Uprising by Margaret Peterson Haddix Read Free Book Online Page B

sewing machine was a gleaming, glossy black that reminded her of the landowner’s horse back in Italy; sewing, Bella felt like she was holding on to the reins of a wild stallion. She couldn’t risk even a single second of thinking about Pietro or Calia or anything else. But by the end of the day, she’d managed to sew dozens of shirtwaists without ruining a single other one.
    Proudly, she stood up to take her pay for the week from Signor Carlotti. He counted out three dollars and one thin dime into her hand. Bella stood there waiting for the other dollar, the other fifteen cents. But Signor Carlotti had already moved on to the next girl.
    â€œWait,” Bella said. “You said you’d pay me four dollars and twenty-five cents.”
    â€œYou ruined a shirtwaist,” Signor Carlotti said.
    â€œOnly one!”
    â€œAnd you were a learner on the machine today. Remember, learners don’t get paid. So that’s only five days of work, minus twenty cents for the ruined shirtwaist—yep, three-ten.”
    Bella gasped.
    â€œYou tricked me!” she said. “You promised me four twenty-five! You told me I’d make more money on the machine!”
    â€œI don’t understand what you’re saying,” Signor Carlotti said. “If you’re too stupid to learn English, at least learn proper Italian.”
    Bella glared at him. She knew he knew what she was saying. But how could she defend herself if he wouldn’t even listen? Desperately, she glanced at the other girls around her. None of them were Italian, but
they
seemed to understand. They peered at her with sympathy in their eyes, but they were shaking their heads fearfully.
    â€œDon’t fight—he’ll fire you,” one girl whispered. Bella could figure out what she was saying just by the resignation in her voice.
    â€œI’m telling Pietro,” Bella said.
“He’ll
make you give me my money!”
    She stalked toward the elevators, but there was a huge crush of workers all wanting to leave at once. Bella was too angry to wait. Wasn’t there any other way out? For the first time, she noticed a door at the other end of the building; she rushed over to it and peeked through the glass pane in thedoor—stairs! She turned the knob and shoved against the door, but it was locked.
    â€œOh, no, you don’t,” a man said angrily. He jerked her away from the door, then shoved her back toward the crowd again.
    Bella circled the sewing machine tables widely so she didn’t have to go right past Signor Carlotti again. This time, passing a row of windows, she looked out and noticed that there was a small, rickety fire escape leading down toward the ground in the narrow space between buildings. Fine. She’d go out that way. Bella was just beginning to tug on the window, trying to push it up, when she heard the man yelling at her again.
    This time, he clamped his hand around her arm and pulled her through the crowd until they reached the guard who always watched the girls leave, inspecting their purses and their hair, sometimes even patting down their blouses or skirts. Bella had never understood what he was doing, and he’d never bothered her much, since she didn’t have a purse or a fancy hairdo. But now the man shoved her toward the guard and said something like, “Search this one very thoroughly”— Bella guessed that was what he said, because the guard began sliding his hands along her sleeves, then reaching for her waist, even her breasts . . .
    â€œHow dare you!” Bella screamed, pulling away.
    â€œWhere’d you hide the shirtwaists?” the guard muttered, Bella understanding the word “shirtwaists” and figuring out the rest. And then, with a searing shame, she realized: They thought she was stealing shirtwaists. That’s what the guard was looking for every afternoon when he peered into purses,when he curled his fingers into