Read The Cats in the Doll Shop for Free Online Page A

making the doll that I lost track of the time.
    â€œGood luck with your dolly,” she says, and heads out the door.

    â€œIt’s almost time for dinner,” Mama says from where she sits by the machine.
    â€œJust a little while longer,” I plead.
    â€œAll right,” Mama says. “But come up as soon as I call you.” Mama turns off the machine, and Papa puts aside his figures. They go upstairs, and I am alone in the shop, except for Goldie, our pet canary. Canaries are the only pets Papa will allow. He says customers like their singing. We’ve had Goldie for years, but recently, Papa brought home a lady friend for him. Her name is Zahava, which means “Goldie” in Hebrew. My sisters and I think this is so funny: Mr. Goldie and Mrs. Goldie.
    I look in the box Kathleen gave me. Inside I find a few leftover things from back when our shop was for repairing dolls, not making them—a pair of ribbed, white socks, and a pair of shiny, black shoes. The socks are just right, but the shoes are a bit too big. I stuff the toes with crumpled bits of paper. Now they fit fine.
    I hold the doll up and away from me so I can inspect her. The braids are good, and so is the outfit. But it seems to me she needs something more, something that will make it clear that she is a schoolgirl and not just any girl. At once, it hits me. A satchel. The doll should have a satchel, like the ones my sisters and I lug back and forth to and from school every day. A satchel carries books, of course. But it also carries a snack, a note from a friend, a test with a bright red A on top. Satchels carry a sweater, mittens, a forgotten lemon drop you are so happy to find. I wrapped Bernadette Louise in a towel and brought her to school in my satchel. Trudie’s satchel is always filled to bursting. I remember how heavy it was when I stubbed my toe on it earlier today. The more I think about it, the more important the satchel seems. This doll needs a satchel. And it is up to me to make it.
    â€œAnna! Dinner!” calls Mama. Dinner now ? I just got the very best idea I have had all day.
    â€œComing,” I call. I set the doll on the table. “I’ll be back,” I whisper. If I can talk to my own doll, I can talk to this one, too.
    I bound up the stairs, shove my hands under the faucet, and sit down at the table. Mama is serving vegetable kugel , which is a noodle pudding, and patties that she made from leftover chicken. It’s a meal I usually love, but tonight, I bolt the food down and beg to be allowed to return to my work downstairs.
    â€œWhat are you doing anyway?” Sophie asks. “I haven’t seen you all afternoon.”
    â€œIt’s a surprise,” I tell her. “You’ll see when it’s done.” I turn to my mother. “Please can I go back down, Mama? Just for a little while?”
    â€œAre your lessons finished?” Papa asks.
    â€œWe don’t have any!” I say happily. “Miss Marsh was out sick today and there was a substitute teacher. She didn’t give us any work to take home.”
    â€œWell, if Mama says it’s all right . . .” Papa says. I look over at Mama, who nods her head.
    â€œThank you!” I say. I get up and take my plate to the sink, where I wash it hastily. Then, it’s back downstairs to the schoolgirl doll I have left on the table. Goldie and Zahava tweet briefly when I enter the shop but soon settle down.
    I am still thinking of the satchel. But how will I make it? I rummage through the box again, and there, at the bottom, is a wadded-up bit of canvas. It’s dull beige, almost the exact color of our satchels. Using Mama’s iron, I press it smooth. Then I sketch a pattern onto the material. Cutting it is hard because the scissors are not strong enough. I keep at it, even though it hurts my hand. Soon, all the pieces are cut.
    Sewing is hard, too. The first needle will not go through the fabric. I have to