Cassie Binegar Read Free

Cassie could see her wiggle and hear John Thomas and her father laugh.
    Cassie sighed.
    â€œWhy can’t we be like everyone else?” she asked.
    James looked down at her.
    â€œAnd what is everyone else like, Cass?” he asked softly. He folded his arms, waiting. But there was no answer.
    â€œYou don’t understand,” said Cassie, angrily.
    You don’t understand . Cassie thought of Margaret Mary and her family who wore shoes most times and had matching silverware. Margaret Mary liked Cassie. But now it would be ruined. Cassie’s relatives, Cassie thought, were even worse than her family. They would spoil everything. Uncle Hat, who often talked in numbers and rhymes. His daughter, Cousin Coralinda, who wore too many feathers, with her baby, Binnie. And worst of all, Gran, with her sharp eyes, quick, darting, like the sandpipers, and her blunt words.
    Sighing, Cassie tried once more to look beyond the face in the glass. There was the sea out there, now black in the darkness, and a moon, and the every-so-often sweep of the Coast Guard light. But Cassie couldn’t see them. James was right. Her own face was in the way.

3
Inside, Outside
    I N THE BEGINNING, Margaret Mary and Cassie had been careful friends, circling each other, making uneasy, measured reachings of friendship like dogs meeting for the first time. I know you’re a dog. I am, too. Sniff a bit. Will I like you? More important, will you like me? In school, where Cassie had come during the mid-year, there were others her age, all accepting, none unfriendly. But there was something about Margaret Mary, newly arrived from England. Something special in the mysterious prim set of her mouth that twitched up in a smile at odd times, the clipped way of speaking. Something special like a secret signal or a whisper or a flower suddenly blooming between two rocks. Margaret Mary was a comfortable mystery to Cassie. She listened to Cassie complain about her family, her house, her need for a space, her wish to go back. She listened and said little. And as Cassie drew comfort from Margaret Mary’s accepting silence, she basked in the order of Margaret Mary’s house. The tables were not cluttered with books and magazines. They were bare and shiny and you could not write messages in the dust. Margaret Mary’s mother and father discussed the morning newspaper and the evening news in soft voices that did not rise or fall with annoying enthusiasm. The conversation wafted above Cassie and Margaret Mary’s heads like steam from hot tea. Margaret Mary’s mother and father did not ask Cassie any embarrassing questions about what she thought and how she felt about things. They only asked her where she lived and if she had brothers and sisters and what her parents did for a living. Then she was left to think, and eat off the matching white plates with gold rims, dishes that were whisked away and put in a dishwasher. Cassie saw that the kitchen counters were shiny and unstained. The faucet did not drip. And there were no ants.
    In Margaret Mary’s bedroom there was a place for everything and the bed was so neat that Cassie wondered if Margaret Mary actually slept in it.
    â€œYour parents are nice,” said Cassie, suddenly shy.
    Margaret Mary looked up, one eyebrow raised.
    â€œYes,” she said thoughtfully. “They are nice.”
    â€œYour house is nice, too,” said Cassie, sitting on the bed. “And your room,” she added. Cassie stood up. “Where’s the bathroom?”
    Margaret Mary smiled and pointed.
    â€œIt’s there,” she said, grinning. “It’s nice, too.”
    Cassie grinned back at Margaret Mary. Then they both laughed. Cassie had not yet heard Margaret Mary laugh. It was very loud and noisy, and it seemed to bounce off the clean painted walls and tumble around the neat room. The idea of Margaret Mary, proper and prim, laughing like someone’s uncle made Cassie laugh