Free Finding My Own Way by Peggy Dymond Leavey

shivering. Eventually, I drew my feet up under me, then curled up, pulling over me the rough, maroon blanket we kept folded over the back. I used to hate these raw blankets Nan got from the woollen mills at Bancroft. They were so scratchy against your skin, and had no satin edging like the ones on Margaret’s bed. Tonight though, the blanket was a comforting cocoon. Ernie dozed on the floor beside me.
    In the morning, I discovered I’d left the canvas bag of clothespins on the line outside. It had worked its way down the wire to where it now hung, bumping in the wind against the house. Feeling ridiculous, I took it inside and tossed it into the laundry basket. If I was going to succeed at living on my own, I’d have to do better than that.
    When I arrived at the five-and-ten that morning, I found Mr. Forth more frazzled than yesterday. “It’s Bobby Baker, the assistant manager who is in charge ofstaff,” he explained, wringing his small hands while I waited on the bottom step to the office.
    I stood firm. He wasn’t going to change his mind if I had anything to say about it. When I was still there, fully a minute later, he continued. “Bobby won’t be in today till after lunch. I forgot that, when I told you to come in for eight-thirty.”
    â€œThat’s okay,” I said reasonably. “I’m sure I can find enough to keep me busy till then.”
    Because Mr. Forth seemed to have no idea what to do with me, I had no trouble convincing him that I should follow the other girls around and get used to where things were in the store. “There’s nothing worse for a customer than to ask some staff person where something is, and then follow them all over the store because they don’t know themselves,” I told him.
    So I spent the next two hours getting acquainted with the layout of Savaway. After that, I offered to help a middle-aged woman named Pat do some price changes. I pulled the pins out of the old price tags and Pat repinned the new ones.
    At twelve o’clock Mr. Forth came around to tell me it was time for me to take my lunch. In my excitement that morning I had forgotten that I needed to bring one. There was a lunch counter at the back of the store, and I studied the menu on the wall above the grease-spattered mirror. There was a picture of a grey rectangle, masquerading as meatloaf, a colourless chicken salad, a plate of chips with gravy. The smell of the canned spaghetti was making my mouth water.
    I slid up onto a stool. “Just a Coke, please,” I saidwhen the waitress pulled the order pad out of the waistband of her apron, the pencil from over her ear.
    â€œThat all?” she glared. “I thought you were on lunch.”
    â€œI brought my own today,” I lied.
    â€œWell, you aren’t allowed to eat it at this counter.”
    â€œI wasn’t going to,” I said. “I just want a cold drink.”
    â€œSuit yourself,” the woman shrugged. She had black hair with a lot of grey in it, cut short, with whiskers at the back that matched those on her upper lip.
    The man on the stool beside me left half a bun on his plate, along with a slice of anaemic tomato and a single piece of wilted lettuce. I spun the stool in the opposite direction to avoid salivating while I waited. I hadn’t had anything to eat since supper last night.
    I bought a ten-cent bag of potato chips in the candy aisle and was heading for the back room when I spotted William Thomas at the stationery counter.
    â€œOh, Mr. Thomas,” I said, “I wanted to thank you for the tip.” He gave me a puzzled look. “About coming here to find a job? I got it. Today’s my first day.”
    Recognition dawned. “That’s terrific, Libby. Congratulations. I hope you make a fortune,” he said warmly.
    â€œI won’t, sir. Not here.”
    He took the small paper bag the girl behind the counter held out for him and dropped the