by her mother. She went to the Big Kids tent and peered inside.
There were about five desks. Two were empty. A woman wearing a drab gray cotton dress and rubber boots stood at the front of the room. Beside her was an easel that held a chalkboard. On it, she’d written: American history.
Loreda ducked inside and sat at the empty desk in the back.
The teacher looked up. “I’m Mrs. Sharpe. And who is our newest pupil?”
The other kids turned to look at Loreda.
“Loreda Martinelli.”
The boy in the next desk scooted so close his desk edge banged into hers. He was tall, she could tell. Lanky. With a dirty cap pulled down so low she couldn’t see his eyes. His blond hair was too long. He wore faded overalls over a denim shirt; one bib strap was untied and the corner flapped over like a dog’s ear. A winter coat hung on him, too big and missing most of the buttons. He pulled off his cap. “Lor-ay-da. I ain’t heard that name before. It’s pretty.”
“Hi,” she said. “Thanks. And you are?”
“Bobby Rand. You moved into Cabin Ten? The Pennipakers left just before the flood. The old man died. Dysentery.” He smiled. “Glad to have someone my age here. My pa makes me go to school if there’s no pickin’.”
“Yeah. My mom wants me to go to college.”
He laughed, showing off a missing tooth. “That’s rich.”
Loreda glared at him. “Girls can go to college, I’ll have you know.”
“Oh. I thought you were jokin’.”
“Well, I’m not. Where are you from, the Stone Age?”
“New Mexico. We had a grocery store that went bust.”
“Students,” the teacher said, rapping a ruler on the top of the easel. “You are not here to jaw. Open your American history books to page one-twelve.”
Bobby opened a book. “We can share. Not that we’re gonna learn anything that matters.”
Loreda leaned toward him, looked at the open book. The chapter heading was “The Founding Fathers and the First Continental Congress.”
Loreda raised her hand.
“Yes … Loretta, is it?”
Loreda didn’t correct the pronunciation of her name. Mrs. Sharpe didn’t look like much of a listener. “I’m interested in more recent history, ma’am. The farmworkers here in California. The anti-immigration policies that deported the Mexicans. And what about workers’ unions? I’d like to understand—”
The teacher rapped her ruler down so hard it cracked. “We do not talk about unionism here. That’s un-American. We are lucky to have jobs that put food on our tables.”
“But we don’t really have jobs, do we? I mean—”
“Out! Now. Don’t come back until you’re ready to be grateful. And quiet, as young women should always be.”
“What is wrong with everyone in this state?” Loreda said, slamming the book shut on Bobby’s finger. He yelped in pain.
“We don’t need to learn about what old rich men did more than one hundred years ago. The world is falling apart now.” She strode out of the tent.
What now?
Loreda marched through the grassy mud toward … what?
Where was she going? If she went back to the cabin, Mom would put her to work doing laundry.
The library. It was the only thing she could think of.
She walked out of camp and turned onto the paved road and walked to town.
In Welty, which was less than a mile away, she turned onto Main Street, where a series of awninged shops had obviously once offered everything a person could need if you had money. Tailors, druggists, grocers, butchers, dress shops. Now most of them were closed. A movie theater stood in the center of town, its marquee unlit, its windows boarded up.
She passed a boarded-up hat shop; a man sat on the stoop, one leg stretched out, the other bent. He draped an arm over the bent knee, a brown hand-rolled cigarette dangled between his fingers.
He peered up at her from beneath the brim of his tired-looking fedora.
A look of understanding passed between them.
Loreda paused for a moment outside the library. She hadn’t been here since the day of her haircut. It already felt like a lifetime ago.
Today she looked bedraggled, unkempt, skinny. At least she was wearing the relatively new hand-me-down dress, but the mud splattered lace-up shoes and socks were not a good look on anyone.
Loreda forced herself to open the door. Once inside, she stepped out of her muddy shoes, left them by the door.
The librarian looked Loreda up and down, from her dirty stockinged feet to the ratty lace of her hand-me-down collar.
Remember me, please. Don’t call me an Okie.
“Miss Martinelli,” she