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Show in my father's house/ 217 join the arrival of the storm. The boy behind me, Michael, rose from his seat and went to the window, pressing his tongue against the pane as though he could taste the snow if he pushed hard enough. The teacher stopped talking to glare at him. "Sit down, Michael." He cocked his head and threw himself into his seat. At lunchtime, the intercom crackled, announcing that all children would be kept inside excepting those with home permits. I was immune to the moans all around, for going home was simpler than bringing my lunch in a grease-spotted bag which I would have to fold and put in my pocket, was easier than explaining why my mother made her own bread and why I drank bluish powdered milk from a Mason jar. As I went out the main door of the building, I saw Michael brooding at the side-light. He pressed his forehead to the glass and kicked at the pane with the toe of his boot until it quivered. I couldn't help feeling smug. My family was strange, but I knew that Michael's family was stranger still. His mother worked in one of the red-light saloons across the tracks, and no one knew who his father was. I might envy Michael's hot lunch at school every day, but I never longed to trade places with him. And yet, I liked Michael; he was one of the few students who didn't seem to threaten the secret of my family. I stood on the hill, surrounded only by snow and silence, looking down at our little house. The snowflakes, larger than anY I had seen and so thick I could feel them falling, formed a strangely warm, unmelting cap. Otherwise, all was frozen tran- |
