GodPretty in the Tobacco Field by Kim Michele Richardson Page A

smoothed down the apron covering my long dress and picked at the fabric with shaky hands. “What are you doing down here so early on Saturday? It’s not even eight yet.”
    I stuffed my fortune-teller into my pocket, annoyed that I’d been interrupted before landing on “seven.”
    â€œI h-have to be at the Millers’ early now. They told me to come early starting in August. And I—I wanted to be sure and see you ’fore your uncle made it out.”
    â€œHow’s Lena?” I couldn’t help asking.
    She looked away nervously. “M-Ma says Sister’s got the baby weeps.”
    It looked like Baby Jane had been crying, too. She dropped her empty basket beside me and sat down.
    I reached inside my pocket and pulled out seeds I’d been waiting to give her. “For your mama’s fall garden,” I said, placing the tiny cheesecloth package into her hand. “Tell her there’s twelve rutabagas. And ten turnip seeds and fourteen carrots.” I had to fib to Gunnar and tell him the price for feminine protection went up at the Feed & Seed.
    Baby Jane stuck them inside her pocket, and murmured, “I like the rutabagas, ’specially like you cook ’em, mashed and all.”
    â€œGrow ’em and I’ll make you another dish.”
    Baby Jane tapped my shoulder, dangled a rubber band. “Do my hair today?”
    I took the rubber band. “Don’t I always do your hair? But you need to learn to do it yourself, Baby Jane, in case I’m not here . . .” I thought about the city.
    â€œYou do it best, RubyLyn.” She turned around, swept her light brown hair over her small shoulders.
    â€œAre you hungry?” I asked, combing my fingers through her locks. “Brought you some buttered bread.”
    Baby Jane coughed and shook her head.
    â€œHeard you had the fever. Feeling better?”
    â€œUh-huh. Ma gave me the coal oil.”
    Mrs. Stump couldn’t afford the town doc and relied mostly on concoctions of coal oil mixes and homemade brews from the bark of wild cherry trees and roots she’d have Henny dig up.
    Gunnar preferred his medicine potions of bark, root, and coal oil, too, over the doc’s visits. Most hill folk did. Once when I was little and couldn’t shake a bad cold, Gunnar’d fed me heaping spoonfuls of coal oil and molasses for two weeks.
    I brushed bangs away from her eyes, wishing I had a pretty ribbon. Scooping her hair up into my hands, I began braiding it for her like I did most mornings. When I was done I reached into my dress pocket and pulled out the special fortune-teller I’d made for her last night.
    Baby Jane’s eyes widened and a smile rosied her cheeks. “My own kissing fortune,” she said.
    â€œToo young for kissing fortunes, and this is way better,” I fussed. “You’re barely eleven and there’s a reason I mark them G for grown-up. See?” I pulled out my own fortune-teller, turned the paper upside down, and showed her the “G” I’d written in red.
    She bobbed her head. I shoved my own fortune-teller back into a pocket.
    When she was older I’d put a few more suitors in the fortune like I did for the older girls around Nameless, but for now there would only be one for her.
    Baby Jane fished three pennies out of her dress pocket. “Been saving, but here, want you to have it,” she said solemnly, holding out the coins.
    â€œThat’s good you’re saving,” I said, pushing her hand back, “but I don’t sell my special fortunes.”
    Her eyes rounded. “Is it bad luck?”
    â€œSomething like that.” I tugged gently on her braid.
    â€œI love it lots, RubyLyn, thanks! And I’m gonna save enough money so I can buy me a hen just like the Millers . . . b-buy a nice dress and get myself a man so I can leave,” she said real quiet.
    â€œMan?” I asked.
    â€œUh-huh, I aim to have