Free Spelldown by Karon Luddy Page A

carrying a pitchfork. The sky is painted in swirls of blue and red and green and pink. Two of the houses are upside down. There’s a round church with a cross on top and a monster-size priest waiting at the door. All those images living in the same painting makes the village utterly wild, but it’s nothing to snicker over, no matter how mixed up it seems to be.
    By the time I put the book aside, it’s almost midnight, and James and Celia are cuddled up beside me, sound asleep. I get up and go to the closet to look at the scarlet red coat Mrs. Harrison gave me today. She said she bought it for herself a couple years ago, but it smells brand-new. I put it on and stand in front of the full-length mirror in the hall, looking like Little Miss Riding Hood before she meets the wolf. I twirl around and around, hugging myself. The red satin lining of the hood feels sexy against my face. I hang the coat up and go into the sparkling white bathroom, wash my face, and then dry it with a fluffy purple towel, thinking how wonderful it would be to have a housekeeper like Mrs. Cora.
    I whisper “I love you” into the mirror, and then kiss its cool, clean surface. I have never actually kissed anyone’s lips, but in my imagination I’ve kissed hundreds of people: the cute new choir director at church; most of the stock boys at the Winn-Dixie; Ricky Worth, the Red Clover Tornadoes quarterback; and Billy Ray Jenkins. I pretend to kiss famouspeople all the time: Joe Namath, of the New York Jets; David Janssen, the poor Fugitive on TV; and, of course, Ringo, by far the most charismatic and kissable of the Fab Four. Sometimes I even pretend I am Mrs. Harrison kissing Mr. Harrison, and vice versa. Mrs. Harrison likes to nibble on Mr. Harrison’s bottom lip, but Mr. Harrison likes to plunge his tongue into Mrs. Harrison’s mouth after a long, smooth, silky kiss.
    As I finish brushing my teeth, I see the Harrisons tiptoe by in the hall. They don’t see me, so I follow them into my bedroom and help them pull the covers off the kids. Mr. Harrison picks up James, and Mrs. Harrison, Celia, and they carry them to their rooms. I get into bed and start looking at the art book again.
    After a while I hear water filling their bathtub. I go back to my bathroom, sit on the toilet lid, and put my ear to the wall. Someone’s gargling. Mrs. Harrison oohs and aahs as she lowers herself into the water. Now, they’re talking. I picture Mr. Harrison sitting backward on the blue velvet vanity chair talking to his wife. Holy Mother, they’re discussing me! I can’t make out everything they say because she’s splashing around in the water, but I can hear certain of Mr. Harrison’s words.
Alcoholic. Loom fixer. Three needy children at home. Decent, hardworking mother
. Then Mrs. Harrison’s saying things about
poor Karlene … Funny. Sweet. Brilliant. Lonely. Confused. Most ambitious child God ever made
. But Mrs. Harrison’s voice has that same hand-wringing sound as Mama’s and makes me feel like poor Eleanor Rigby picking up rice in a church where a wedding has been. I feel horrifiedby how tragic my story sounds coming from their lips. They quit talking for a while and I imagine Mr. Harrison washing her back with a fluffy bath cloth and lavender soap to soothe her. I close my eyes, listening to the silence, and think about how some words ought to be spelled with triple letters. Words like
terrrible
and
flabbbergasted
and
innnocent
.
    Mrs. Harrison is talking again, so I listen closely. “No matter how smart she is, her dreams can only take her so far. Her home life is a mess. What if she loses the state spelling bee, Jack? What in God’s name will she do?”
    “She would come up with a new dream,” Mr. Harrison says, “and we’d help her. Now come on, let’s go to bed.”
    I stand up and look at the girl in the mirror, with droopy blue eyes and clenched jaws. What do the Harrisons know about the Bridges family, anyway? Nothing. Maybe Mr. Harrison