The Luck Uglies Read Free Page B

some implausible stories from her best friend, Folly Flood, Rye couldn’t help but ask, “Mama, what about Beyond the Shale? Shouldn’t we worry about monsters?”
    To which Abby O’Chanter had replied, “Riley, have you ever seen a monster come out of the forest?”
    â€œWell, no.”
    â€œThere you go,” Abby had said. Then she’d added with a wink, “Besides, if one did, wouldn’t you rather be the first to see it coming?”
    â€œI suppose you’re right,” Rye had said. And that had been the end of those worries.
    Still, that night at supper, Rye wasn’t feeling particularly thrilled about where they lived, or anything else for that matter. She sat with her mother and her little sister, Lottie, at the big table by the fireplace, picking at the fleshy white meat in the cracked shells on her plate. Her place setting was remarkably tidy. Typically, when Rye was hungry, the table and floor looked like a pantry raided by squirrels.
    â€œSea bugs again?” Rye said. “I wish we could have something else.”
    Sea bugs washed ashore in piles each morning. They were brown and gray until you threw them into a boiling pot, then they screamed, turned red, and fought with each other to escape. Rye felt no gratitude toward the deranged person who first strolled along the sand and ate one.
    â€œCackle fruit!” exclaimed Lottie, banging her spoon on the table. Rye wondered if Lottie would outgrow the banging—and the yelling and fussing—when she turned three. That was coming soon, but not soon enough.
    â€œEggs are for morning,” Abby said. “Besides, something’s been troubling the hens. They haven’t laid any eggs all week.”
    â€œUh-oh,” said Lottie, bending her head over the big claw on her plate. As she pecked at it, her nest of red hair bounced, and coarse strands flew out in all directions like a barn fire. Her hair was nothing like Rye’s, which was brown and chopped short above her shoulders, or their mother’s, which fell long, thick, and black down her back.
    â€œAs for you,” Abby said, pointing a spoon at Rye, “be thankful we have sea bugs and bread. You know we can’t afford to eat beef or chicken every night.”
    â€œWell, we could . . . ,” Rye mumbled.
    â€œAnd what do you mean by that?”
    Rye bit her lip. “Nothing.”
    Abby always seemed to know when something was weighing on Rye’s mind. Rather than cuff her, or warn her not to talk back, Abby usually tried to help. It wasn’t easy being Rye. Abby seemed to know that.
    â€œWhat is it, Riley? You’ve been upset all day.”
    â€œIt’s just . . . the Constable. He lied to us today. You knew he was making up laws and you didn’t say anything.”
    Her mother nodded.
    â€œWhy not?” Rye said. “You let him treat us like we’re stupid.”
    â€œMe no stupid, me Lottie,” Lottie said. She made an angry face and pounded her fist on the table.
    â€œOf course, Lottie,” Abby said, and patted her red tuft.
    Abby looked back at Rye. “The Laws of Longchance, Riley. You know that we—women, girls—we’re not supposed to know those things. We’re not supposed to know how to read or write.”
    Unless you are a Daughter of Longchance, Rye thought, in which case none of those laws applied. Her mother had told her that there were other places where girls and women could do anything they wanted. Abby grew up in one of those places. When Rye asked why they couldn’t move there, Abby told her it was complicated. When she’d asked again, Abby said there were worse things than not being allowed to read or write. The third time she’d asked, Abby sent her down to catch the basement wirry under the Willow’s Wares.
    â€œThose are stupid laws,” Rye grumbled now, her ears turning pink.
    â€œThey are stupid,