Free I'm Not Your Other Half by Caroline B. Cooney Page B

went on caroling, “Term papers!”
    I told Michael about it when we met by Annie’s locker between fourth and fifth period. “I love research,” I said. “It’s so exciting. You find a sentence here and a clue there and you piece this person together. It’s like a treasure hunt.”
    Michael stared at me as if I were insane. “I hate research,” he said emphatically. “I like it all prepared for me, ready to read.”
    â€œI was thinking I’d get started Saturday. Look Eliza up at the State University Library for a few hours.”
    â€œBut Fraser,” protested Michael, “we were going skiing on Saturday. You can research Eliza any time. Besides, you don’t even know who she is yet. Maybe there’s a biography on her at the local library in Chapman.”
    â€œI like big libraries. Sitting with all the college kids. Walking past a million books. Anyhow, we’ve been skiing four straight weekends in a row, and it should be clear to you that skiing is not my strong point. You go skiing. I’ll go to the library.”
    Michael sighed. “All right. If you can wait to get started until after lunch, I’ll drive you up.”
    â€œNo, no. You ski. I’ll research alone.”
    â€œCome on, Fray. We just got out of Computer Club and Madrigals in order to spend time together, and you’re arranging to spend an entire Saturday without me? Be kind. You’re kind to animals. Be kind to me.”
    During a slow period at Toybrary, I crossed the library to look Eliza up in the Dictionary of American Biography.
    Pilsbury … Pinchback … Pinckney, Charles … Pinckney, Charles Cotesworth … Pinckney, Eliza Lucas (1722–1793).
    Oh, good, I thought. Colonial and Revolutionary War. I like that period.
    Eliza turned out to be some woman. At age sixteen she managed three plantations in South Carolina—by herself. She set out live oak trees for future navies. She studied enough law to draft wills for her poorer neighbors. Because her plantations were mortgaged, she had to find a profitable crop. She revived silk culture and directed experiments with flax and hemp. She was the first person in South Carolina to make a success of growing the dye indigo. She was also, said the Dictionary, “popular in Charleston society.”
    I lost interest in anything besides Eliza. She was my kind of person. I tried to imagine her—sixteen, seventeen, eighteen; dancing at the balls in Charleston by night, running agricultural experiments by day. What color is indigo? I thought.
    I could feel her, across the years. Eliza. Even her name sounded strong.
    I thought I was pretty terrific, running Toybrary. Big deal. I didn’t introduce new crops to the New World.
    â€œFraser,” interrupted Miss Herschel with extreme annoyance. I jumped. I had been in Colonial South Carolina with Eliza. “All these phone calls on the library line are unacceptable. You tell them to call you at home. Is that clear?”
    â€œYes, Miss Herschel,” I said. I hate being yelled at. I can’t help feeling that at my age I should be past that. Miss Herschel and I should have a conference if she doesn’t like what I’m doing; she shouldn’t yell at me as if I were nine. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Who is it? I’ll call him back.”
    â€œFor once it isn’t a him. It’s a girl named Connie. She’s still on the line.”
    â€œConnie! How neat. I haven’t heard from her in ages.”
    â€œDon’t use my phone to have your reunion,” snapped Miss Herschel, and she stalked off to help a little boy find out about the longest, tallest, hugest and heaviest of all the things that fascinated him. About the only way to keep little boys from checking out war toys is to give them the Guinness Book of Records.
    â€œHi, Connie,” I said happily. “How are you? Where’ve you