Free Little Sacrifices by Jamie Scott

Virginia. I didn’t always know what I was talking about but she didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she didn’t mind. In return she filled me in on the lives of gentle Southern belles. Though she wasn’t anywhere near popular, she seemed to know all about them, and I enjoyed finally having a girl to gossip with.
    It felt good, more secure, to have friends, plural. We settled into an easy routine, meeting at lunchtime to share gossip and bologna sandwiches. Jim and Fie were two ends of the same rope. He never stopped talking where she was quiet. She was lighthearted where he was intensely purposeful. Their common ground was the fact that they were both good people and I appreciated that. But even though a few good friends might be worth more than lots of not–so–good ones, I still wanted the chance to make that decision based on first hand experience.
     
    My parents eventually got tired of being asked to commute my sentence, so they did. Had I learned my lesson, they wanted to know? I had. Before disobeying them again I’d make sure I had an airtight plan to avoid getting caught.
     
    Once I was free, Jim no longer had to risk his neck to visit. ‘Ma, we’re going upstairs. To study.’ I shouted above the birds at Ma’s stooped silhouette. Since Dora Lee staked her claim on the house, Ma had settled herself outdoors, taking up gardening with the enthusiasm of a recent convert. She glanced up from her flowers and waved. Had Jim been a regular boy, our disappearance would have evoked an impromptu speech. My parents were ever watchful for potential infringements upon my virtue. But Jim wasn’t a regular boy, not in that sense.
    I raced up the stairs after him and wham! I fell knees first on the landing. I was more surprised than hurt but I bellowed anyway, rubbing my stinging joints. I should have remembered the awkward stair, having made its painfully sudden acquaintance on more than one occasion. Jim smirked down at me. Just how did he know to jump the step, I wanted to know?
    He paused. ‘It’s a burglar stair. All these old houses are built with them.’
    ‘All of them?’
    ‘Yep.’
    ‘Well then, presumably the burglars have them in their houses, too, so they’d know to step high on the top stair.’
    ‘May, they don’t always build them on the top stair. That would be stupid, wouldn’t it?’
    Yes, I suppose it would.
    Because I didn’t tell him beforehand that studying was merely a ruse, I couldn’t blame him for staring at me when I flaunted my letter collection. I was disappointed nevertheless by his lack of enthusiasm.
    ‘I found them in the attic. In an old trunk.’ He blinked at me through the fingerprints on his lenses. ‘They’re old, really old. Like from thirty years ago. They’re love letters, Jim.’ Still he gave me no enthusiasm. ‘Aren’t you even interested?’
    ‘Why don’t you just leave dead people’s things alone? How would you like it if someone went through all your stuff when you were dead? Reading all your letters from Lottie? It’s disrespectful is what it is.’
    That wasn’t the point. How he could fail to be captivated by such a find? ‘First of all, Jim, I wouldn’t care if someone went through my things because I’d be dead, wouldn’t I? And second, why are you being so funny about it? It’s just the old lady who lived here. She left it all when she died. She didn’t get rid of them beforehand so she obviously wasn’t too concerned about who’d see them after she was gone. Why should you care?’
    ‘It’s just not right, that’s all. You should let sleeping dogs lie.’ That was the last word he had to say on the subject. He settled back into his book. He was welcome to his homework. I was determined to enjoy my treasure.
    Jim wouldn’t be drawn into the details of Mirabelle’s life. The only concession he’d make was to come with me to see her old house. The temptation to look at history was one he couldn’t resist. We stood for a long