Criss Cross, Double Cross. Norma Charles
life?”
“It’s a beauty, all right. Can’t I ride it just to the end of the road and back? I promise I won’t wreck it or anything.” Sophie was so excited her mouth was watering.
“No, I’m not allowed to lend it to anyone. Sorry.” Elizabeth smoothed her hair back over her shoulders again and patted her hair ribbon. She didn’t look the least bit sorry. “I’ve got to go back home now. My mother’s waiting for these groceries. Bye. See you later.” She mounted her bicycle again, thrust her nose in the air, and pedalled down the path as smoothly as a fancy figure skater on ice.
“Stuck-up!” Sophie muttered. “She’s nothing but a dirty rotten stuck-up!” She stormed along the front path and almost bumped into Joseph, her oldest brother. He was rushing down the steps with a towel around his shoulders.
“Where are you going, Joe?”
“Swimming at Deer Lake,” he said, grabbing his bike from the front-porch railing.
“Swimming! Can I come?”
“Nosiree,” Joseph said, wheeling his bike past her. “For one thing, you don’t have a bike. And even if you did, you could never keep up with us.”
“Could so!” Sophie shouted after him. “I could ride like the wind if I had a bike my size and you gave me half a chance!”
“Hey, Joe. You guys coming or not?” his friend, Gerald, called from down the street.
“We’re coming! We’re coming! Hold your pants!” Henri, Sophie’s second-oldest brother, yelled. He was pushing his bike around the side of the house. His baseball cap was on sideways and his freckled cheeks were already red from the heat of the day.
Sophie’s third brother, Arthur, scrambled along the path and out the swinging gate. “See you later, kiddo,” he said, twiddling his fingers at Sophie. He scrunched down his Jughead hat, jumped on his bike, and pedalled furiously to catch up with his older brothers.
Sophie ran out to the gate and watched them ride away in a cloud of dust.
“They’re so lucky,” she grumbled to herself. “They get to spend the whole afternoon swimming at Deer Lake. It’s just not fair.” She swung on the gate again. “Just because they’re older. And boys.”
Even Arthur, who was only twelve, had managed to earn enough money with his new paper route to buy a good secondhand bike from Cap’s Bicycles in Sapperton.
Sophie was saving for a bike, too, but so far all she had in her piggy bank was $1.73, mostly in nickels and dimes. And there was no bike in the whole world she could buy for a measly $1.73.
She slammed the gate shut, walked down the path and up the steps to the front door, and banged into the house. “Maman!”
“I’m in the living room.” Sophie’s mother was sitting on the piano bench, flipping though a thick music book. She wore a cool cotton dress sprayed with pink flowers.
“Maman, I really, really, need a bicycle. Everyone in the whole world has a bicycle but me. Could you buy me one? Please?”
Her mother shook her head. “I’m sorry, Sophie. It takes all our money just to buy food and clothes for you and your brothers.”
“It’s not fair!” Sophie cried. She knew her mother would say that, but she had to try. Papa had a good engineering job now since the family had moved from Montreal a few months ago, yet there was still never enough money for extras.
“Could you please look after Zephram until his nap time while I practise these hymns on the piano?” Maman asked. Sophie’s little two-year-old brother was playing with his blocks under the piano bench, smacking them together.
“I guess so. There’s nothing else to do,” Sophie grumbled. “Can we at least go play outside for a while?”
“I’d rather you looked after him in here. You know what a wanderer he is.”
“But it’s too hot and stuffy inside. If I take him out, I’ll watch him every single minute. I promise.”
Zephram started twiddling the high keys on the piano with his fat little fingers.
“Okay,” Maman said, ruffling his curly hair. “But don’t let him out of your sight. Not for a second.”
“I won’t. Come on, Zephie.” Sophie led him to the front door.
“Maybe you’d better take him to the backyard,” Maman called after them.
“Okay, Maman.” Sophie held her little brother’s hand as they went outside, down the steps, and around the side of the house to the backyard. Zephram padded beside her with bare feet on the sandy path. He wore a blue romper, a sort of long shirt that fastened between his legs. His mop of curly blond hair reflected back the golden sunlight.
Sophie could hear Maman practising the old familiar hymns on the piano. She hummed along, swinging Zephram’s hand. He looked up at her and giggled, his chubby cheeks dimpling. She wanted to be mad at him and everyone else in the world, but when he grinned up at her, she grinned back.
She picked a buttercup from the edge of the path. “Let’s see if you like butter.” She held the buttercup under his round chin and it shone yellow. “Yep, you love butter.”
“Love butter,” he said, nodding solemnly.
A huge old cherry tree with gnarled grey bark took up most of one side of the backyard. It was even hotter out here, since it was on the south side of the house. Even in the dappled shade under the cherry tree, it was hot. Sophie rubbed her feet on the grass and it tickled her toes.
“Cherry,” Zephram said, picking up a red cherry that had fallen. He put it into his mouth.
“Don’t forget to spit out the seed,” Sophie told him, which he did along with pink spit bubbles that dribbled down his chin in a pink stream.
“More cherry!” he demanded. “More cherry!”
They searched through the grass and found a couple more that he popped into his mouth. Sophie followed her little brother past the chicken pen, and the hens clucked at them.
“Here, chickie, chickie,” Zephram said, poking some grass through the wire of the chicken pen. He chewed on a long piece of grass himself as he wandered to the back fence.
Sophie helped him climb the fence boards so they could see over the top. “Hang on tight now,” she told him.
Someone was coming down the lane. It was Elizabeth Proctor again, riding her shiny new bicycle with the fat balloon tires. She stopped in front of them.
“Hi, Sophie.”
“Hi. I thought you had to go home.”
“I did, but my mother said I could ride around on my bike this afternoon. Is that your little brother?”
“Yes. His name’s Zephram.”
“Zephram?” Elizabeth screwed up her nose. “What kind of a name is that?”
“It was my uncle’s name. He was a real hero in the war. His airplane got shot down and everything.” Sophie ruffled her brother’s curly hair. Elizabeth must see how cute he was. Everybody always did.
“He’s sure got a dirty face. If he were my brother, I’d wash it. And comb his messy hair, too.” Elizabeth turned on her bike and rode away, the sun reflecting off the back fender.
Sophie lifted her little brother from the fence and gave him an extra-special hug. He was the cutest kid around. Dirty face and all.
“Let’s go find some more cherries,” she said brightly. They wandered back to the cherry tree, and as they searched in the long grass for more cherries, Sophie thought about what a stuck-up person Elizabeth was. Then she thought about her friend Marcie back in Montreal. She hadn’t had a letter from her