Uprising by Margaret Peterson Haddix Read Free Book Online Page A

shirtwaists, Bella found her mind traveling in other directions. She tried to puzzle out the words she heard the other girls using— when they called Signor Carlotti an “allrightnik,” their eyes rolling and their noses scrunched up, that was an insult, wasn’t it? And what was this “union” 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 other’s eyes. They—
oh, please, don’t even imagine this! It will make your hands tremble, you’ll cut the shirtwaist! Oh, all right, go ahead. Just be careful—
-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 movies—she 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 she’d never been to a movie, so she couldn’t picture that at all. She planned to ask Pietro this very evening if he’d 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.
    â€œBella?” It was Signor Carlotti, not screaming at her for once. “A girl is sick. We need you to operate one of the machines.”
    â€œMe?” Bella squeaked out. “At the machines?”
    She could understand Signor Carlotti better now, though she still thought he was speaking some other language besides Italian.
    â€œWe’ll pay you more. We’ll pay . . . four dollars and twenty-five cents a week.”
    Twenty-five cents more a week? That was hundreds more grains of wheat for Mama, dozens more grapes for Bella’s brothers. And a ribbon for Guilia for sure.
    â€œSi,”
Bella said, jumping up. “I’ll do it.”
    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.
    â€œYou try,” Signor Carlotti said.
    Bella wasn’t prepared for how hungrily the machine gobbledat the material. The thread snarled; the delicate shirtwaist tore.
    Signor Carlotti snarled and swore.
    â€œThat’s a shirtwaist ruined,” he said. “That’ll come out of your salary, young lady!”
    Twenty-five cents extra minus the cost of every shirtwaist I ruin?
Bella wondered.
I could end up losing money on my new job !
    â€œBut it’s my first time!” Bella protested.
    â€œAnd it will be your last if you don’t do better,” 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.
    â€œAll right,” Signor Carlotti said. “But if you don’t get faster soon, you’ll be back cutting threads.”
    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