Free Night Swimmers by Betsy Byars Page A

she yelled. “Burn down the whole city?”

“I DON’T SEE WHAT you’re so upset about,” Arthur was saying. The three of them were walking down the sidewalk with Retta in the lead. “We didn’t do any harm.”
    “You almost caught a tree and a house on fire,” Retta said. “You don’t think that’s harm?”
    She had been determined at first not to speak to Arthur at all in order to show her contempt for him, but she had not been able to do that. She was condescending to answer his questions now, but over her shoulder, as if he were a servant.
    “I don’t get it,” Arthur went on. “It’s all right for your brothers to slip out at night with you, but—”
    “I don’t start fires,” she said.
    “I don’t either. Did I start a fire?” When Retta did not answer, he directed the question to Johnny. “Did we start a fire?”
    He turned to look at Johnny, who was trailing behind them, but Johnny did not look up.
    “You did not start a fire,” Retta said in what she considered a mature voice, “because you were fortunate enough to have the candles burn out in the air.”
    Johnny was walking slower now. With each step he fell farther behind. His head sank forward in misery. The backs of his legs had a weak feeling that made walking difficult.
    Retta’s appearance at the very moment of his triumph had been as shocking and sudden as that of a wicked witch. Indeed, she had been so witchlike in her actions and voice that it had seemed a remake of that scene in The Wizard of Oz when the Wicked Witch of the West appears in a puff of red smoke.
    He had a helpless feeling. It was as if he were a puppet, and his sister would always be there, pulling the strings, spying on him, waiting for just the right moment to leap forward and spoil his life.
    Ahead, Arthur was saying, “I don’t see why you have to treat your brothers like prisoners!”
    “You wouldn’t,” Retta said over her shoulder. Then, realizing she had made a mistake, she added quickly, “Anyway, I do not treat them like prisoners.”
    “Yes, you do.”
    “I do not!”
    She swirled suddenly to face him. Caught off-guard, Arthur almost bumped into her.
    “I happen to be in charge of my brothers,” Retta said. Her hands were on her hips now. She felt strong enough, mature enough, to be put on a Mother’s Day card. “I cook for them and I wash their clothes and I see that they go to bed and I even do their homework for them, and they are not prisoners!”
    “And do you think for them too?”
    Retta turned abruptly. She began walking rapidly down the sidewalk.
    “Look, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Arthur said.
    “You couldn’t upset me.”
    “It’s just that we really weren’t doing anything wrong.”
    “Huh!”
    “Anyway, what we were doing wasn’t any worse than swimming in somebody’s pool without permission.”
    “That’s your opinion.”
    Johnny was lagging even farther behind. As soon as he had heard Arthur use the word “prisoner,” he had realized that was what he was. Tears stung his eyes, and he was grateful for the dark and for the distance between him and Arthur.
    He realized that his friendship with Arthur was ruined—it had been too good to be true anyway—but he did not want Arthur to see him cry. To see him treated like a baby was bad enough. He began to drag his feet on the sidewalk, pausing every now and then to stand, arms hanging, and look at the ground.
    “Isn’t that your house?” Retta asked Arthur over her shoulder.
    “Yes.”
    “Well, shouldn’t you go in? We would like to walk home by ourselves, if you don’t mind.”
    “I do mind. I’m not one of your brothers, you know. You can’t boss me around.”
    Arthur stopped and waited for Johnny to join him. Johnny, head down, said, “Go on in. You don’t have to worry about me.”
    “Well, I just don’t feel right about what happened,” Arthur said, lowering his voice.
    “Me either.”
    “If only your sister would listen to