My sister has always been subservient. To her, my daddy's words are spoken like he's God. She follows his orders with no complainants, even in her mind, and tries her darned best to make 'em happy. But daddy has never liked her. And she don't no why not. She asked me, once, how I get his love. I told her she don't want it.
"Why, Mr. Smith that sounds wonderful." She glances up at daddy, longin' for the approval she won't never get.
Daddy ain't returnin' her gaze, so her eyes find mind for a quick second, then jump to Mr. Smith. He, in turn, looks bored, the irises in his eyes all clammy-like. He seems to want to be far, far away.
Bein' a chaperon to Mary ain't too fun, 'specially since daddy sits here too. I really ain't needed and watchin' Mary talk all polite-like to daddy's friend makes me cringe. I jus' have to keep remindin' myself that I ain't the one marryin' the man.
"Yes ma'am, I got 800 acres, a mere 200 less than your daddy here."
Mary practically swoons, and I can't tell if she's faken' or not. She's always been into land and won't marry less than a man on top. I'd, on the other hand, be just fine with a plain folk man, though daddy wouldn't be. I am his favorite after all.
Mary, who seems to be able to read my mind, sends a snippy glare my way. Daddy, at that moment, seems to snap back to life and catches Mary in the act. I see his fists clench by his sides, and at all costs I avoid lookin' at his eyes. When daddy's angry, his eyes turn all mad and crazy-like. I almost feel sad for Mary, then I remember why daddy got angry in the first place.
The silence in the room makes me sick, and I really would rather go watch the slaves than sit here any longer. Heck, I'd rather be readin' the Holy Book with Miss. Lizabeth. In my stomach I feel little butterfly's, like I'm scared, though I ain't. I think of somethin' to say, hoping the silence is the reason my stomach feels all weird. I pray talkin' will be the cure.
"You have as much slaves as daddy?" I ask, tryin' to say a mean question in a nice manner. I make it seem like I'm as innocent as possible and that I don't know what I'm talkin' about. I bat my eyelashes for good measure.
Mr. Smith turns red, like he's upset. But then I realize, by his shy gaze that he ain't upset, just embarrassed. I get my answer.
Daddy turns from Mary to me, his anger leavin' his body fast. For some reason, the knot in my stomach eases. I ain't really sure why. I catch Mary's gaze, who looks all sad, before turnin' to daddy. I know the words that'll leave his lips before they do.
"Why, Mr. Smith that sounds wonderful." She glances up at daddy, longin' for the approval she won't never get.
Daddy ain't returnin' her gaze, so her eyes find mind for a quick second, then jump to Mr. Smith. He, in turn, looks bored, the irises in his eyes all clammy-like. He seems to want to be far, far away.
Bein' a chaperon to Mary ain't too fun, 'specially since daddy sits here too. I really ain't needed and watchin' Mary talk all polite-like to daddy's friend makes me cringe. I jus' have to keep remindin' myself that I ain't the one marryin' the man.
"Yes ma'am, I got 800 acres, a mere 200 less than your daddy here."
Mary practically swoons, and I can't tell if she's faken' or not. She's always been into land and won't marry less than a man on top. I'd, on the other hand, be just fine with a plain folk man, though daddy wouldn't be. I am his favorite after all.
Mary, who seems to be able to read my mind, sends a snippy glare my way. Daddy, at that moment, seems to snap back to life and catches Mary in the act. I see his fists clench by his sides, and at all costs I avoid lookin' at his eyes. When daddy's angry, his eyes turn all mad and crazy-like. I almost feel sad for Mary, then I remember why daddy got angry in the first place.
The silence in the room makes me sick, and I really would rather go watch the slaves than sit here any longer. Heck, I'd rather be readin' the Holy Book with Miss. Lizabeth. In my stomach I feel little butterfly's, like I'm scared, though I ain't. I think of somethin' to say, hoping the silence is the reason my stomach feels all weird. I pray talkin' will be the cure.
"You have as much slaves as daddy?" I ask, tryin' to say a mean question in a nice manner. I make it seem like I'm as innocent as possible and that I don't know what I'm talkin' about. I bat my eyelashes for good measure.
Mr. Smith turns red, like he's upset. But then I realize, by his shy gaze that he ain't upset, just embarrassed. I get my answer.
Daddy turns from Mary to me, his anger leavin' his body fast. For some reason, the knot in my stomach eases. I ain't really sure why. I catch Mary's gaze, who looks all sad, before turnin' to daddy. I know the words that'll leave his lips before they do.
