The Society of S Read Free Page B

my ten p.m. bedtime.
    It was raining so hard that the windshield filmed with water immediately after the pass of the wiper blades. I remember Mrs. McG’s hands clutching the steering wheel. And I remember the calm when the car drove beneath an underpass — I marveled at how suddenly things could change from one state to another, then revert.
    Was I excited? Frightened, more likely. I left the house rarely, only to be shepherded to periodic examinations at a local public school. Today I had no idea what to expect. My father had told me that I had a weak immune system, that he himself had one, that it was better for us to stay away from crowds. I’d been a small, fragile-looking child, but now that I was twelve I seemed to myself sturdier, and my curiosity about the world had grown stronger, too.
    Not to say that I wasn’t “worldly.” I’d read widely; I knew “the facts of life.” But nothing had prepared me for Mrs. McG’s house.
    She lived on the south side of Saratoga Springs. The house was painted white — or had been, some time ago. Winters had worn away paint, and the house looked a little shabby.
    Inside, a barrage of sounds, colors, and smells made me dizzy. This house smelled like people. Piles of shoes and boots of all sizes lay near the door, surrounded by puddles of melted snow. Damp coats and snowsuits hung from hooks, and the scents of sweat and wet wool mingled with those of hot chocolate and toast and something I couldn’t identify, which turned out to be wet dog.
    Mrs. McG led me down a corridor into the kitchen. There, up and down a battered table, sprawled her children. A boy about six years old paused in the act of spitting at one of his sisters to say, “We got company!”
    The others stared at me. A large yellow dog walked over and stuck his wet nose against my leg.
    “Hi.” It was one of the older boys, dark-haired, wearing a plaid shirt.
    “Who are you?” A small girl with green eyes looked up at me.
    A taller girl flipped her long reddish braid over her shoulder and stood up. She smiled. “This is Ari,” she said to the others. “I’m Kathleen,” she said to me. “Mom said you were coming.”
    “Sit here.” The girl with green eyes pulled another chair to the table next to her.
    I sat. There were ten of them, altogether. They had bright eyes and flushed cheeks, and they watched me curiously. The dog curled up under the table at my feet.
    Kathleen set before me a mug of cocoa with a large marshmallow melting in it. Someone else gave me a plate of toast splotched with cinnamon and butter. I took a sip and a bite. “It’s delicious,” I said, and they looked pleased.
    “Take your time and settle in,” Mrs. McG said. “Later you can try to learn their names. You’ll never remember so many.”
    “Even Mom can’t remember sometimes,” Kathleen said. “She calls us ‘girl’ or ‘boy.’”
    “Do you like sledding?” another dark-haired boy asked.
    “I’ve never tried it,” I said. I licked marshmallow foam from my lips.
    “Never tried sledding?” His voice was skeptical.
    “Miss Ari hasn’t spent much time outdoors,” Mrs. McG said. “She’s not a ruffian like you all are.”
    “I’m not a ruffian,” the girl with green eyes said. She had a tiny nose with two freckles on it. “I’m too petite to be a ruffian.”
    “Petite!” Some of the others repeated the word in mocking voices.
    “Bridget’s plump, not petite. Plump as a piglet,” said the older boy. “My name is Michael,” he said, while Bridget protested.
    “When Michael goes to bed at night, he sleeps like a soldier,” Kathleen said. She stood up straight and rigid, hands at her sides. “Like that he sleeps. Never moves all night long.”
    “Not like Kathleen,” Michael said. “She tosses all the covers off and then wakes up shivering.”
    They seemed endlessly fascinated by each other. New voices chimed in, talking about how this one woke up before dawn, and that one talked in his