Little Red Lies by Julie Johnston

them off the clothesline. It’s starting to rain.”
    I manage a theatrical sigh. “I am nothing but a slave in this house. A slave to her every whim.”
    The rain doesn’t last long. I’m on my way back upstairswhen I meet Jamie on his way out. “Where are you going?” I ask.
    “Out,” he says and leaves without further discussion.
    Half an hour later, he’s back. I peek into his room, and there he is lying with his arm over his eyes as if he has a headache.
    “Where did you go?” I ask.
    “Nowhere.”
    “I’m just being friendly. Tell me.”
    “You’re just being nosy.”
    I keep it up and keep it up, so just to shut me up, I think, his voice flat with disappointment, he tells me the bare bones of the rest of his afternoon.
    Here’s what I think happened. I’m adding descriptive detail and dialogue because that’s the way my imagination works.
    He walked down to Woolworths, pushed through the swing door, marched straight to Mary’s counter, and stood there until she finished selling a jar of cold cream to a customer. When the woman left, he spread both hands on the counter and told her he had a question.
    “Hang on,” she said. “Madam!” she called to the departing customer. “You’ve left your parcel.”
    The woman had to reach in front of Jamie to get her cold cream, and it took him a second to understand he was in the way. When he moved aside, another customer stepped in front of him. And then Mary had to go to thestockroom, and after that there was a department meeting.
    “Sorry,” she said, “I can’t get out of it.”
    And then he came home.
    “What did you want to ask her?” I kind of knew already.
    “Nothing of any importance to you.”

CHAPTER

9
    School resumes. Daffodils begin to appear in flower beds. The buds on the trees burst into leafy lace. And the sun, toasty by midday, tells us to put away our winter woollies.
    Ruthie’s back at school. Her voice is still a little raspy, but she’s not coughing as much.
    After the final bell, we go to play practice, an extra one to make up for lost time. As prompter, I take up my position in the wings. Mr. Tompkins stops the action once or twice to offer suggestions, but on the whole the first act of the play rolls along smoothly. Remarkably, Hazel keeps all her lines straight, until Ruthie’s line comes up:
Will that be all, Madam?
But Ruthie doesn’t stop there. While Hazel’s character waits to shout her next line, Ruthie’s character grasps her hand dramatically and says,
I do hope so, Madam, as I must go to look after my poorfiancé, who was badly injured in a terrible war, and I’m so afraid he might die
. She emits a loud sob and places the back of her other hand on her brow.
    The actors stand openmouthed, and Hazel pulls back as if from a burning coal. Mr. Tompkins climbs the steps to the stage, sputtering and shaking his script.
    I shield my eyes with my forearm from the pain of seeing the entire rehearsal shattered, knowing that the fault is largely mine.
    To give her credit, Ruthie explains her decision to change the lines without mentioning my coaching. Deep in the wings, I find a chair and sit hunched over my knees, feeling like Doctor Frankenstein.
    After the actors return to their places and resume their roles, and after Hazel gets back into the swing of belting out her lines with the help of my prompts, and after it’s over and everyone leaves for home, Ruthie and I walk along the street to her corner.
    “I didn’t think it would matter all that much,” she says in her own defense. “There’s always so much going on, I didn’t think anyone would even notice. It’s mostly your fault, though.”
    “I didn’t tell you to add more lines. You don’t go in and make changes that the writer wouldn’t approve.”
    “Mr. Mackiewitz changed a couple of words that Hazel had trouble pronouncing,” Ruthie says.
    “That’s different.”
    Ruthie snorts. “So it’s all right if I act as if I’m sad, even though