Read The Girl Is Trouble for Free Online Page A

kitchen: onions, beef, cabbage, tomatoes. My stomach growled with approval. She peeked into Pop’s office. “Is ready, Arthur.”
    I could hear Pop struggle to get back on his feet. I don’t think it occurred to him when the safe was installed that putting it on the floor was the least convenient place possible for a man with one leg. But then there were days when I thought Pop was surprised to wake up and find his leg was missing. Just like there were days when I awoke and expected to find Mama in the parlor.
    We all piled into the kitchen and filled the chairs at the round table. On Thanksgiving we’d eaten in the dining room, but it was apparent that that was a once-, maybe twice-a-year treat and that the rest of our meals would take place, like this one, in the overly hot kitchen. The air was hazy from the stove, which belched coal every time it heated up. The icebox leaked a steady drip of water that filled moments of silence with a soothing tap that I often unconsciously mimicked with my fingers on the tabletop.
    “You have good day, Betty?” Mrs. M. asked her daughter as she passed around the platter for us to serve ourselves from.
    “Busy. My dogs are barking.”
    “I thought you’d be here sooner. You get off at two, yes?”
    There was tension in the air. Betty seemed determined to stare at her plate. “I had to work late. One of the girls had to take her kid to the doctor, so I stuck around for her.”
    “You get paid for this?”
    “I do for them, they do for me.”
    “You make sure that happens. You don’t want to be taken advantage of.”
    Betty finally looked up from her food. “Trust me, Ma—ain’t no one going to take advantage of me.”
    Over dinner the adults talked about the recent happenings at Guadalcanal. Betty seemed flushed as she sat across from Pop at the table. I wasn’t the only one who noticed it.
    “You are getting sick,” said Mrs. Mrozenski. “Your face is like tomato.”
    “It’s hot in here. I’m fine.”
    “Eat more. You’re too thin.”
    Betty rolled her eyes. “I’m filled to the gills, Ma. Any more and I’ll have to retire this skirt.”
    Mrs. Mrozenski wasn’t taking no for an answer. She left her seat and proceeded to scrape another stuffed cabbage roll onto Betty’s plate. “This won’t keep. You don’t waste,” she said. “There are starving children in Armenia.”
    “And Poland and England and who knows where else,” said Betty. “Let them eat your overcooked cabbage. I said I’m full.” She pushed her plate away and stared down her mother. She suddenly looked very young. I half expected to see her stomp her feet and begin a tantrum.
    “I’ll take it,” I said, even though I’d also reached the point that I was going to bust a button. I was embarrassed for Betty. And a little sickened at the idea that we had so much while so many had so little. But mostly, I was mad for Mrs. M.’s sake. Who was Betty to criticize her mother’s cooking?
    “Is overcooked?” asked Mrs. Mrozenski. Betty pushed her plate my way, the petulant look never leaving her face.
    “Not to my mouth,” I said as I scooped up the limp, colorless cabbage onto my fork.
    We finished the meal in silence.
    When the food was done, Betty cleared the plates and started washing up. I probably should’ve offered to help, but after eating far more cabbage than I should’ve, I was feeling worse for wear.
    Instead, I followed Pop into the parlor to listen to the news.
    “Is it true, what they’re saying about the Jews who’ve been killed in Poland?” I asked him.
    I half expected him to ask what I was talking about. It would’ve been a relief, honestly, to know that I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t been paying attention.
    “The sources seem to be reliable,” said Pop.
    “How can we let the Nazis get away with that?”
    Pop lit a cigarette and stared at the radio. “I don’t think we’re letting anyone do anything.”
    Moments later laughter escaped the kitchen.