Her Mother's Daughter Read Online Free PDF Page A

fear, both out of pride and out of some intuitive awareness that fear is provocative, and I held my neck taut, my chin high, and plastered my face with hauteur. But they were simply playing some—to me—rough game, and passed me laughing, until one turned around and pointed, crying in great gasps of laughter—“Look at Dabrowska! Oh, conceited!” And the others turned then too, and laughed, brayed at me, “Conceited! Conceited!”
    I maintained my dignified pace and did not change my expression. They tore off down the block and through the empty lot, leaping over abandoned rusting gasoline drums, bedsprings, and other litter, laughing. And my heart squeezed itself together, wanting to force a tear into my eye, but I controlled it. I went into my house through the back door, as always. My mother was mopping the kitchen floor with an instrument I particularly disliked, a mop with long spaghetti-like strands that swished around uncontrollably as she pushed the handle. I did not tell my mother about the girls. I don’t know why. Although I told her many things other children would conceal, I concealed much, very selectively. I would have been ashamed to tell her about the girls: I wanted to appear in control of my away-from-home life. I waited on the threshold as she finished the last swipes with the ugly mop. “If you take off your shoes, Anastasia, you can walk over to the table and I’ll give you some milk and cookies,” she said kindly. I set my books on the table, which was near the back door, and removed my hated shoes, and did as she said. She brought me a glass of milk and some Oreos, and then sank into the chair opposite me, sighing. She lit a cigarette and crossed her legs: she was in her stocking feet.
    â€œHow was school today?”
    â€œFine. I got a hundred in the spelling test, and ninety-nine in the math test. It wasn’t my fault that I got ninety-nine. The teacher thought my seven was a one on one problem. I told her it wasn’t, but she said it was okay.”
    She smiled. “That’s very good, Anastasia.”
    â€œAnd in recess, we danced in a circle and I got picked three times.” This was an utter lie. I was almost never picked when we danced in a circle, and I knew it was because of my ugly high shoes. But I also knew that those shoes cost my parents a great deal of money they couldn’t afford, and that they sacrificed to buy them for me so my flat feet would grow straight. Or whatever they were supposed to do. But this was a lie I frequently used because it seemed to make her happy. She smiled very broadly: “Oh, how nice, Anastasia! You’re popular!” When she smiled like that, I could almost believe it had happened, that I had been chosen, that the children did like me.
    We fell into silence then. I finished my cookies and swept the crumbs into a little pile. Mother rose and got a dishcloth and wiped them up.
    â€œIs it okay if I walk on the floor now?”
    â€œYes.” She tamped her cigarette out and sighed again. “I’m so tired.” I glanced at her sympathetically. She was always tired. I knew her life was very hard.
    â€œMommy?” I turned to get my books. “What does conceited mean?”
    She was standing at the sink, running hot water over the mop-head. “It means someone who thinks they’re good. Better than other people.”
    I stood still. “Oh.”
    She turned her head slightly. “Why?”
    â€œOh, some girls were calling that name—at Rhoda Moore—today. At recess.” I had used the name of the only girl in the class I envied, a tall, beautiful girl with long blond hair and big blue eyes. “They said she was conceited.”
    â€œIs she?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I faltered. “She’s the pretty one.”
    â€œShe probably thinks she’s prettier than the others, then,” Mother explained.
    I left the room so she