But when Momma finally came out, I knew that wasn’t true. She was doing her angry walk. Her face was paler than ever. She heaved the bags of sweaters into the back of the truck. Then she slid onto the seat beside me and silently took the keys I held out to her.
She started the truck and backed out.
“Well, let’s go shopping,” she said. “We won’t let that ruin our day.”
But her voice shook. Her eyes glittered, like they were wetter than they were supposed to be.
“Mr. Creston didn’t give you a check, did he?” I asked in a small voice. “He’s not going to buy any more of your sweaters, is he?”
“No,” Momma said. Her voice was steadier now. “But I got him to tell me the truth. He found someone who can get women in Mexico to knit sweaters really cheap. So he makes more money if he sells those sweaters instead of mine. Even for some of the special orders I already made. . . . And I was too stupid to get him to sign a contract, so he can do that, hand back months of my hard work, just like that . . .” Her voice was rising. She broke off.
“Why don’t you just let him pay you what he’s going to pay the Mexican women?” I asked.
“Those starvation wages? My time’s worth more than that,” she snapped. “So’s theirs, I think, but”—she glanced over at me—“oh, Janie, this is all grown-up stuff. Don’t worry about it. We can still get your clothes today. We’ll be fine.”
But she didn’t sound fine. I didn’t feel fine.
Chapter Seven
Momma didn’t say anything for a long time after that. I stared out the window at the cars and trucks and SUVs driving around us. Most of them were nicer than our truck—newer, bigger, shinier. I thought about what Daddy had said, about money not being everything, and it seemed like he’d been lying. Money was the difference between Satterthwaite and Clyde schools. Money was the difference between Kimberly’s nice clothes and my old, worn-out ones. Money was the difference between Josh Hodgkins getting to play soccer and me having nothing but school.
Momma turned in at Wal-Mart.
“Here we are!” she said in a faky, bright voice. “What’ll it be first? Girls’ coats?”
We found a rack of pink and purple and blue and orange coats. They mostly looked plastic. Princesses did not wear these coats.
“Which one do you like best?” Momma asked, still trying to sound cheerful. “You can choose whatever you want.”
But I saw her turning over the price tags, glancing quickly when she thought I wasn’t looking. I watched her fingers flashing through the coats as gracefully as they flashed through yarn.
Through yarn. Suddenly I couldn’t even see the coats. All I could see was Momma’s hands. I remembered how she’d knitted and knitted and knitted, early in the morning and late at night, on the bus and at home, every second she could for a solid year. Just for me. Because she loved me.
I thought maybe Daddy was right, after all, and some things did matter more than money.
And then I knew what I had to do.
“Momma,” I started. I cleared my throat. “Momma, I don’t need any new clothes.”
Momma stopped in the middle of feeling a purple coat’s lining.
“What?” she said. “Of course you do.” She looked at me carefully. “This is because of Mr. Creston, isn’t it? Really, honey, you don’t have to worry about that. It’s not your problem. Let’s forget that nasty man and just enjoy picking out everything you need.”
Her voice was wobbly. Like my knees.
“No,” I made myself say. Then my legs were steady again. This was important. I took one last look at the brightly colored coats in front of me and backed away.
“Janie, what are you talking about?” Momma said. “You wear that old coat of yours one more day, it’s liable to fall apart. And you don’t have a single long-sleeved top that isn’t a complete disgrace. I feel like a negligent mother already, letting you go this long without new winter clothes.”
I told Momma my plan. I wasn’t sure what to be more scared of: that she wouldn’t agree, or that she would.
She agreed.
And that’s when I knew how bad off we really were.
I thought calling Kimberly would be the hardest thing in the world.
“Do-you-still-have-that-old-coat-you-said-I-could-have?” I said, as fast as I could, to get it over with. But then I had to say it all over again, because Kimberly hadn’t understood a single word.
And then, I couldn’t just go get the coat. Kimberly had to talk to her mom, and her mom had to talk to Momma. “We had a financial setback recently—no, no, we’re fine otherwise. That’s very kind of you, but it isn’t necessary . . . ,” I heard Momma say. The whole time she looked sick to her stomach. And then it was decided that I would go over to Kimberly’s house and play for a while, when I got the coat.
Kimberly’s house was big.
She had a playroom the size of our entire apartment.
I didn’t have any fun.
The coat itself was red, and looked just as new as anything at Wal-Mart. I wondered if Kimberly had worn it more than once.
I hoped not. I hoped that no one at Satterthwaite but me and Kimberly would know that my new coat used to belong to her.
I knew somebody would. Probably everybody would.
So getting the coat was hard.
But it was even harder, Monday morning, when I got up and put on a sweater with someone else’s name on it.
I picked out the prettiest one of all. It was a soft, snowy white, with ivy leaves on the front and back, and winding along the cuffs. But right smack dab in the front, where everyone was bound to see, the sweater said, ALEXANDRIA.
I didn’t glance in the mirror after I pulled the sweater over my head. I put on my old jeans with it. Then I went straight out to breakfast.
Momma looked hard at me when I sat down at the table.
“Oh, Janie, you don’t have to do this,” she said. “We can buy you some new clothes. I’m going to be working a lot of overtime this week to make up for—you know. But as soon as I can, I’ll take the names off some of those sweaters, maybe put your name on instead. So everyone knows it’s yours.”
I didn’t say anything. Momma mumbled, “I should have done that yesterday. But I just couldn’t.”
I wasn’t sure she meant for me to hear that last part. But I remembered the night before. I’d walked into the living room and found Momma sitting on the couch, holding one of the sweaters. She wasn’t ripping out stitches. She wasn’t knitting. She was just staring at the sweater and crying.
Remembering that, I knew I was doing the right thing.
“This is what I want to wear today,” I said now. “Please?”
I was afraid Momma was going to cry again. I didn’t want to see that. I looked straight into my cereal bowl.
“Janie—,” Daddy said, but didn’t go on.
I poured the milk on my cereal. I brought spoonfuls of Cheerios up to my mouth. I drank my orange juice. I didn’t look up, but I could feel Momma and Daddy having a conversation over my head, without saying a single word. It was like their eyes were sending secret messages, back and forth. And my ears could hear what they weren’t saying. We can’t let her do this. . . . But she says she wants to. . . . This is our fault. . . . But what can we do?
Finally, Daddy said, “Janie? That sweater looks beautiful on you.”
And Momma said, “But you look beautiful in everything you wear. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
I finished my breakfast and hugged my parents and put on Kimberly’s old red coat. And then I went outside to wait for the bus.
Chapter Eight
“That’s not your name,” the girl beside me said as I was hanging up my coat. She was reading my sweater.
I made sure Kimberly’s old coat was balanced exactly on the hook. Then I turned around.
I was going to explain. But it was such a long story. My mother made this sweater for me—not to wear, that is; she knows
what my name is, of course—but so she could sell it and we could move and I could go to school here instead of at Clyde, where everything’s broken and the teachers don’t care and the kids beat you up if you don’t watch out. But then Mr. Creston was mean, and he said he couldn’t sell this, and so he returned it, and I knew we didn’t have lots of extra money to buy me new clothes, and then I decided Momma’s sweaters would be my new clothes. Because she loves me. Because—
Okay, it was a really long story. And it probably wouldn’t make sense to anybody but me. It didn’t even make sense to Momma and Daddy.
The girl, Courtney, was still waiting for an answer.
“Maybe Alexandria is my middle name,” I said.
“Janie Alexandria Sams?” the girl said. “That’s pretty. I wish my middle name was Alexandria.”
She smiled at me. I smiled at her. I sat down feeling better than I’d felt since Saturday.
In the middle of handing back our spelling tests, Mrs. Burton stopped by my desk.
“That’s a beautiful sweater,” she said. “I love the ivy. What does it say?” I straightened up so she could see. “Alexandria?” she asked, puzzled.
“It’s her middle name,” Kimberly volunteered from the next seat over.
Had she been listening to what I’d told Courtney? I gave Kimberly a nasty look, then turned my head back to Mrs. Burton.
“Ah,” Mrs. Burton said. She still looked a little puzzled. “Did someone knit that for you?”
“My momma,” I said proudly.
“I wish I could knit like that,” Mrs. Burton said. “No—I wish my mother could. It must be wonderful having somebody who can knit sweaters like that for you.”
She put my spelling test on my desk. I got a 100 and a GREAT JOB! sticker. Some of the butterflies in my stomach stopped flying around. Mrs. Burton leaned over and whispered in my ear: “But my middle name is Gertrude, so I’d never want to advertise that!”
She gave me a little wink, like we shared a secret now.
Poor Mrs. Burton. Gertrude?
By the end of the day, I’d said “It’s my middle name” about fifty times. Nobody had recognized Kimberly’s old coat, and I’d mostly managed to avoid her so she wouldn’t say anything about it. I was feeling pretty good.
But it was only Monday.
Chapter Nine
On Tuesday, I picked out a beautiful purple sweater with a rainbow across the front. And on each color of the rainbow was a different letter: L-I-N-D-S-A-Y. Lindsay.
I was feeling a little bad about lying about my middle name all day Monday. Today, I decided, I’d tell the truth. I’d have to.
But Josh was the first person who asked.
“What’d you do, Janie?” he jeered as I moved the marker on Mrs. Burton’s chart to show that I’d packed my lunch, instead of buying. “Steal that sweater?”
“No,” I said, trying to sound calm. But I could feel all the blood rushing to my face. I could tell that everyone was listening.
“We know Lindsay isn’t your first name. And you said yesterday that your middle name is Alexandria. So—”
“Some people have more than one middle name,” I said.
“Yeah? How many do you have?” he asked.
“I’m not sure you can count that high,” I said.
Well, it was true. The way Josh acted, I wasn’t sure he could count at all.
“He made it to four hundred and ninety-nine at the speed-counting contest last year,” Kimberly said helpfully. I hadn’t even seen her walk over behind me. I looked from Kimberly to Josh.
“Then I must have five hundred middle names, huh?” I said. “At least.”
I saw Mrs. Burton watching us with a funny look on her face.
“Time to settle down, class,” she said. Unlike Mrs. Stockrun, she sounded like she really meant it. “Now. Take your seats.”
We did math and social studies and science. Then, when it was time for our first recess, Mrs. Burton pulled me out of the line.
“I wanted to talk to you for just a minute, Janie,” she said.
We waited until everyone else had stampeded outside.
“Is there anything you’d like to tell me?” Mrs. Burton asked. “You aren’t having problems at home, are you? Anything wrong at all?”
I shook my head.
“Nope. I mean, no, ma’am.”
Mrs. Burton got squinchy lines around her eyes, like she was thinking hard. Her glance flickered down to the big, bold LINDSAY on my sweater, then came back up to my face.
“Are you feeling comfortable at Satterthwaite?” she asked. “I know, when you’re new someplace, it takes a while to feel like you fit in.”
I wondered just how smart Mrs. Burton was supposed to be. Did I look like I fit in? Actually, with this sweater on, maybe I kind of did. As long as you didn’t look at my jeans or my old shoes.
“I like Satterthwaite,” I said.
Mrs. Burton relaxed a little bit.
“Well, you’re certainly doing very well,” she said. She gave me one of those broad smiles that all the teachers at Satterthwaite used. “When I saw which school you were transferring from, I was a little concerned that you might not be, um, prepared. But I’m always delighted to have such a hard worker in my class. I believe you’ve even spurred on some of the other children who aren’t normally as motivated.”
I had?
“Keep up the good work,” Mrs. Burton said. “And that is certainly another lovely sweater. Did your mother knit this one too?”
“Yes,” I said. “She sells them.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Burton said. “Does she have a catalog? I might be interested in looking at that sometime.”
“I’ll tell her that,” I said, and raced out to the playground with ideas tumbling through my mind. I was so excited all of a sudden, I forgot to worry that someone might recognize Kimberly’s old coat.
Chapter Ten
“No,” Momma said.
We were eating dinner, and I had just spilled out everything. Okay, not everything. The important parts. How everyone had been admiring my sweaters the past two days. How Mrs. Burton wanted to see a catalog, if Momma had one. How maybe Mrs. Burton would buy some of Momma’s sweaters, and maybe other people would too. How maybe Momma could even have a store of her own, better than Mr. Creston’s. That would show him. That would show everyone.
“Oh, Janie,” Momma said, shaking her head. “Is that why you’ve insisted on wearing those sweaters? Because you thought people would want to buy them? I’m glad you wanted to help, but—” She looked at Daddy like she thought he could explain. He was watching her.
None of us was paying attention to the tuna noodle casserole on our plates.
“Janie, it’s like this,” Momma said. “I lost a lot of money, paying for all the yarn for those sweaters. I can’t afford to get burned again. Just printing a catalog would be—well, we don’t have that kind of money.”
“Well, maybe you wouldn’t have to have a catalog,” I argued. “Mrs. Burton would understand—”
“No,” Momma said again, and her voice was like iron. “It’s not worth it. I have to stick to the work I know I’ll get paid for.”
I must have looked scared, because Mom’s expression softened then. She gave me a little smile. “Anyhow, I don’t like the idea of using you like—like a billboard or something. A walking ad. You’re going to school to learn, not to sell sweaters.”
Daddy nodded. I could tell he liked what Momma said.
I didn’t.
“But, Momma,” I said. “I can learn and sell sweaters. It’s not hurting me to do two things at once.”
Momma laughed.
“Oh, Janie, I wish I had your faith that everything would work out well. Stay a kid for a while longer, okay? Leave the money worries to Daddy and me.” She got up and put her plate in the sink. She brought a pack of oatmeal cookies back to the table. She kissed the top of my head on her way past. “And do me a favor, all right? Wear a sweatshirt to
morrow. Then I’m sure I can finish making over a sweater for you by Thursday. Without a name.”
The next day, I woke up really, really early. The streetlights were still on. I lay in bed and tried to decide what to wear to school.
If I wore another name sweater, Momma would be upset. I didn’t want to upset Momma.
But if I wore a sweatshirt, it’d be like giving up. The sweaters were important.
That morning I put on a sweater that was the same blue as the sky on the nicest day of summer. Two birds held up a banner on the front. The banner said, CLAIRE.
Momma looked very disappointed at breakfast. Daddy looked worried.
But neither of them made me go back and change.
The gym teacher called me “Claire” during dodgeball that morning.
“Her name’s Janie, remember?” Kimberly told her. “Claire’s just one of her middle names.”
“You trying to confuse me, kid?” the gym teacher asked.
“No, sir,” I said.
The gym teacher shook his head.
Kimberly bent down to pick up a ball. I saw that there were letters on the ribbon hanging from her hair bow. A-L-L-Y . . .
I tapped her on the shoulder.
“Is your middle name Allyson?” I asked.
Kimberly nodded.
“I like that better than Kimberly,” she said. “I’m glad you started the middle name trend.”
“I did?” I said.
“Do you suppose I can get Mr. Wynans to call me Allyson?”
“Probably,” I said. “If you wear your middle name a lot. Since you just have one.”