At the kitchen door Tina whined as Vida slammed the door.
Don't worry I won't, she thought. Ma didn't have to tell her to stay away from Lucy Claudel. She hated her. Everything they said was true. Going off with Harry after the sleighride, and then what happened with Pa. Nothing but trouble ever since Lucy came to live next door. Before that life had been wonderful. Afternoons of reading books and books and eating as she read. Or digging dandelions in the front lawn for supper salad, or playing games at recess with other girls. No fussing about clothes. Or boys. Tears rolled down her carelessly washed cheeks. If only she never would have to face her father again.
She took the long way around and was three minutes late, glad because it meant staying after school. Lucy looked sidelong at Vida but did not try to speak to her during recess. Though it wasn't posing day, she'd go to the studio and practice.
But after two weeks Vida's anguish ran its course. Separation from Lucy became unbearable. She began to wonder whether she had not imagined the meaning of the silhouette against the snow. There had been no sign of the break she thought inevitable between her father and mother. Perplexingly Mr. Bertrand even had brought a flush to his wife's face by saying after supper one night that she was the best housekeeper on Twelfth Street and gave Vida an extra quarter with her week's allowance. A gesture which made her feel ashamed of her evil thoughts about him. In released energy she abandoned the surly slouch of past weeks and drew heads of Lucy in the manner of Nell Brinkley beauties gracing the Husker-Sun.
By the time an early thaw set in the two girls resumed their walks to school. Neither mentioned the nightmarish January night but their friendship had acquired a wary overtone of sharing a sinister secret.
Vida wondered why Lucy never invited her to Clem Brush's studio. This building in which Lucy had a separate being became a goal for which she prepared herself by showing Lucy the Nell Brinkleyish drawings, hoping they would open her elusive friend's eyes to the realization that she too was an artist. It never occurred to Lucy to invite Vida to the studio. Vida was a girl who lived next door. A girl she liked, though funny because always reading poetry about love. You couldn't learn anything about it that way. Boys, and even smelly Mr. Bertrand, weren't like that—when. And Semy, spouting poetry, and peeking.
It's nice though having a friend like Vida who's smart, she thought. But the poetry doesn't mean anything. I liked that library
