Free Jefferson's Sons by Kimberly Bradley

noticed. “Take the hoe and strip the sod,” he said quietly. “I’ll go get a wheelbarrow of old manure. We’ll mix it in before we set out the plants.”
    A big piece of Master Jefferson’s hair came loose from its tie. The wind blew it in front of his eyes. He pushed it back with an irritated gesture.
    â€œI’ll fix that, Grandpa,” the girl said. She untied Master Jefferson’s queue and combed his hair with her fingers.
    Beverly slashed at the sod. He hated this. Then Master Jefferson said, “You’re getting stronger, Beverly.”
    It wasn’t much, but it made Beverly feel better. “Yes, sir,” he said, straightening. “Mama says I’ve grown.”
    â€œI can see.”
    The girl finished Master Jefferson’s hair, then tugged his shirt sleeve. “Are we done here? I want to go look at the strawberries. I want to see if they’re ripe.”
    â€œCertainly,” Master Jefferson said. He took her offered hand and they walked away. Beverly waited for something else, for Master Jefferson to turn back, or wave or say good-bye. Surely he wouldn’t just leave, not after starting a conversation.
    He did. As he and the girl walked past Uncle John, who was pushing the barrow of manure, the girl said, “Oh, Grandpa, aren’t we lucky to have John to help us?”
    I’m invisible to her, thought Beverly. She doesn’t see me.
    John set the wheelbarrow down. Beverly said, “Did you hear what she said? Like she did the work, and you and I just helped a little.”
    John shrugged. “She’s young,” he said. “She doesn’t know better.”
    â€œShe’s older than me,” protested Beverly.
    Uncle John shook his head. “Don’t let little things bother you. If you do, you’ll be nothing but bothered, all the days of your life.”
    Â 
    But Beverly was bothered. He shouldn’t be invisible. His house shouldn’t have to be hidden. He ought to have just as much right to talk to Master Jefferson—his father—as that girl had to talk to her grandfather.
    Mama wouldn’t take his side. “You listen to Uncle John,” she said that night, when Beverly complained. “People in our position don’t have the luxury of being upset. You’d best learn to ignore all you can.”
    â€œWhat’s my position?” Beverly said.
    Mama looked stern. “You’re Sally’s son,” she said. “Sally’s oldest son.”
    â€œBut I’m his son too,” Beverly said. “I’m family. That girl acted like she couldn’t even see me. I’m her uncle, and she acts like I don’t matter at all.”
    â€œYou matter,” Mama said.
    â€œNot to her,” said Beverly. “Not to—”
    â€œYou matter,” Mama repeated. “Not because of whose son you are. Because of who you are. You’re as important as every other human being that ever was or ever will be. Everyone matters. What that girl thinks of you, how she treats you, can’t change the fine person that you are.
    â€œI don’t want you walking around thinking of Miss Martha’s girls as family. It won’t help you. They aren’t going to treat you like family. There’s nothing we can do about that.
    â€œBut you matter. Harriet matters, Maddy matters. Uncle John matters. There’s not a soul on this mountain that doesn’t matter.”
    Mama turned suddenly to Harriet. “But you, now, you listen to me,” she said. “These few weeks while we’ve got Miss Martha’s girls around, you need to start paying attention to them. How they act. How they dress, how they talk, how they carry themselves. They’re being raised as little ladies, and someday, Miss Harriet, you’re going to be a lady too. You’re going to need to know how to behave just the way they do.”
    Harriet’s face lit into a