Читать книгу Read All About It - Valerie Tripp - Страница 5

lick, clack, clackety!

Kit Kittredge smiled as she typed. She loved the sound the typewriter keys made as they struck the paper and the ping! of the bell when she got to the end of a line. She loved the inky smell of the typewriter ribbon, and the way the black letters looked as they marched across the page, telling a story the way she wanted it told.

It was a hot afternoon in August. Kit and her best friend Ruthie were in Kit’s room writing a newspaper for Kit’s dad. Kit was not a very good typist. She used only her two pointer fingers, and she made a lot of mistakes, which she had to xxxxx out. But Dad never minded. Every night when he came home from work, he gave Kit the real newspaper so that she could read the headlines and the baseball scores and the funnies. He was always very pleased when Kit gave him one of her newspapers in return.

Kit finished the paragraph she was typing. “Read me what we have so far,” said Ruthie.

Kit cleared her throat and read:

“That’s good,” said Ruthie when Kit finished reading. “I like it.”

“Me, too,” said Kit. “What should we write about now?”

“Write about Charlie and the cookies,” said Ruthie. Charlie was Kit’s brother, who was sixteen.

Kit thought a moment. Then she typed:

Ruthie looked over Kit’s shoulder and giggled as she read what Kit had written. “Now what?” she asked.

Kit picked up a pencil and put it behind her ear so that she’d look like a newspaper reporter. “Well,” she said, “we could write about how hot it is.”

Ruthie nodded, quickly at first, then slower and slower. Finally she let her chin fall to her chest, closed her eyes, and pretended to snore.

“You’re right,” said Kit. “Weather’s boring. There aren’t any people in it. This is supposed to be a newspaper, not a snoozepaper.”

“You could write about how your mother redecorated your room,” Ruthie said. “I think it’s as pretty as a princess’s room, don’t you?”

“Mmm,” answered Kit, with a crooked smile. “It’s okay. It’s just a little too…pink for me. I’d rather sleep in a tree house, like Robin Hood.”

Ruthie shook her head. “You’re crazy,” she said.

“Yup,” said Kit cheerfully. She knew Ruthie was right, of course. Her room was pretty. Mother had redecorated it for her earlier that summer as a surprise. And, as with everything Mother did, it was lovely. Kit’s room was painted pale pink with white trim. There was a canopy bed as high and white and fluffy as a cloud, and a dressing table with a lacy skirt around it. The desk was white and spindly-legged. It looked too delicate to hold the big black typewriter that crouched on it.

Mother had asked Kit to keep the typewriter in the closet, please, and take it out only when she used it. But Kit always forgot to put the typewriter away. Besides, she used it a lot. The typewriter ended up being on the desk all the time, even though it looked out of place in the frilly room.

Kit squirmed on the poufy stool that had replaced her old swivel chair. She believed in telling the truth straight-out. But so far she hadn’t told Mother that she felt as out of place in the frilly room as the typewriter looked. Mother was so pleased with all the lacy pinkness, and so sure the room was a girl’s dream. Which it probably is, Kit admitted to herself, just not mine.

“The redecorating story’s no good because Dad knows all about it,” she said to Ruthie. “It’s not new.” Kit sighed. “I wish something would happen around here. Some dramatic change. Then we’d have a headline that would really grab Dad’s attention.”

“Like in the real newspapers,” said Ruthie.

“Exactly!” said Kit.

“I don’t know,” said Ruthie. “When my parents read the headlines these days, they get worried. The news is always about the Depression and it’s always bad. I don’t think we want our paper to be like that.”

“No,” said Kit. “We want good news.”

She knew there hadn’t been much good news in the real newspapers for a long time. The whole country was in a mess because of the Depression. Dad had explained it to her. About three years ago, people got nervous about their money and stopped buying as many things as they used to, so some stores had to close down. The people who worked in the stores lost their jobs. Then the factories that made the things the stores used to sell had to close down, so the factory workers lost their jobs, too. Pretty soon the people who’d lost their jobs had no money to pay their doctors or house painters or music teachers, so those people got poorer, too.

Kit was glad that her dad still had his job at his car dealership. She and Ruthie knew kids at school whose fathers had lost their jobs. They’d seen those fathers selling apples on street corners, trying to earn a few cents a day. Some kids had disappeared from school because their families didn’t have enough money to pay the rent anymore, and they had to move. Dad said the Depression was like a terrible slippery hole. Once you fell in, it was almost impossible to get out. Kit knew that the Depression was getting worse all the time because the newspaper headlines said so almost every night.

But inside Kit’s house, no dramatic changes worth a headline seemed to be happening. The girls were about to give up on finding any news—good or bad—when Charlie popped his head in the door.

“Hey, girls,” he said. “Mother’s garden club’s here. You better get downstairs quick if you want anything to eat. I saw Mrs. Culver already diving headfirst into the nut dish.”

“Thanks for telling us, Charlie,” said Kit.

“Oh, boy!” said Ruthie. “Maybe there’ll be some cake for us!”

“Maybe there’ll be some news for us!” said Kit. She grabbed her notepad and took the pencil from behind her ear. “Come on!”

Kit and Ruthie thundered down the stairs. They slowed their steps in the hallway so that they wouldn’t sound, as Mother always said, like a herd of stampeding elephants. Mother liked things to be just so when the garden club ladies came. She brought out all her best crystal, china, silver, and linen and arranged her most beautiful plants on the terrace where the ladies met. Kit could hear the ladies’ voices and the clink of their iced tea glasses out on the terrace now.

Above all the other voices, Kit heard Mrs. Wolf complimenting Mother. “Margaret,” Mrs. Wolf was saying, “your sponge cake is perfection. Mine is just that—a sponge!” Mrs. Wolf hooted at her own joke before she went on. “Please give me your recipe.”

“I’d be glad to,” said Mother, just as Kit and Ruthie stepped onto the terrace. Mother looked as cool and slender as a mint leaf in her pale green dress. Kit wanted to fling herself at Mother and hug her. But she held herself back. Her fingers had typewriter ink on them. It would never do to leave ink stains on Mother’s perfect green dress!

Mother smiled when she saw the girls. Then she turned to her guests and said, “Ladies, you remember Ruth Ann Smithens and my daughter Kit, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course!” said the ladies. “Hello, girls!”

“Hello,” said Kit and Ruthie politely.

“Do help yourselves to some refreshments, girls,” said Mother.

“We will!” said Kit and Ruthie, smiling broadly.

The girls filled their plates and retreated to a corner behind a potted palm to enjoy their feast and observe the ladies. At first the ladies discussed garden club business, such as how to get rid of bugs, slugs, and other garden pests. It was pretty boring, although the girls did get giggly when Mrs. Willmore said she was just beside herself because she had spots on her phlox.

Then the talk moved on to who was going to weed the flower bed at the hospital, which the garden club ladies took turns doing.

“I believe it is my turn,” said Mrs. Howard. “But I’m afraid I won’t be able to weed this month. In fact…” She hesitated, and blinked her big round eyes. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to be part of the garden club at all anymore.”

Kit and Ruthie looked at each other and raised their eyebrows. This sounded interesting. Why would Mrs. Howard be quitting the garden club? Kit leaned forward so that she could hear better. There may be a story in this for our newspaper, she thought.

All the ladies murmured that they were sorry, and Mother said, “Oh, Louise! That’s too bad!”

“Well,” said Mrs. Howard, “I’m moving to Chicago. My husband is already there, and so my son Stirling and I are going to join him. He’s pursuing a business opportunity.”

“Ahh!” said all the ladies brightly. They all knew what that meant. Kit did, too. It meant that Mr. Howard had gone to Chicago to look for a job. Everyone knew that Mr. Howard had not had a job for two years, ever since the company he worked for here in Cincinnati had gone out of business.

“Where will you live in Chicago?” a lady asked.

“I’m not sure yet,” said Mrs. Howard, blinking again. “Mr. Howard hasn’t settled anywhere. We’ll be hither, thither, and yon for a while!”

The ladies smiled, but Kit saw little lines of concern on their faces. The whole thing sounded pretty fishy to Kit. If the Howards have no place to live in Chicago, why are they leaving their house in Cincinnati? she wondered. Then suddenly, it dawned on her. The Howards couldn’t stay in their house. They didn’t have enough money anymore. And Mr. Howard didn’t have a job or a place for them to live in Chicago, either. That was the truth—Kit was sure of it. She was pretty sure that all the ladies knew it, too, but no one would say it out loud.

There was an awkward silence. Then Mother spoke up and made everything better. “I have a marvelous idea, Louise!” she said to Mrs. Howard. “We’d love it if you and dear Stirling would stay in our guest room until your husband is settled in Chicago and sends for you. Stirling is about Kit’s age. I’m sure they’ll get along beautifully.”

Ruthie nudged Kit, but Kit held her finger to her lips to signal Ruthie not to say anything.

The ladies turned toward Mrs. Howard, waiting anxiously for her answer to Mother’s invitation.

“Well,” said Mrs. Howard slowly. “If you’re sure it isn’t too much trouble, Stirling and I would love to stay. Thank you, Margaret.”

“That’s all settled, then,” said Mother calmly.

All the ladies brightened up, as if a cloud had blown away. Kit started scribbling notes on her notepad, and Ruthie whispered to her, “Who’s this boy Stirling?”

Kit shrugged. “He’s Mrs. Howard’s son, I guess,” she said. “I haven’t met him.”

“You will,” said Ruthie. “He’s going to be living in your house.”

“Looks like it,” said Kit. She liked the idea. Boys were always up to something. Stirling was sure to be a good source of stories for her newspaper for Dad. And it would be nice to have a boy around, especially after Charlie left for college. She and Stirling could play catch together. They could talk about the Cincinnati Reds baseball team, which Kit loved and Ruthie, quite frankly, didn’t care about. And Stirling could join in when she and Ruthie acted out stories from the books they read.

Kit grinned at Ruthie. “When we play Robin Hood, Stirling can be the Sheriff of Nottingham,” she said. “Boys like to be the bad guy.”

Ruthie had a big bite of cake in her mouth. She swallowed, then grinned back at Kit. “Well,” she said. “You never know. Stirling might rather be Prince Charming and perform good deeds.”

“He’s already done one good deed,” said Kit.

“What?” asked Ruthie.

“Come on,” said Kit. “I’ll show you.”

The two girls slipped back inside the house and ran up the stairs to Kit’s room. Kit stood in front of the typewriter. “Stirling’s given us a headline,” she said to Ruthie. “Look.”

Kit typed in capital letters:

THE HOWARDS ARE COMING!