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particular Sunday after church services were over, I tried to keep Our Jane neat while she licked the ice cream just outside the pharmacy, not so far from where Pa had parked his truck. Miss Deale had bought cones for all five of the Casteel children. She stood about ten yards away, staring at where Ma and Pa were having a tiff about something, which meant any moment Pa might whack her, or Sarah would belt him one. I swallowed nervously, wishing Miss Deale would move on, or look elsewhere, but she stood watching, listening, almost transfixed.
    It made me wonder what she was thinking, though I never found out.
    Not a week passed without her writing at least one note to Pa concerning Tom or me. He was seldom home, and when he was, he couldn’t read her neat, small handwriting; even if he could, he wouldn’t have responded. Last week she had written:
    Dear Mr. Casteel,
    Surely you must be very proud of Tom and Heaven, my two best students. I would like very much, at a time convenient for both of us, to meet you to discuss the possibilities of seeing that they both win scholarships.
    Yours sincerely,
Marianne Deale
    The very next day she’d asked me, “Didn’t you give it to him, Heaven? Surely he wouldn’t be so rude as not to respond. He’s such a handsome man. You must adore him.”
    “Sure do adore him,” I said cynically. “Sure could chisel him into a fine museum piece. Put him in a cave with a club in his hand, and a red-haired woman at his feet. Yep, that’s where Pa belongs, in the
Smithsonian.”
    Miss Deale narrowed her sky-blue eyes, stared at me with the oddest expression. “Why, I’m shocked, really shocked. Don’t you love your father, Heaven?”
    “I just adore him, Miss Deale, I really do. Specially when he’s visiting
Shirley’s Place.”
    “Heaven! You shouldn’t say things like that. What can you possibly know about a house of ill-rep—” She broke off and looked embarrassed. Her eyes lowered before she asked, “Does he really go there?”
    “Every chance he gets, according to Ma.”
    The next Sunday Miss Deale didn’t look at Pa with admiration; in fact, she didn’t cast her eyes his way one time.
    But even if Pa had fallen from Miss Deale’s grace, she still was waiting for all five of us in the pharmacy while Ma and Pa chatted with their hill friends. Our Jane ran to our teacher with wide-open arms, hurling herself at Miss Deale’s pretty blue skirt. “Here I am!” she cried out in delight. “Ready for ice cream!”
    “That’s not nice, Our Jane,” I immediately corrected. “You should wait and allow Miss Deale to offer you ice cream.”
    Our Jane pouted, and so did Fanny, both with wide, pleading eyes fixed doglike on our teacher. “It’s all right, Heaven, really,” Miss Deale said, smiling. “Why do you think I come here? I like ice-cream cones, too, and hate to eat one all alone … so, come, tell me which flavors you want this week.”
    It was easy to see Miss Deale pitied us, and wanted to give us treats, at least on Sundays. In a way it wasn’t fair, to her or to us, for we were so damned needing of treats, but we also needed to have pride in ourselves. Time after time pride went down in defeat when it came to choosing between chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry. Lord knows how long it would have taken us if there had been more flavors.
    Easily Tom could say he wanted vanilla; easily I could say chocolate; but Fanny wanted strawberry, chocolate,
and
vanilla, and Keith wanted what Our Jane was having, and Our Jane couldn’t make up her mind. She looked at the man behind the soda fountain, stared wistfully at the huge jars of penny candy, eyed a boy and a girl sitting down to enjoy an ice-cream soda, and hesitated. “Look at her,” whispered Fanny; “kin’t make up her mind cause she wants it all. Miss Deale, don’t give it all t’her—unless ya give it all to us, too.”
    “Why, of course I’ll give Our Jane anything she wants, all three flavors if she can