine that, too. The dances made for dizzying daydreams, but sheâd never been to a movie, so she couldnât picture that at all. She planned to ask Pietro this very evening if heâd ever gone. And if he thought she was hinting at anything, if he thought she was flirting . . .
So be it,
Bella thought, blushing in spite of herself.
âBella?â It was Signor Carlotti, not screaming at her for once. âA girl is sick. We need you to operate one of the machines.â
âMe?â Bella squeaked out. âAt the machines?â
She could understand Signor Carlotti better now, though she still thought he was speaking some other language besides Italian.
âWeâll pay you more. Weâll pay . . . four dollars and twenty-five cents a week.â
Twenty-five cents more a week? That was hundreds more grains of wheat for Mama, dozens more grapes for Bellaâs brothers. And a ribbon for Guilia for sure.
âSi,â
Bella said, jumping up. âIâll do it.â
Signor Carlotti showed her to the vacant machine. He showed her how to make the needle go up and down, how to feed the material through. All she had to do was sew one straight seam up the side of a half-sewn shirtwaist, and then pass the shirtwaist to the next girl in line.
âYou try,â Signor Carlotti said.
Bella wasnât prepared for how hungrily the machine gobbledat the material. The thread snarled; the delicate shirtwaist tore.
Signor Carlotti snarled and swore.
âThatâs a shirtwaist ruined,â he said. âThatâll come out of your salary, young lady!â
Twenty-five cents extra minus the cost of every shirtwaist I ruin?
Bella wondered.
I could end up losing money on my new job !
âBut itâs my first time!â Bella protested.
âAnd it will be your last if you donât do better,â Signor Carlotti growled.
Bella bit her lip. This time, she fed the shirtwaist through the machine more carefully, pumping the needle as slowly as possible.
âAll right,â Signor Carlotti said. âBut if you donât get faster soon, youâll be back cutting threads.â
For the rest of the day, Bella worked steadily. Her palms were sweaty and her stomach twisted in knots, and she stopped every few seconds to pray for the strength to go on. The
Roderick Gordon, Brian Williams