Free Miss Spitfire by Sarah Miller Page A

better, I think,” I tell her. Leaning over, I press my spoon—no knives or forks for this wild one-into her hand.
    The spoon clatters to the floor. Defiant, Helen lowers her chin to her plate and shovels the food toward her mouth.
    Her insolence propels me like a whip from my chair. Grabbing her hand, I point with it to the floor, indicating the spoon. “Pick that up,” I bark. She writhesbeneath my grip, stretching for her plate. With a sweep of my arm I shove the food out of her reach. She tries to shimmy over the table toward it, but I catch her pinafore ties and haul her back. “Nothing for you until you pick up that spoon,” I repeat, pointing her hand toward it with each word.
    The whole of her body seems to dig into the chair.
    Moving to her back, I try to pull Helen’s seat away from the table, but she clings to the tabletop, linens and all. The entire table setting inches toward me as I edge Helen and the chair backward. Tipping the seat toward the floor, I try to dump her in a heap, but she wraps her legs round the rungs and dangles between table and floor.
    Panting, I abandon the chair and go straight for her body. With my foot braced against the seat of the chair, I wrap my arms round her waist and pry her from the table. The china quivers as she loses her grip on the tablecloth.
    Dislodged from her stronghold, Helen thrashes like a broken-winged bird, so I’m forced to drag her across the room toward the spoon. When I nudge her boot against it, she refuses to bend and pick it up. It doesn’t matter—I fold her up and shove her to the floor as though she’s nothing more than a stubborn jack-in-the-box. I put the spoon in her hand, but she refuses to hold it. She flails and squirms, thrusting her hands into my face and digging her nails into my scalp.
    Huffing with exertion, I wrestle the spoon intoHelen’s hand, clamp my own fist over hers, and yank her to her feet. Back to the table we limp. At every step she locks her knees like a stubborn billy goat, and I kick at the backs of her legs with my own knees to prod her ahead. All the while I keep my hand locked over hers, for she writhes as though I’m making her carry a fistful of fire across the room.
    At the table I jam Helen down into her seat and shove her chair forward until it pinches her against the table. Still holding the spoon in her hand, I scoop eggs from her plate and try to guide the spoonful to her mouth. Her arm turns stiff as a railroad tie, and she presses her lips together tighter than a stack of folded newspapers.
    â€œThink you can outlast me?” I move behind her and wrap my arm round her chest, locking her left arm to her side. Cheek to cheek, I brace my head against hers to keep her from jerking her neck aside.
    â€œGot you in my arms at last,” I mutter in her dead ear as I inch our clasped right hands toward her mouth. Before I’m done, I have to press the spoon against her lips until they turn white to make her open up. At last my size and strength prevail, and I compel her to take up the food with the spoon. After a few bites she yields and I release her.
    Perched on the tabletop, I watch her eat like a human being.
Wait until the Kellers see this,
I gloat to myself. One victory, at last.
    Or so I think.

Chapter 14
    It was another hour before I succeeded in getting her napkin folded.
    â€”ANNE SULLIVAN TO SOPHIA HOPKINS, MARCH 1887
    When Helen’s cleaned her plate, she flings the napkin to the floor and runs to the door. Finding it locked, she kicks and screams all over again.
    â€œLord above,” I groan, pressing my fingertips to my temples. Minutes pass. An aching pulse behind my eyes throbs to the beat of her fearful racket. Driven by the pain, I stride to the door, grab Helen by the shoulders, and shake her until her teeth rattle. “Enough!” I shout at her. “If you won’t leave this table like a civilized person, you can spend the night