Wicked Girls Read Online Free PDF Page A

scream, for the pain
    crashes over my friend’s face
    like a tidal wave,
    but she cannot make noise;
    barely can she make breath.
    â€œHelp! Doctor Griggs!
    Somebody! Help!
    Elizabeth be afflicted!”
    Elizabeth’s hand nearly
    strangles my wrist
    as if to shout, “No!”

GROUP OF AFFLICTED
    Mercy Lewis, 17
    Outside Sunday meeting
    Betty and Abigail stand
    stationed aside the Reverend.
    One arm around each,
    he shows them off like they are sons
    wounded and home from war.
    Doctor Griggs shoves forth Elizabeth.
    She joins the Reverend’s small troop of seers.
    Elizabeth twists down her sleeve,
    tottering on her boots as though
    she be not sure she belongs.
    Missus says, “Ann, step now
    and take thy place among them.”
    Ann stares up at me and I shrug.
    I understand why her foot
    sticks in the snow.
    The other girls hunch
    tattered and wan,
    unsteady and unready
    for all the eyes
    which fall upon them.
    â€œGo on, stand ye by the Reverend,
    and tell all what thou hast seen.”
    Mister Putnam’s voice disavows
    hesitant feet. Ann scurries forth.
    Missus looks to join her,
    but Thomas Putnam raises his hand
    and shakes his head. “Little Ann
    will sit aside me in meeting today.”
    He hands Missus his cloak,
    whistles Wilson to his side
    and clasps the hand of his daughter.
    Missus gasps as though a door
    be shut upon her breath.
    She tosses Mister’s cape to me
    without a glance my direction.
    Out the corner of my eye
    I see Margaret snicker.
    Ann stands before the parsonage
    held steady by her father,
    and all look on her, amazed.
    Margaret plods toward the others,
    unarmed, without her father at her side.
    â€œMaaaargaret,” her step-mother crows
    loud as a pestered gull.
    â€œThou art not a seer.”
    I be nearly tempted to pity
    Margaret when turned eyes
    shame her face red.
    In the diversion, Ann’s panicked
    brow raises to me,
    as if I should tell her what to do.
    I shake my head
    as she is swallowed
    into the church.

MOTHER TELLS WHAT I SEE
    Ann Putnam Jr., 12
    â€œAn old woman rocks
    in my grandmother’s chair,
    knitting black baby’s stockings.
    I know this old woman
    but don’t remember her name,”
    I say quickly to avoid interrogation.
    Mother squeezes my hand and doesn’t let go.
    â€œAnn, dear.” She locks eyes with me.
    â€œIs it Rebecca Nurse who torments you?”
    Mother smiles and nods her head. Her eyes swirl.
    The name Nurse is not to be whispered
    in my house, for that family stole land
    from my mother’s father before I was born.
    I stretch to seek Mercy.
    But Mother blocks her from view.
    My fingers turn metal cold with pain.
    â€œYes. Goodwife Nurse.
    That is who sits in Grandmother’s chair,”
    I say. Mother releases my hand.

BEWITCHED
    Margaret Walcott, 17
    â€œThat bonnet be right smart.”
    I turn and look,
    but none is on the trail,
    except a red-chest sparrow
    high-stepping his pin legs
    in the dirt.
    â€œMargaret.”
    â€œArt thou bewitched?”
    I point a twig at the feathered one,
    and he flies away.
    Laughter bubbles like notes out of a flute
    and the chuckling can’t belong but to one.
    â€œIsaac?” I say his name so quiet
    only the leaves know I speak.
    He pulls the string under my chin,
    and my bonnet falls to the ground.
    I feel all the hair sprout
    horrid and toadlike from my head.
    My one hand quick smooths it down,
    the other fastens my cap back in place.
    But he undoes it with more speed.
    This time I yank the cloth over my ears
    and hold tight. With less than a tug
    he snatches my bonnet high above my reach.
    My face heats. “Pray, let me have it back!”
    My fists wish to beat his chest.
    Why and how could he
    carry that wood for any but me,
    not to say a servant,
    not to speak for that lowly wench?
    â€œMargaret, what be?” Isaac dabs
    one finger under my eye
    as it starts to spill its sadness.
    â€œIsaac.” His father calls his