Free The Heroines by Eileen Favorite Page B

“Mother said. “Is she up in her room?”
    I ran to the cabinets and opened the doors to twin stacks of plates. “Which plates, Gretta? Inside or out?”
    “Outside,” Gretta said. “Too hot in dining room. Wash those hands first, you.”
    I went to the sink and let the cool water run over my dusty arms first. My hands shook as I rubbed the soap between my palms. I wiped them on a dishtowel and went back to the cabinet, taking down a stack of miscellaneous china plates, oddballs Mother had collected at yard sales and thrift stores.
    Gretta handed me a large cotton tablecloth with bright red strawberries. “Put this down first.”
    “We’ll need to bring Franny a tray,” Mother said.
    “I’ll bring it up later.” I backed into the door.
    “That’s very nice, Penny,” Mother said. “She seems to like you. I’ll make dinner for two. Maybe she’ll eat if you’re with her.”
    After I’d set the table and the other boarders had gathered around the picnic table, Mother handed me a tray with two plates with chicken salad sandwiches on hard bread, potato salad, and grated beets. I was famished, so it wouldn’t be hard to eat Franny’s share. I climbed the stairs to her room, half hoping I’d push open the door and find her curled up on the window seat. But the room was empty, her white bedspread tucked in with tight Gretta-style corners. Sunlight filtered through the yellowed eyelet curtains. I put the tray on the nightstand and sat in an armchair. I ate my sandwich absentmindedly and stared at the edge of curling, flowered wallpaper in the corner of the room. I was really afraid now. If Franny got hurt out there or didn’t come back, I wasn’t sure what would happen. I was just young enough to care most about not getting in trouble. Mother would probably assume that Franny had returned to her story. I didn’t think anything could change in her story, since she’d come to us at the end of her book. But I was deeply dismayed that the first Heroine who’d cared about me might meet a terrible fate. And it would all be my fault. I finished everything on my plate but the beets, and I glanced around the room feeling morose. Water spots stained the ceiling; the Persian rug was threadbare at the corners. Everything about the Homestead seemed worn out and old. I longed for multicolored shag, rainbow canopy beds, denim beanbags, the furnishings I’d seen at Albie’s house. I was young enough to believe that these trappings would prove I had a normal life.
    Just as I picked up Franny’s sandwich, somebody knocked on the door.
    I shot out of the chair. “Franny?”
    Mother poked her head in the room. “Isn’t she here?”
    I shook my head and looked down at the crusty bread in my hand. Mayonnaise squished along the edges.
    “Where is she? Is she gone gone?”
    “I think so,” I mumbled.
    Mother came in the room and sat down beside me; she wrapped an arm around my shoulder, and I started to cry. “You really cared for her.”
    I shrugged, sniffling and wiping the tears with the back of my hand. I longed to tell Mother the truth, to ask her to organize a search party. But I’d deliberately disobeyed her order not to go too deep in the woods. And her comforting arms felt so good. She kissed the top of my head. “I sometimes get too attached to them as well.”
    “It’s not fair. Nobody else here even talks to me.”
    “She really took to you. I can see why. You’re very compassionate.”
    I shook my head. “No, I’m not.” I couldn’t bear to be complimented, not when something really bad might happen to Franny.
    “Let’s go downstairs,” Mother said. “There’s ice cream.”
    I shrugged again, and Mother lifted the tray from the nightstand. She sighed as she glanced around the room, some trace element of Franny still lingering in the air.
    “Mom?”
    She looked back. “Yes?”
    “What’s so bad about the woods at night?”
    “It’s just—” She sat back down on the bed. “It’s not