Cutler 05 - Darkest Hour

Please."
     
    In the weeks that passed, I looked forward to school so much that I hated when the weekends came. What I did was establish a little one-room school of my own for me and Eugenia, just as I had promised. We had our own small blackboard and chalk and I had my own primary reader. I spent hours and hours teaching Eugenia the things I had learned, and even though she was too young to begin school, she showed remarkable patience and began to learn, too.
    Despite her debilitating illness, Eugenia was a very cheerful little girl who took delight in the simplest of things: the song of a lark, the burst of blossoms on the magnolia trees, or simply the colors of the sky that changed from azure to the delicate blue of a robin's egg. She would sit in her window seat and gaze out at the world like a traveler from another planet taken on a tour of earth and being shown something different every day. Eugenia had a wonderful way of looking out that window and being able to see something novel in the same scene each time she gazed.
    "Look at the elephant, Lillian," she would say, and point to a twisted cedar branch that did indeed resemble the trunk of an elephant.
    "Maybe you'll be an artist when you grow up," I told her and even suggested to Mamma that she buy Eugenia real paintbrushes and paint. She laughed and did go as far as to buy her crayons and coloring books, but whenever I talked to Mamma about Eugenia's future, Mamma would grow very quiet and then withdraw to play her spinet or read her books.
    Naturally, Emily criticized everything I did with Eugenia, and especially mocked our play school in Eugenia's room.
    "She doesn't understand anything you're doing and she'll never really go to school. It's a waste of time," she said.
    "No, it's not, and she will go to school."
    "She has trouble taking walks around the house," Emily said confidently. "Can you imagine her even walking to the end of our driveway?"
    "Henry will take her in the wagon," I insisted.
    "Papa can't let the wagon and horses be used like that twice a day, every day; and besides, Henry has his work here," Emily happily pointed out.
    I tried to ignore what she said, even though in my heart I knew she was probably right.
    My own work in school improved so quickly, Miss Walker made an example of me to the other students. Almost every day, I was running up the driveway ahead of Emily to show Mamma my papers with the little stars on them. At dinner Mamma would bring them out to show Papa and he would gaze down at the papers and chew his food and nod. I decided to pin all my Excellents and Very Goods up on Eugenia's wall. She took as much pride and joy in them as I did.
    By the middle of November of my first school year, Miss Walker was giving me more and more responsibility. Just like Emily, I was helping other students to learn the things I had learned quickly. Emily was very severe with the students she had to tutor in class, complaining about them if they didn't pay attention. Many had to sit in the corner with the dunce's cap on because of something Emily told Miss Walker. She was very unpopular with the rest of the students in the school, but Miss Walker appeared to be pleased about that. She could turn her back or leave the room and know confidently that Emily would be reliable and no one would misbehave in front of her. Besides, Emily didn't mind being unpopular. She enjoyed the power and the authority and told me time after time there was no one at the school she cared to be friends with anyway.
    One day, after she had blamed Niles Thompson for a spitball thrown at Charlie Gordon, Miss Walker told Niles to sit in the corner. He protested his innocence, but Emily was firm in her accusation.
    "I saw him do it, Miss Walker," she said with her steely eyes fixed firmly on Niles.
    "That's a lie. She's lying," Niles protested. He looked to me and I stood up.
    "Miss Walker, Niles didn't throw the spitball," I said, contradicting Emily. Emily's face turned beet red and her nostrils widened like a bull about to snort.
    "Are you absolutely positive it was Niles, Emily?" Miss Walker asked her.
    "Yes, Miss Walker. Lillian's just saying that because she likes Niles," she replied coolly. "They practically hold hands when they walk to and from school."
    Now it was my turn to turn red. All the boys in school smiled and some of the girls giggled.
    "That's not true," I cried. "I . . ."
    "If Niles didn't throw the spitball, Lillian, then who did?" Emily demanded,