“It is wonderful,” said Miss Jenny. “It is perfect.”
Emmy Lou went back to her desk much troubled. What was she to do? She had not moved, she had not whispered, she had not lifted the lashes sweeping her chubby cheeks even to look at Hattie, yet it was the general belief that no little girl could answer “six,” and not tell a falsehood, which is a lie. Yet, on the other hand, being perfect, Emmy Lou could not say less. She was perfect. Miss Jenny said so. Emmy Lou shut her eyes to think. It was approaching her turn to answer.
“Six,” said Emmy Lou, opening her eyes and standing, the impersonation of conscious guilt. She felt disgraced. She felt the silence. She felt she could not meet the eyes of the other little girls. And she felt sick. Her throat was sore. In the Third Reader one’s face burned from the red-hot stove so near by, while one shivered from the draught when the window was lowered above one’s head.
Emmy Lou did not come to school the next day, so Hattie went out to see her. It was Friday. The class had had singing. Every Friday the singing teacher came to the Third Reader for an hour.
“He changed my seat over to the left,” said Hattie. “I can sing alto.”
Emmy Lou felt cross. She felt the strenuousness of striving to keep abreast of Hattie. And the taste of a nauseous dose from a black bottle was in her mouth, and another dose loomed an hour ahead. And now Hattie could sing alto.
“Sing it,” said Emmy Lou.
It disconcerted Hattie. “It—isn’t—er—you can’t just up and sing it—it’s alto,” said Hattie, nonplussed.
“You said you could sing it,” said Emmy Lou. This was the nearest Emmy Lou had come to fussing with Hattie.
The next Monday Emmy Lou was late in starting, that is, late for Emmy Lou, and she made a discovery—Miss Jenny passed Emmy Lou’s house going to school. Emmy Lou did not have courage to join her, but waited inside her gate until Miss Jenny had passed. But the next morning she was at her gate again as Miss Jenny came by.