Free The Yonahlossee Riding Camp for Girls by Anton DiSclafani

your attention to a way you might do more than simply keep those less fortunate than you in your prayers.” Her elocution was perfect. Miss Lee would have approved. “In the spirit of Christian charity, please consider making a pledge for a contribution to a Fund for the Mill Girls, who live a few hours’ drive from us and enjoy none of our benefits.”
    Jettie and Henny stood and walked to the front of the room, carrying a papered box with FUND FOR MILL GIRLS carefully lettered on it in red. Jettie placed a stack of small papers next to it, along with a cup of pencils, and girls started to rise and scribble figures on the papers, then fold them and drop them into the box. It resembled the kind of box Mother had brought home from the Red Cross, for which she had volunteered when we were very small.
    “Thank you in advance for your generosity,” Mrs. Holmes said. I didn’t have any money, not a single cent. I’d never had any money, or at least any that I could touch. “All right, girls,” Mrs. Holmes said. This is what she always said when she finished. It was a place maintained by routine. Mrs. Holmes was nice enough, I supposed. But not too nice, which was how you had to act if anyone was going to listen to you. That’s how I was when I rode.
    Henny stood. We were going to class—I had elocution, then etiquette, one right after the other. They were so boring I could have cried. My parents had never seemed interested in a daughter who had perfect handwriting, or could spot the difference between an olive fork and a lemon fork (an olive fork had two tines; a lemon fork, three), but I wondered if Mother knew or any longer cared exactly what kind of education I was getting. Someone pinched my arm.
    “Ow,” I cried. It was Eva.
    “Sorry.” But she was giggling. “You just always look so lost in your own world. I ate so much! I love hash-brown day.” She smoothed her hands over her waist.
    I smiled. “I stuff myself like a roasted pig at every meal.” And it was true. I did. My appetite had reappeared after the first few days.
    “Eva,” I said, as we climbed the stairs to our classroom, “I didn’t bring any money with me.”
    It felt like a dirty word,
money
, but Eva didn’t seem bothered. I’d never met someone so unconcerned.
    “Oh, that,” she said. “You just ask your father.”
    I nodded, and knew I would never request money from my father. It would mean that I cared about this place.
    “My father,” Eva continued, “says he gives enough with tuition. And Mrs. Holmes comes knocking every winter, in person, for donations to the school. My father says she’s very persuasive.” She smiled, and I noticed she had dusted her face with powder, her cheeks with rouge, but very subtly. “She’ll probably visit your parents, too. But maybe not, since you’re from Florida.” She paused, and bit her lip. “I didn’t mean—”
    “No,” I said, “it’s fine.” We had reached our classroom; I could see Miss Lee’s broad back from behind, writing in cursive on the board. “I know Florida’s . . .” I trailed off, and Eva looked at me expectantly. “A strange place,” I finished. “Not for everyone.”

{ 4 }
    T he day of the dance another letter arrived, this one from Mother. It was long, over two pages of my mother’s rose-scented stationery, her initials engraved at the top of the thick, cream-colored paper.
EAC
, the
E
and
C
flanking the ornately drawn
A
. Elizabeth Collins Atwell.
    My mother had surprising handwriting, inconsistent and loopy.
Dear Thea
, the letter began, and went on about the vegetable and herb garden and the swarms of bees and butterflies it attracted, before concluding:
    Sam is fine
,
as fine as can be expected. No one knows quite what to expect, though. It’s all undecided, will stay that way for a while I predict. Sometimes I’m so angry with you. Other times I’m so sorry for you. Such a terrible thing. May God grant them and us peace.
    Everyone here