Ghost Girl by Delia Ray Page B

parlor before, but for once I didn’t care about examining every inch of another room at the schoolhouse. My arm felt so strange and achy, I leaned my head against the back of the davenport and kept my eyes closed until the man from the marine camp arrived. He said he was “Lou Witcofski, hospital corpsman.” But even though he carried a black bag, he didn’t look like a doctor or even a doctor’s helper. More than anything, he reminded me of an overgrown puppy with his friendly face and his long, loose legs and arms.
    He was tall enough to make everything in Miss Vest’s parlor seem small—the wide, stuffed davenport and the high walnut rockers, even the new piano that sat out in the middle of the room.
    â€œSorry about the furniture arrangement,” Miss Vest said as Corpsman Witcofski squeezed his lanky body around the piano to reach me. “I’m still trying to find a place for this in the classroom.”
    â€œI think it’s fine right here,” he said and pulled up the piano bench in front of the davenport where I was sitting. “Just what I need. An examining chair.”
    Miss Vest smiled. “Will you two be all right for a few minutes while I go check on things in the classroom?”
    I nodded even though I wasn’t so sure, but then the man told me to call him Wit, since Witcofski was too hard to say, and he leaned forward and whispered, “If you promise not to be nervous, I’ll play you a song on that new piano when I’m done.”
    I nodded again.
    Wit turned serious as soon as he started looking over my arm. He asked me to try and straighten it, but I couldn’t even move a couple inches without yelping.
    â€œEasy now,” he said and took my arm in both of his big square hands. Then he ran his fingers along my forearm like he was stroking a cat’s back. “It’s broken, all right,” he told me. “Right about there.” He pointed to a spot halfway between my wrist and my elbow.
    â€œWe’ll put a splint on it for now, until we can get you down to see the doctor. He’ll want to take an x-ray and put a proper cast on.”
    Then Wit reached into his black bag and brought out rolls of bandages and white tape and some wooden splints, and went to work. He kept asking me questions while he fiddled with my arm, trying to keep my mind off the pain, I suppose.
    â€œWhat’s your favorite color?” he asked.
    â€œBlue,” I told him.
    â€œAny blue? What kind of blue?”
    â€œThe robin’s egg kind.”
    â€œAny brothers and sisters?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œWhat’s your favorite food?”
    â€œFried apple pie.”
    â€œMmm. That sounds good.”
    And before long he had my arm wrapped up tight like a package and hanging in a muslin sling tied around my neck.
    When he was done, he rubbed his hands together and swung his long legs to the other side of the piano bench. “What’ll it be, miss?” he said over his shoulder. “You held up your end of the bargain. Now it’s my turn.”
    â€œYou pick,” I said, feeling shy.
    He swept his thumbnail along the piano keys, making a long rippling sound that floated higher and higher. “How about this?” Then all at once his fingers were dancing and bouncing and hopping, and one hand was crossing over the other. Even though my arm was aching, I couldn’t help pushing myself up from the davenport and going over to stand beside him to watch. I never thought I’d hear music finer than what I had heard on our Victrola, but I was wrong.
    Then he was done. Since I couldn’t clap, I just stood there grinning. Wit laughed and started packing his bandages and tape into his black bag. He had just snapped the clasp shut when Miss Vest rushed in.
    â€œI’m sorry that took so long,” she said all in a fluster. “Did I hear the piano—”
    Then her eyes landed on my sling and her