Homesick Read Online Free PDF

“if you didn’t know whether your father was a crook or what he was? Or whether he was dead or alive? If you didn’t know that you were American? You might be Russian or Danish or German or anything. How would you like it?”
    Well, of course, I knew I wouldn’t like it. “But you’re legally an American,” I pointed out.
    â€œLegally! What difference does that make?” David’s whisper was becoming raspier and raspier. “When you go back to America, you’ll know you’re home. When you meet your grandmother, you’ll know she’s your real grandmother. I won’t know anything.” He spoke so fast it was as if he’d learned his thoughts by heart. “You see?” he asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell, will you or won’t you? Will you make the plans with Millie?”
    â€œYes,” I said, “I will.” But as I went back to bed, my feelings were tangled up again. Part of me said that I had to help him; part of me said I couldn’t help him. In the first place, the idea wouldn’t work; in the second place, David would never be satisfied. No matter what he found out, he would always want to know more.
    From across the room came his whisper, quieter now. “Thanks,” he said. “But remember. Don’t even tell Andrea.”
    As it turned out, Andrea and I were so busy the next day, I wasn’t even tempted to tell. As soon as we got up, she announced that we were going to wash our hair. She had a new rinse made from dried camomile flowers. “It brings out the hidden lights in your hair,” she explained. Andrea had different shades of gold already in her hair, but I didn’t see what could be hidden in my plain brown hair. Certainly I never dreamed I could have undiscovered red highlights but Andrea said I could; I just needed to encourage them to come out. And of course I was willing to do that. So Andrea dropped the dried, buttonlike flowers in a pitcher of hot water, and while they soaked, we began washing our hair, each of us soaping each other and giving each other a first rinse with ordinary water.
    Then for the magic rinse. I poured half the pitcher of camomile mixture over Andrea’s head and she poured the other half over mine. I rushed to the mirror.
    â€œWait until it dries,” Andrea said.
    So I rubbed my head with a towel, stopping every few minutes for a look. No sign of red yet. I kept rubbing until at last Andrea (whose hair was a-glint) told me to quit. As soon as I’d combed my hair, she inspected it and assured me that there was a change. “Wait until the sun shines on it,” she said. “That’s when it really shows up.” I smiled as I fluffed out my hair. I had never appreciated its possibilities before.
    After breakfast we walked on top of the wall that separated the Hulls’ property from the Chinese farms. It was an eight-foot-high wall and when you stood on it, you felt as if you owned the world. Today with the air crisp and the sun making highlights on my hair, I felt especially pleased with that world. It was like a picture postcard. Across the background a water buffalo walked with a boy on its back. The rest of the picture was divided neatly into little farm plots, each with its mud hut, each with its creaking well. From this height the people didn’t look like poor, overworked Chinese; they seemed to be toy people going happily about their business. And I felt like a queen, walking the turret of my castle. I waved my arm at the scene below.
    â€œThat’s our kingdom,” I announced to Andrea. “And I am Queen Marjorie. Who are you?”
    â€œYou are Queen—who?”
    â€œMarjorie.”
    Andrea gave me the same kind of withering look as my mother had. “Marjorie is not a name for a queen,” she said. “It’s not a decent name for anyone.”
    I felt myself getting mad, so to be safe, I sat down, my feet