R My Name Is Rachel by Patricia Reilly Giff

the shelf, filling the space where they belonged. I touch all the books; I have nothing new to read now and no way of getting a book. I run down the hall and climb out the window. I toss the stones and the box away, and I’m on the road.
    Safe.
    But not safe. I see a boy and I know who he is. And he sees me, too.
    I take the long walk home and let myself into the kitchen. Cassie sits at the table, holding her head in her hands. I remember Pop sitting at that same spot, the day he told us he had to leave.
    If only we could hear from him.
    “What’s wrong?” I ask Cassie.
    She doesn’t answer. She gets up and works the pump at the sink, up and down, up and down; the water splashes.
    What can I say? “I wish I had something new to read,” I tell her at last.
    “Is that all you think about?” she asks. “Always with your nose in a book instead of doing something instructive.”
    “Constructive.”
    “What a know-it-all you’ve turned out to be,” she says. “Just read that Betsy book.”
    I can’t tell her it’s gone.
    But she’s on to something else. “When does the man come for the rent?”
    “Soon.”
    She leans her head against the pump, but before I can figure out what’s the matter, Joey comes into the kitchen. “Ready to work on the garden?” he asks.
    Cassie turns. “How about going fishing?”
    We both blink. Cassie hates fish.
    But Joey and I love fish. Pop used to cook smelts at home, and sometimes fluke.
    “We need to save,” she reminds us.
    I can’t believe it. She’s worried about money.
    Joey looks at me.
    “Sure,” I say. “I’ll work on the garden.”
    Before I go outside, I lean over the gate we’ve put up. Xenia’s eating some of the food Mrs. Collins gave us. She wiggles her nose with each bite and I pat her long ears.
    In the barn I find a cloche hat on a hook. The felt is torn and dusty but I pull it down over my hair like a bell.It reminds me of Miss Mitzi in the blue cloche that matches her eyes, her curls escaping from the sides. Miss Mitzi, ready to take me shopping at the department store on Fulton Street.
    Ah, Miss Mitzi.
    I look around. I’d like to lie there in the hay with a lovely new book—and forget about gardening. Instead, I drag out a bunch of farm tools, most of which are incomprehensible to me.
    Is that the right word?
    Is that even a word?
    I think about my garden. I’m going to make it even bigger than the one Joey and I began. I bend over, using a shovel. I hack away, but almost nothing happens. The ground is hard as cement.
    Overhead, the sun is strong. It’s much too hot for the hat. I toss it over my shoulder and hack some more. And then I start to get into the rhythm of it. Dig, dig deeper, turn the weeds up, the soil up.
    After a while, I throw myself on the warm earth. I grab a long brown weed and yank it. And then another.
    Lying there, I keep pulling. I can see the clear spot becoming larger, the edge of the garden uneven, but satisfying. I get on my knees and reach for a trowel that will fit in my hand. I rough up the ground …
    And keep going.
    At last Cassie raps on the kitchen window. It’s lunchtime. I stand up and nearly fall over. My face is stiff; my knees ache; one foot is asleep.
    I look down at my work. The earth is dark and rich.
    I love the way it looks.
    It’s almost as good as reading.
    In the kitchen, I’m surprised to see three plates with paper napkins underneath them. On each plate is a sandwich. The bread is cut unevenly, but I love the peanut butter and jelly.
    “Best lunch I’ve had since Pop left,” Joey says.
    I gobble down the sandwich and then I go outside again. I wander into the barn to find a wheelbarrow that I saw the other day.
    On the back wall is a drawing. It’s rough, because the wall is rough. The picture shows a girl. She’s reading a book that covers her face.
    What is she reading?
    Who is she?
    Around the drawing is a pile of hay. From the way it’s pressed down, I figure the artist must have