Free The Unwelcomed Child by V. C. Andrews Page B

poked her back a little roughly.
    “Just for that, you swim back!” she shouted at him. Then she ran into the woods.
    He waved to me, and then he ran after her, shouting, “Like hell I will!”
    I stood there listening to them disappear into the woods. Then I turned and walked slowly the rest of the way, my ears still ringing with the happy-go-lucky tone in their voices and their laughter but my body trembling as if all my bones were vibrating. Their innocent questions about my parents were a good prologue to what I was sure I would get when and if I entered a public school. It would be only natural for the other students to want to know more about me. How was I to answer? How was I to explain? Would I reveal that I had no father, no mother, or make up some story? Could I just come right out and tell them my mother had been raped, and as a result I had been born, and she had run off?
    I was afraid to ask Grandmother Myra what I should say. She might interpret that to mean that I was afraid of going to school and then reject the idea. And yet I was confident that she knew those questions would come. Surely she would prepare me for them. Perhaps she had to prepare herself for them first. One thing was certain, she would never expect me to have confronted any girl or boy of my age during a seemingly innocent walk to the lake and have all these things come up.
    When I entered through the back door, she looked up from the food she was setting out on the island in the center of the kitchen. She wiped her hands on a dish towel and gave me that studied look I was anticipating. Then she looked up at the clock and nodded.
    “So?” she asked. “Where did you go? What did you draw?”
    “There were no ducks on the lake when I got there, at least where I was, but I saw this doe standing not more than fifteen feet away and got a good look at its face.”
    I turned my pad and showed her my preliminary sketch.
    She nodded. “Better than what your so-called mother could do,” she said.
    I guessed that as long as I was compared with my mother, I could find some appreciation in her words and looks. I was getting to the point where I was happy I had a mother, her daughter, with whom she found so much fault now. I couldn’t lose if she continually compared me with her.
    My grandfather walked into the kitchen.
    “Did I hear we have a drawing?”
    “Just a start, Grandfather,” I said, and showed it to him. He took it from my hands and looked at it keenly, as if he were a professional art critic.
    “Love how you’ve captured her eyes,” he said.
    “Good,” my grandmother said. “Go wash your hands, and help me prepare dinner.”
    Grandfather Prescott handed my pad back.
    “Can I go again tomorrow?” I asked.
    “If the weather permits,” my grandmother said. “After you do your chores and finish the assignments I’ve given you.”
    Although the twins made me very nervous, I was intrigued with the idea of seeing them again. I dared not think of going swimming with them, not only because I couldn’t swim but because they’d surely have many more questions that were difficult for me to answer. Even if I wasn’t able to do that, I thought I would stay up all night if I had to in order to finish the schoolwork and be able to go back into the woods and to the lake.
    I headed first for my room and then into the bathroom. In between, I heard Grandfather Prescott say, “I told you she would be just fine, and she does have an artistic talent, Myra.”
    My grandmother gave her famous grunt.
    Later, at dinner, after I described the place I had discovered under the pine trees, my grandfather casually suggested he might take a walk with me the next day. My heart sank, first because I was afraid that Mason and Claudine might come looking for me again and second because I wanted to be able to observe them again if they didn’t, keeping myself a little less obvious.
    “Don’t worry,” he added. “I won’t hang around and look over