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blush.
    Berta squirmed. Only one older boy was left. Thomas Hawkins. She didn’t like Thomas Hawkins. She would hate playing Mary with him as Joseph. She wanted to protest. She almost raised her hand. But Mrs. Twing was continuing.
    “Now—all we have left are Joseph and Mary. Let’s see. Thomas—you will be our Joseph.” Mrs. Twing stopped and cast her eyes over the row of older girls. Berta squirmed. It seemed to take forever before Mrs. Twing spoke again.
    “Oh, my. This is a very hard decision. We have so many fine choices for Mary. Let’s see. Oh, my. Well … ”
    Berta wriggled on her seat.
    “Berta would make a good Mary.” It was Glenna who spoke up, her childish voice trembling with her excitement, her blue eyes shining.
    “Yes,” said Mrs. Twing, “yes—Berta would make a fine Mary, I’m sure.”
    Berta breathed in deeply. She was in.
    But Mrs. Twing was continuing to speak. “This year, though, I think—yes—this year it will be Emelia’s turn. She has not yet been Mary, and this is her last year in our program.”
    Berta felt the breath leave her lungs and the hot flush of anger stain her cheeks. It wasn’t fair. Emelia would make an—an ugly Mary. It would be all wrong. Her bright red hair and freckled face would not go at all well with the blue robe and white head veil. She would make an awful Mary. The whole play would be all wrong. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair.
    Berta dipped her head. She knew all eyes must be upon her. They would all know that she had been slighted. They would—
    Berta lifted her eyes again. To her surprise they were not all looking at her. They did not even seem to notice her discomfort. Only one pair of eyes was studying her face—the blue eyes of her little sister, Glenna. Such agony—such sympathy—showed in Glenna’s eyes that Berta felt even angrier.
    “And the rest of you,” Mrs. Twing was saying, “will be our special angel choir. You—”
    “I won’t,” shouted Berta, jumping up from the bench where she sat. “An angel is no part at all. It’s just a—a—”
    But she could not go on. Her voice choked up with her anger. She wanted to cry but she refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing that they had wounded her.
    Mrs. Twing’s eyes opened wide with surprise and shock.
    “Why, Berta—” she began but seemed not to know what else to say.
    In the back row the big boys were tittering.
    Berta stood her ground. She crossed her arms in front of her and shook her head with each angry word. “I won’t be an angel. Glenna can be your angel. I’m not a little kid anymore. I won’t be an angel.”
    She cast a disdainful glance toward Emelia. “An’ Mary doesn’t have red hair,” she said with emphasis.
    “Berta,” said Mrs. Twing firmly. “Berta—sit down.”
    Berta tilted her chin stubbornly.
    “Sit down,” the words came again.
    She had to do it. She knew that—but, oh, how it rankled to give in. She plopped down on the bench, making it quiver with her forcefulness. Her arms were still crossed in front of her, her face was tipped forward so that her hair almost covered the crimson of her flushed cheeks.
    “I think you and I need to have a talk,” said Mrs. Twing. “Mrs. Lawlor, will you take over the class, please?”
    The “talk” did not result in a change in the assigned parts. It did result in a further talk in the Berdette household.
    Berta sang with the angel choir—but inwardly she hated the assignment. Glenna tried to cheer her by telling her “how pretty” she looked in the white flannel robe and “how nice” she sang the songs.
    Berta took no comfort from Glenna’s compliments. Outwardly she performed as she had been bidden by her father. Inwardly she protested with every breath she took.
    But the words of her mother lingered in the back of her mind to trouble her.
    “Oh, Berta. I don’t know what to do with you. I fear what that defiant spirit and quick temper might cost you in life.”

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