Ghost Girl by Delia Ray

president?”
    I nodded, trying not to watch Mama as she slipped away through the crowd and out the door.

Nine

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    I was spending recess under my chestnut tree the next week when Poke McClure turned up out of nowhere. One minute I was sitting by myself trying to make out words in a little book Miss Vest had loaned me. The next minute, I turned around to find Poke slouched against the tree behind me.
    â€œYou learned to read yet?” he asked, eyeing the book spread across my lap. It was filled with pictures of a brother and sister smiling and feeding their new kitten and putting her to sleep in a straw basket.
    I squinted up at Poke through the bright afternoon sun. He looked even meaner than I remembered, with his dirty hands hitched over the straps of his overalls and a shadow of black fuzz growing along his sharp jaw. I didn’t know whether to answer him or not.
    â€œWell?” he asked again.
    â€œAlmost,” I lied. I bent over my book and pretended to start reading again.
    Poke grunted and glared out at the schoolyard, where Ida and her friends were busy skipping rope and chanting the singsong rhymes that Miss Vest had been teaching them: “Mabel, Mabel . . . set the table . . . just as fast as . . . you are able.”
    I looked around for Miss Vest, then remembered she was still inside, clearing a space in the classroom for the new piano. The piano had arrived just that morning, right in the middle of our arithmetic lesson. It had been sent as a present for the school from a musical instrument company. All the kids were so excited that Miss Vest had to ask the delivery men to roll the piano into her parlor for the time being—at least until we finished our lessons for the day.
    â€œHey! Look who’s here!” I heard somebody yell.
    A few boys had spotted Poke leaning against the tree. They let the ball they were playing with drop to the ground. I wasn’t surprised when Dewey came strolling over. He was still wearing his wool suit, even though it needed a cleaning and the day was plenty warm enough for short sleeves.
    â€œHey there, Poke,” he said. “You get tired of clearing stumps and decide to come back to school?”
    Poke settled back into the crook of the tree, crossing his arms and sizing up Dewey’s knickers. “Naw,” he said, drawing out his words long and slow. “You won’t be seeing me at school again. . . . But I might start coming to those Sunday meetings. From what I hear down at Taggart’s, the sermons are getting a lot shorter these days.”
    A sickly look flicked over Dewey’s face, and then he muttered, “Last Sunday weren’t Pa’s fault. Miss Vest should have told him the Hoovers were coming.”
    Poke let out a mean little laugh. “Huh! The way I figure it, Miss Vest and old President Hoover did folks round here a favor with that little surprise visit.”
    Poke didn’t see Dewey’s hands curling into fists. He was too busy smirking and showing off for all the kids who had started to crowd around the chestnut. “Maybe now,” he said in a louder voice, “Preacher Jessup might stick to logging, where he belongs.”
    He had barely gotten the words out before Dewey was on top of him like a wildcat. They fell to the ground, and all I could see was a tangle of elbows and knees and punches and kicks. Then I heard Ida screaming, “Stop it, Poke! Stop it! Somebody run get Miss Vest. Poke McClure’s gonna kill my brother!”
    I crawled out of the way on all fours, leaving my book behind me in the dust, but with all the kids pushing closer to see, I could barely get clear of the fighting. Finally, I managed to scrabble to my feet just in time to see Dewey, with his lip split and his nose bloody and his eyes full of the devil, lunging at Poke again. All of a sudden, both boys were barreling toward me, and before I could get free they sent me