Free Girl Runner by Carrie Snyder

nephew, Little Robbie. Such defiance, no tears. His darting eyes. He scrambles to standing and flickers a bloody grin before shooting away, terrifically free, it seems to me.
    “You’re too nice, Aggie. You need to let people be,” says George.
    “I let him be!” I argue back.
    “You gave him your handkerchief.”
    “I’ll hem another, if I need one, which I don’t.”
    George doesn’t show me where he lives, but this doesn’t strike me as strange at the time. I suppose it doesn’t strike me at all. Have we ever got along? I can’t quite believe that we have. I dislike his porkpie hat and his thinly rolled cigarette. His jacket is made of a shiny fabric, and his hair is slick with oil, like he’s trying to make himself impermeable. He seems to be pretending to be someone other than I know him to be.
    We stand on the paved walk outside a row house covered in dark red-and-black tar paper made to look like bricks. The houses are attached one to the next, three stories tall, with peaked roofs and tiny windows. Behind us, a streetcar rattles by.
    “I found this charming little rathole for Olive. The landlady came highly recommended for her rates if not for her soup—Mrs. Smythe. She won’t mind an extra for a week or two. How long are you staying, Aggie? Want a real job? Real money?”
    “Why would I want money?” I’m holding my bag myself. George hasn’t offered to carry it, not that I’d want him to. I swing it lightly against my legs, tapping it on my knees.
    “Everyone wants money, Aggie. Even the best of us.”
    “Not me.”
    “Hi-ho. In we go. Who do you think’s paying for your room, kiddo?”
    Yes, I kind of hate him. My own brother.
    Mrs. Smythe shows me to Olive’s room. It is clean: white walls, white board floors, and a tidy summer quilt atop a double bed. I like it instantly. I drop my bag on the floor and come downstairs to say good-bye to George. I flush when Mrs. Smythe tells me he’s already gone. Am I to chase my brother down the street? I won’t. It is hot in the entryway, dark even at mid-afternoon. I’m afraid to ask Mrs. Smythe if George has given her any money. I do not know what I owe, nor to whom, but I have money, a bit of it, entrusted to me by my mother. I know that it has come from Olive, who sends it home.
    I excuse myself, deciding rather confusedly that I should give the money back to Olive. Olive will know what to do with it.
    Despite all of this, I have a very odd sensation as I hurry up the steps and return to the clean white room: I feel at home. I spread myself across the bed like a long-limbed starfish and drift into a peaceful dreamy half-sleep.
    The other girls in the rooming house are factory girls, like Olive. I wake to the sound of their voices in the hall. And then to Olive herself, coming in, crowing with a delight that seems out of character at home, but perfectly in character here in the city. She jumps onto the bed and onto me, kissing my cheeks.
    “Um, hello,” I say, feeling shy.
    “I can’t believe you came! You really came!” Olive sits back on her haunches and folds her legs under her bottom. A girl stops in the doorway, leans in. “Look! It’s my little sister.”
    “She looks enormously tall,” the girl drawls. “Pleased to meet you, little sister. I haven’t got any sisters myself.”
    “That explains a lot,” says Olive. I understand, but barely, that Olive is joking, and that the girl appreciates it. Another girl leans in, and a third, and then they retreat. I need the bathroom, so Olive goes into the hall and bangs on the door.
    “It’s Mary Alice, crying over a boy,” says one of the girls walking by. “She’ll be forever.”
    “Don’t dirty your drawers,” says a second girl.
    “Yes, don’t poop your panties,” says the first.
    “Don’t dribble on the floor.”
    “That doesn’t rhyme.”
    “Yours didn’t rhyme. Are we rhyming now?”
    This is all very hilarious. I am not doing it proper justice. I can