Every Time We Say Goodbye by Jamie Zeppa Page B

understand,” Grace said. “My sister-in-law said the room would cost eight dollars a week.”
    “And so it does,” Mrs. Barr said. She was sitting at her kitchen table with the ledger open. “But I advanced you the first two weeks, which you have to pay now, plus the next two weeks in advance, which is how I operate. Plus board and incidentals.” Under Grace’s name was the list of board and incidentals:
Tea, tea, bread and jam, dinner (extra potatoes), phone call, bath, bath, bread and jam, dinner (second helping), bread and jam, bread and jam and butter
.
    “I thought it was included. Room and board.”
    Mrs. Barr laughed merrily. “Oh, Grace! Room and boardmeans room
and
board. If only I could offer room and board for eight dollars! No, it’s all separate, because different girls want different things. Take Noreen, for instance. She has nothing but tea for breakfast. If room and board were included, like at Ruth Ellis’s, then Noreen would be paying for food she doesn’t eat. No, at my place, you pay only for what you use, which is much fairer, don’t you think?”
    Grace blinked hard to drive back tears. “I didn’t have dinner the first night.”
    “No, but you didn’t tell me in advance that you wouldn’t be having it.” Mrs. Barr patted her hand. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you $2 back so you have some pocket money, and you can pay it next time. I don’t like to see my girls without pocket money.”
    Ruth Ellis’s house, set behind a weathered wooden fence, was orange brick with creamy trim that reminded Grace of butter icing. On the front door was a knocker shaped like a snake eating its tail, with a brass plaque underneath that said, KNOCK AND THE DOOR SHALL BE OPENED . Beneath the plaque, someone had stuck a note:
Lucy, if you’re reading this, it means you forgot. AGAIN!!!!
    Grace lifted the snake and knocked. The door opened almost instantly, and there was Theresa, looking surprised over a half-peeled banana. “Grace! Did you change your mind about Mike’s?”
    “Does Ruth Ellis have a room available?”
    Theresa said, “No, not at the moment. But come in.”
    Ruth Ellis was a teacher. Her parents had also been teachers, and this had been their house. Ruth rented out rooms, Theresa said, not because she needed the money but because she liked the company and she believed in young women being independent in the world. Inside, books were stacked everywhere, on end tables and the floor, and the bookcases were full of carvings and masks andlittle stone statues of women with huge breasts and hips and no feet. On the dining table a glass bowl of water sat on a black cloth.
    “What’s that?” Grace asked.
    “Lucy’s homemade crystal ball. Here, sit here.” She pushed a cat off an armchair. “Do you want some coffee?”
    “No, thank you.”
    “Tea? A banana?”
    “No, thank you.”
    “Are you sure? There’s no charge for it,” Theresa said.
    Grace said, “You know that’s what she does, charges for everything? Mrs. Barr?” It was odd to want to talk. Her sentences sounded like they were being shaken out of a sack.
    “Everyone knows. She’d charge for the air you breathed, if she could.”
    “I won’t be able to save anything,” Grace said. “I have to find another place to stay.”
    “We’re full here right now,” Theresa said. “There’s the YWCA, but that’s also full. You could check the notice board outside the church, because sometimes people have a room. If I hear of anything, I’ll let you know.”
    Grace stood up. “Thank you.”
    “Wait, are you sure you won’t have coffee?”
    Grace hesitated, then shook her head. She had to go over to the church and then stop at the grocery store to buy her own bread and jam. “Maybe another time,” she said.
    Buying her own bread and jam and having only tea for breakfast meant she could save three dollars a month. She didn’t buy clothes, like Connie, or magazines and nail polish like Noreen, or go the