R My Name Is Rachel by Patricia Reilly Giff Page B

carrots
.
    We’re still sleeping in the living room. Xenia, the goat, is sleeping with us. We all love Xenia, especially Cassie. But Xenia loves chewing on the end of the mattress. She’s made a hole in Joey’s. The stuffing is coming out
.
    The chicks are in the kitchen. We have to be careful not to step on them. They skitter from one end to
the other. They’ve lost their yellow Easter look and I have to say they’re a little ugly, poor things
.
    Listen, Pop. Try to write when you can. I haven’t spent any more of the money you left. It’s in the kitchen cabinet. But I know we’ll have to pay the rent, and we’ll need food really soon. I’m a little worried, because that will be the last of the money
.
    Love
,
Rachel

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
    It’s usually hard to keep track of time, but one thing I’m sure of. I’ll have to go to town on Tuesday and pay the rent. It will take almost every cent of what we have saved in the kitchen cabinet.
    Two more days!
    On my way downstairs, I pass Cassie’s bedroom. She’s up, painting; her room is almost finished.
    In the living room, Xenia stands at the curtains—bile-green ones, Miss Mitzi would say. They were left by the old owners.
    Xenia doesn’t mind bile-green. She’s eaten one curtain up as far as she can reach, and started on the next one.
    “Hey,” I say.
    She turns, chewing thoughtfully, staring at me with those watery green eyes.
    How can all that fabric be in her stomach?
    I clap my hands at her. “You’re going to the barn, lonely or not, as soon as I have time to make a place for you.”
    Outside, I breathe in the warm air and smile at my plants, pale strings that soon will be vegetables. I’ve planted the marigolds in the corners. Everything looks spectacular.
    Over my head, birds fly back and forth. They swoop into the eaves of the house, working on mud nests as bumpy as warts.
    If only I had something new to read! But that reminds me. My Rebecca book is up in my bedroom, not gathering stains in the kitchen as Cassie said. I’m going to wave it at her the next time we’re upstairs, just to show her. And then I’m going to read it over again; I’ll pretend I don’t know what’s going to happen.
    I look up and see Cassie at the window. She looks so … woebegone. Strange word, but it fits. Her hair straggles over her collar, her cheeks are red, and she reaches up to wipe her eyes with the back of her sleeve.
    I shake my head and go down to the stream. I sit there at the edge, untying my shoes; I pull them off and my socks, too. I leave them near a circle of feathery ferns and walk along the edge, the wet sand gritty against my feet. The stream turns, and there in the shade is a rock. More than a rock. A boulder.
    A wonderful place to sit.
    I bend over to dip my hands in the water. The blisters from gardening are healing into thick lumps and my palms are getting tough. I cup them, bringing them up to mymouth for a sip. Then I straighten, the hem of my dress soaked, and I see it.
    On the rock is a drawing, big and bold. It reminds me of Mrs. Thompson, the art teacher. She came to our classroom once a week and drew all over the blackboard.
    I never could tell what she was doing; she drew lines and circles, and she’d tell us to draw like that.
    I tilt my head now, looking at these lines. But it’s not the kind of art that Mrs. Thompson did. It’s …
    A girl, of course.
    I bend for another sip of water, looking up at that girl. I can’t see her face, because she’s wearing a cloche hat with drops of rain cascading from the edges. Her dress is red gingham with a locket caught in the top buttons.
    I stand entirely still.
    Is she wearing my dress?
    There’s something covering her hands.
    What is it?
    In the warm sun, I wet my hair and soak my face and neck. I put on my hat as the water runs down my shoulders in rivulets, and keep staring at the drawing.
    Does she look like me?
    It is me! Something tugs in my mind. Something to do with the drawing