Read Singing Hands for Free Online Page A

on, Gus," she said as we reached the edge of the woods. "Why don't we go home and change our clothes first? Our dresses will get ruined in there."
    "Good," I snapped, ducking under a low-hanging branch. "I'm never gonna put this dress on again as long as I live."
    Nell stopped a few paces behind me. "Why not? I think it's pretty."
    "Then you can have it," I grumbled, yanking a fold of taffeta away from a blackberry bush that hung over our old dirt path. Every summer the little patch of woods seemed to spring to life with honeysuckle, kudzu vine, and pine saplings for a couple of wild green weeks before falling back to its usual scraggly, dusty-looking state.
    Nell was still wailing. "But Mother and Margaret will be home soon and wonder where we are...."
    "No, they won't," I yelled back over my shoulder. "They've got the fellowship lunch, remember?"
    There was no answer. I had come to the little clearing where Barbara and I always stopped to rest and talk when we weren't cussing or switching. Obviously, we weren't the only ones who used the vacant lot. Next to the logs where we used to sit were old liquor bottles and food wrappers and a scorched circle of ground where someone had built a fire. Barbara and I had never worried about the fact that hobos might be using our woods, too. Somehow that had only made the lot seem more inviting, more full of danger and mystery.
    Barbara would hold her hand over the pile of ashes in the little clearing and in a low, ominous voice, announce, "Still warm. They must have just left."
    I dropped my pocketbook on the ground, then broke off a long sweet-gum branch and began to strip the leaves, feeling the shame of that morning come sweeping over me again. The church service with the spilled pennies and my dirty gloves had been bad enough. But Sunday school had been even worse. The teacher, Mrs. Walton, turned out to be a nosy busybody with darting hawk eyes who immediately asked me, the new girl, to please stand up and introduce myself to the class.
    Since I had chosen a seat at the very back of the room, the other kids had to turn around in their folding chairs to see me. "Gussie Davis," I said quickly, pushing myself only halfway out of my seat, then plopping back down again.
    Mrs. Walton forced out a smile. "I'm sorry, dear. You'll have to stand a little bit longer than that."
    I slowly rose, locking my hands in front of my dress to contain some of its puffiness.
    The teacher took a few steps toward me, peering closer. "Gussie ... That must be a nickname. Can you tell us what it's short for?"
    "Augusta," I said softly. I heard someone in the front row trying to smother a laugh.
    "And are you new to Birmingham, dear?"
    "No, ma'am."
    "No? But your family is new to the Advent?"
    "Yes, ma'am."
    "I don't believe I've had the chance to meet your parents yet. What church did your family attend before coming here?"
    I didn't answer right away. Missy and probably plenty of the others had seen Nell and me file into church without any parents. But I knew if I said we had always attended Saint Jude's Church for the Deaf until now, I'd have some complicated explaining to do—something I didn't feel up to at that particular moment, especially when I was wearing that particular dress. So I just stood there.
    Mrs. Walton cocked her head, waiting.
    My mind scrambled, trying to remember the names of other churches in town. But with everyone gawking at me, it was hopeless. The only thing I could think of was the name of a fancy steakhouse we had passed that morning on the way to church.
    "Dear?"
    "Delmonico's," I blurted out. "Saint Delmonico's."
    Mrs. Walton's eyebrows drew together, making her look more like a hawk than ever. "I see," she finally said after a long pause. She turned on her heel and walked back to the blackboard. "You may sit down now, Miss Davis."
    Amazingly, no one in the class had laughed. But I saw the look Missy had traded with the girl sitting next to her. Now, just thinking of it, I