Free R My Name Is Rachel by Patricia Reilly Giff

the kitchen door.
    Dear Pop
,
    I decided I’m going to write you a letter, even though I can’t send it until we have your address. Cassie and Joey are writing, too. We are fine. How are you?
    We have ten chicks in their box near the fireplace; two didn’t hatch. When you pick the live ones up, they fit right in your palm. They are soft with scratchy little feet—no, I mean claws. Gladys is my favorite
.
    I am watching the money, just as you said. Cassie
intends to paint her room. She wheeled a wagon out of the barn and has gone to town. That way, she’ll bring back the paint. It’s a long walk. She’ll be gone most of the day
.
    Don’t worry. We’re saving. Joey brought us something called fiddleheads from down at the stream. He said he read somewhere that you can eat them, so Cassie boiled them up. They are green with a taste that makes your hair want to stand up straight
.
    We ate them anyway, to keep up our strength. This means we didn’t spend the money for two suppers
.
    Please write to us as soon as you can. We look for mail every day. Joey and Cassie send their love. I do, too
.
    Rachel

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
    Upstairs is different in the daylight, bright and cheery. Why is it always so unfriendly in the dark?
    I get dressed, talking to the duck on the wall. Then I run my fingers over each of my old treasures. “I’ll never forget the city,” I whisper so even the duck doesn’t hear me. I picture Charlie the Butcher and Mrs. Lazarus. I remember Mr. Appleby, look forward. Of course, Miss Mitzi.
    And, oh, Clarence.
    I look toward the stack of letters on the windowsill, all from Miss Mitzi. Cassie and Joey have piles of letters from her, too.
    I go through the letters looking for the one about cats and read part of it. It’s as soothing as a cup of sweet hot tea.
    My cat Lazy did come back. I have my fingers crossed that Clarence will, too. Maybe he has to get used to
North Lake. Maybe he’s exploring. One day he might say to himself, “Hey, I’d better find out how my old friend Rachel is.” You’ll look out the window, and there he’ll be, waiting for a handout, just like a hobo. I wonder how my old friend Rachel is, too. Missing all of you is like a toothache. I take out a memory every day and it makes me happy again
.
    The letter sounds exactly the way Miss Mitzi talks. I wipe my eyes and look out at the garden. It’s still full of long reedy grass and stones, which Joey and I keep pulling and tossing.
    Yesterday I felt blisters coming up along my palm, and Joey dropped a rock on his foot. After a while we felt a few drops of rain. “Put your head up, Rachel,” Joey said. “Taste the water on your tongue.”
    We felt like pioneers in the desert.
    But then it poured. Rivers of rain ran along the soil, making little furrows. In two minutes we were full of mud, so we rushed inside.
    It seemed forever before Cassie came back, trudging down the road, her wet hair plastered to her head. She came slowly, pulling the wagon with the can of paint through the ruts in the road.
    I opened the door for her and I could see she was ready to cry. I didn’t have the heart to ask her about the change from the paint. Maybe tomorrow.
    From upstairs, I can hear her working the pump in the kitchen. I hear the up and down creaking, then watersplashing into the sink. I love that sound. And who would have believed I’d love poking my head and my hands under that gush of icy water to wash my hair and my clothes? It’s so much easier than bringing water from the stream. I almost miss going down there with the pots, though. I always stopped to watch the water bubbling over the shiny rocks and see the small arrows of green poking up their heads between the wide leaves of the skunk cabbages.
    In the kitchen we cut the last of the bread and spread it with jam. It’s a good thing there’s a box of crackers up on the shelf left over from the apartment.
    Then we set off. We’re on the way to bring home a goat. Someday we’ll