Cutler 05 - Darkest Hour

her hands on her hips. I gazed at Jimmie Turner, who had thrown it. He looked away quickly. I couldn't tattle on him so I just shook my head.
    "All right," Miss Walker said. She glared at the class until everyone looked down at his desk. "That's enough." She looked at Niles. "Did you throw the spitball, Niles?"
    "No ma'am," he said.
    "You haven't been in trouble before, Niles, so I'm going to take your word this time, but if I see any spitballs on the floor at the end of the day, all the boys in this room will be staying a half hour after school. Is that clear?"
    No one spoke. When the school day ended, we filed out quietly and Niles approached me.
    "Thanks for standing up for me," he muttered. "I don't know how she can be your sister," he added angrily, glaring at Emily.
    "I'm not her sister," Emily happily replied. "She's an orphan we took in years ago." She said it loud enough for all the children to hear. Everyone looked at me.
    "No, I'm not," I cried.
    "Of course she is. Her mother died in childbirth and we had to take her in," she said. Then she narrowed her eyes and stepped forward to add, "You're a guest in my house; you will always be just a guest. Whatever my parents give you, they give you as a handout. Just like to a beggar," she said, and turned triumphantly to the crowd that had gathered around us.
    Afraid I would break out in tears, I ran off. I ran as far as I could. When I stopped, I did cry. I cried all the way home. Mamma was furious with Emily for what she had done and was waiting for her in the doorway when she appeared.
    "You're the oldest, Emily. You're supposed to have the most sense," Mamma told her. "I'm very disappointed in you and the Captain's not going to be happy when he hears about this."
    Emily glared hatefully at me and charged up the stairway to her room. When Papa came in, Mamma told him what Emily had done and he did give her a bawling out. She was very quiet at dinner and refused to look my way.
    At school the next day, I saw many of the children whispering about me. Emily didn't say anything to anyone in front of me anymore, but I was sure she was whispering things to some of them all the time. I tried not to let this stop me from learning and enjoying school, but it was as if a black cloud appeared over my head each morning and traveled with me all the way to school.
    But Emily wasn't satisfied by just making me feel uncomfortable and freakish in front of my classmates. I had infuriated her when I had contradicted her about Niles Thompson and the spitball and she was determined to punish me in little ways for as long as she could. I tried to stay away from her and lag behind or rush ahead when we walked to school, and I did my best to avoid her all day.
    I complained to Eugenia about her, and my little sister listened sympathetically, but we both seemed to know that Emily would be Emily and there was no way to change her or get her to stop doing and saying hateful things. We tolerated her just the way we would tolerate bad weather. We waited for it to pass.
    Only once did Emily succeed in bringing both Eugenia and me to tears at the same time. And for that I vowed I would never forgive her.

 
    3
LESSONS LEARNED
     
    Even though Cotton was unable to come into the house ever since that dreadful day when Eugenia had such a terrible allergic reaction, our cat seemed to have sensed the love and affection Eugenia had for her. Almost every afternoon, after the sun on its journey west- had made its way over our big house, Cotton would come sauntering along and find herself a soft patch of grass beneath Eugenia's window to sprawl over and soak up the warmth. She would lie there purring contentedly and gaze up at Eugenia, who sat on her window seat and spoke to her through the glass. Eugenia was just as excited to tell me about Cotton as I was to tell her about school.
    Sometimes, Cotton was still there when I arrived: a snow-like patch of white snuggle in a bed of emerald. I was always afraid she would grow gray and dirty and look like the other cats that lived outside and found their sanctuaries through holes in the stone foundations or in the dark corners of our toolshed and smokehouse. Her milk-white fur would show every spot of dirt and grime, but Cotton was one of those cats who couldn't tolerate a spot of dust on her. She would spend hours and hours licking and washing, caressing her paws and her stomach with her pink tongue, her eyes closed as she worked methodically in long