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From behind the closed door of the next room she could hear
the sound of voices； and she decided to go inside。
Hazel and Etta stopped talking when they saw her。 Etta was
sitting in the chair by the window； painting her toe…nails with
the red polish。 Her hah… was done up in steel rollers and there
was a white dab of face cream on a little place under her chin
where a pimple had come out。 Hazel was flopped out lazy on
the bed as usual。 'What were you all jawing about？' It's none of
your nosy business；' Etta said。 'Just you hush up and leave us
alone。'
'It's my room just as much as it is either one of yours。 I have as
good a right hi here as you do。' Mick strutted from one corner
to the other until she had covered all the floor space。 'But then
I don't care anything about picking any fight。 All I want are
my own rights。'
Mick brushed back her shaggy bangs with the palm of her
hand。 She had done this so often that there was a little row of
cowlicks above her forehead。 She quivered her nose and made
faces at herself in the mirror。 Then she began walking around
the room again。
Hazel and Etta were O。K。 as far as sisters went。 But Etta was
like she was full of worms。 All she thought about was movie
stars and getting in the movies。 Once she had
35
written to Jeanette MacDonald and had got a typewritten letter
back saying that if ever she came out to Hollywood she could
come by and swim in her swimming pool。 And ever since that
swimming pool had been preying on Etta's mind。 All she
thought about was going to Hollywood when she could scrape
up the bus fare and getting a job as a secretary and being
buddies with Jeanette MacDonald and getting in the movies
herself。
She primped all the day long。 And that was the bad part。 Etta
wasn't naturally pretty like Hazel。 The main thing was she
didn't have any chin。 She would pull at her jaw and go through
a lot of chin exercises she had read in ft movie book。 She was
always looking at her side profile in the mirror and trying to
keep her mouth set in a certain way。 But it didn't do any good。
Sometimes Etta would hold her face with her hands and cry hi
the night about it。
Hazel was plain lazy。 She was good…looking but thick in the
head。 She was eighteen years old； and next to Bill she was the
oldest of all the kids in the family。 Maybe that was the trouble。
She got the first and biggest share of everything—the first
whack at the new clothes and the biggest part of any special
treat。 Hazel never had to grab for anything and she was soft。
'Are you just going to tramp around the room all day？ It makes
me sick to see you hi those silly boy's clothes。 Somebody
ought to clamp down on you； Mick Kelly； and make you
behave；' Etta said。
'Shut up；' said Mick。 'I wear shorts because I don't want to
wear your old hand…me…downs。 I don't want to be like either of
you and I don't want to look like either of you。 And I won't。
That's why I wear shorts。 I'd rather be a boy any day； and I
wish I could move in with Bill。'
Mick scrambled under the bed and brought out a large hatbox。
As she carried it to the door both of them called after her；
'Good riddance！'
Bill had the nicest room of anybody in the family。 Like a den
—and he had it all to himself—except for Bubber。 Bill had
pictures cut out from magazines tacked on the walls； mostly
faces of beautiful ladies； and in another corner were some
pictures Mick had painted last year herself at the free art class。
There was only a bed and a desk in the room。JO
Bill was sitting hunched over the desk； reading Popular
Mechanics。 She went up behind him and put her arms around
his shoulders。 'Hey； you old son…of…a…gun。'
He did not begin tussling with her like he used to do。 。Hey；' he
said； and shook his shoulders a little。
'Will it bother you if I stay in here a little while？'
'Sure—I don't mind if you want to stay。'
Mick knelt on the floor and untied the string on the big
hatbox。 Her hands hovered over the edge of the lid； but for
some reason she could not make up her mind to open it
'I been thinking about what I've done on this already；' she said。
'And it may work and it may not。'
Bill went on reading。 She still knelt over the box； but did not
open it。 Her eyes wandered over to Bill as he sat with his back
to her。 One of his big feet kept stepping on the other as he
read。 His shoes were scuffed。 Once their Dad had said that all
Bill's dinners went to his feet and his breakfast to one ear and
bis supper to the other ear； that was a sort of mean thing to say
and Bill had been sour over it for a month； but it was funny。
His ears flared out and were very red； and though he was just
out of high school he wore a size thirteen shoe。 He tried to
hide his feet by scraping one foot behind the other when he
stood up； but that only made it worse。
Mick opened the box a few inches and then shut it again。 She
felt too excited to look into it now。 She got up and walked
around the room until she could calm down a little。 After a
few minutes she stopped before the picture she had painted at
the free government art class for school kids last winter。 There
was a picture of a storm on the ocean and a sea gull being
dashed through the air by the wind。 It was called 'Sea Gull
with Back Broken in Storm。' The teacher had described the
ocean during the first two or three lessons； and that was what
nearly everybody started with。 Most of the kids were like her；
though； and they had never really seen the ocean with their
own eyes。
That was the first picture she had done and Bill had tacked it
on his wall。 All the rest of her pictures were full of people。
She had done some more ocean storms at first —one with an
airplane crashing down and people jumping out to save
themselves； and another with a trans…Atlan
37
tic liner going down and all the people trying to push and
crowd into one little lifeboat。
Mick went into the closet of Bill's room and brought out some
other pictures she had done in the class—some pencil
drawings； some water…colors； and one canvas with oils。 They
were all full of people。 She had imagined a big fire on Broad
Street and painted how she thought it would be。 The flames
were bright green and orange and Mr。 Bran…non's restaurant
and the First National Bank were about the only buildings left。
People were lying dead in the streets and others were running
for their lives。 One man was in his nightshirt and a lady was
trying to carry a bunch of bananas with her。 Another picture
was called 'Boiler Busts in Factory；' and men were jumping
out of windows and running while a knot of kids in overalls
stood scrouged together； holding the buckets of dinner they
had brought to their Daddies。 The oil painting was a picture of
the whole town fighting on Broad Street。 She never knew why
she had painted this one and she couldn't think of the right
name for it。 There wasn't any fire or storm or reason you could
see in the picture why all this battle was happening。 But there
were more people and more moving around than in any other
picture。 This was the best one； and it was too bad that she
couldn't think up the real name。 In the back of her mind
somewhere she knew what it was。
Mick put the picture back on the closet shelf。 None of them
were any good much。 The people didn't have fingers and some
of the arms were longer than the legs。 The class had been fun；
though。 But she had just drawn whatever came into her head
without reason—and in her heart it didn't give her near the
same feeling that music did。 Nothing was really as good as
music。
Mick knelt down on the floor and quickly lifted the top of the
big hatbox。 Inside was a cracked ukulele strung with two
violin strings； a guitar string and a banjo string。 The crack on
the back of the ukulele had been neatly mended with sticking
plaster and the round hole in the middle was covered by a
piece of wood。 The bridge of a violin held up the strings at the
end and some sound…holes had been carved on either side。
Mick was making herself a violin。 She held the violin in her
lap。 She had the feeling she had38
never really looked at it before。 Some time ago she made
Bubber a little play mandolin out of a cigar box with rubber
bands； and that put the idea into her head。 Since that she had
hunted all over everywhere for the different parts and added a
little to the job every day。 It seemed to her she had done
everything except use her head。
'Bill； this don't look like any real violin I ever saw。' He was
still reading—'Yeah—？'
'It just don't look right。 It just don't'
She had planned to tune the fiddle that day by screwing the
pegs。 But since she had suddenly realized how all the work
had turned out she didn't want to look at it。 Slowly she
plucked one string after another。 They all made the same little
hollow…sounding ping。
'How anyway will I ever get a bow？ Are you sure they have to
be made out of just horses' hair？' 'Yeah；' said Bill impatiently。
'Nothing like thin wire or human hair strung on a limber stick
would do？'
Bill rub