Free The Hired Girl by Laura Amy Schlitz Page A

the worst is over, and I believe I have circumvented Father.
    Once my mind was made up, I planned my escape with great care and cunning. I knew I’d have to look older, both to elude pursuit and to convince my future employers that I am a mature and responsible female. I unearthed the bolt of chocolate-brown twill that Father bought for next year’s dress and added a flounce to this year’s dress, so that the hem almost touches the ground. And I’ve pinned my hair up in a knot on top of my head. I felt a pang when I put up my hair, because Miss Chandler doesn’t like it when girls try to look older than they are. When Libby Watkins — who is only sixteen — put her hair on top of her head,
without even a bow,
Miss Chandler thought it was very sad. She says that girls grow up too fast nowadays. Of course when she said that, I agreed heartily, because Libby’s awful stuck-up.
    But here I am, only fourteen, with my hair skewered on top of my head and held tight with thirteen hairpins. It’s uncomfortable because my hair is so heavy that the hairpins don’t anchor it, and the knot lurches when I move my head. But I look older in my long dress — goodness, I look almost matronly! Not half an hour ago, I transformed myself in the ladies’ room here. Oh, such a ladies’ room! It has pale wood, glossy and smooth as satin, and white marble around the sinks! Everything is so beautifully clean and hygienic and modern! When I compare it to what we have back home —
    No. I actually was
going
to compare it, but now I’m not, because thinking about things like that is vulgar. And I’ve made up my mind: in my new life, I’m not going to be vulgar. Even though I’m going to be a servant, I’m going to cultivate my finer feelings. I will better myself and write with truth and refinement, just as Miss Chandler said.
    Where was I? Oh, yes — my escape. It seems to me that God Himself is blessing my endeavor, because last night Father checked the almanac, and it turns out that rain is predicted, starting tomorrow afternoon. So of course Father’s afraid of losing the hay crop, and his whole mind is fixed on that.
    I was nervous when I got up this morning, because I knew that
this was the day.
As soon as the men went out to work, I slipped upstairs to pack. I’d set everything aside: my brown dress with the new long skirt; my nightgown, toothbrush, and comb; Ma’s workbasket; my Bible; and Belinda — oh! Belinda! With what emotion did I snip open her apron on Wednesday, only to discover
twenty-nine dollars
inside! Twenty-nine dollars! My heart ached when I thought of the long years Ma must have saved to amass such a fortune. I could imagine her trying to get the thirtieth dollar — Ma had an orderly mind, and I know she would have preferred to leave me a round sum. But I guess that thirtieth dollar just wasn’t forthcoming, and she was afraid she’d run out of time.
    I took fourteen of the dollars and sewed the rest back into Belinda’s apron. I brought a cardboard suitcase down from the attic — it was kind of beat-up, but the alternative was carrying my things in a pillowcase. I didn’t pack the suitcase, because I daren’t walk down the hill carrying it. I smashed it and folded it, so I could stuff it in the buckets I use for picking berries.
    Then I dressed myself in last year’s sage-green dress, which is disgracefully short, and fixed my hair in two long braids. I stood before the mirror a long time — no, not a long time, because I hadn’t time to waste, but a few minutes, I’m sure. My heart was pounding, and I dreaded what I had to do next.
    I hadn’t packed Ma’s embroidery scissors. I took them from the dresser and covered my bruised eye with my left hand. My fingers shook, but I brought the blades of the scissors close to the wound and snipped at Dr. Fosse’s stitches. It was hard to cut them without hurting the scabs around the wound, but I managed it:
snip — snip — snip.
The part that followed