“There you are, chickie!” And she was seized up, kicking silently, feet still pointed as they had been when she danced away.
“Where was she?” asked Papa One, in his furry big bear voice.
“Out in the atrium, by the tree,” Mama One answered in her kindly middle bear voice, tucking Ellin tighter against her cushiony self. “She’s always out by the tree, whirling around.”
“Dancing,” said Ellin, defiantly, hoping she would make Mama One listen. “Inna woods.”
“Dancing,” laughed Mama One, paying no attention at all. “Here, Ellin on the lap and Benjamin on this side and Tutsy on the other side, and big brother William in that chair, and here’s Papa with the book.”
Story time was always by the holo-fire, with big brother William in the chair nearest the fire, staring at Ellin and Benjamin and Tutsy with his nose pinched up. Breakfast was always by the kitchen window with the holo-view of sun shining in through green or red leaves, and William already gone away to school. Dinnertime was lamp glow, with everybody at the table, even Tutsy in her high chair, and bedtime was always open the window in Ellin’s room, with the holo-moon outside, sailing, sailing, and the leaves on the trees dancing, dancing.
“What story tonight?” asked Papa One. “What story, Benjamin?”
“Engine,” said Benjamin. “Little Engine.”
Ellin stuck her thumb in her mouth and shut her eyes. She was tired of the little engine, tired of being like the little engine, think I can, think I can, think I can. It wasn’t thinking anymore. It was knowing. Ellin knew she could, but Mama One didn’t care. Papa One didn’t care. She could be making mud pies for all they cared.
Instead of listening to Papa One’s furry voice, she went away inside, somewhere else, that place she’d seen on the holo-stage, the beautiful room where the little girl was, not a grown-up girl, a little girl like Ellin, dancing, dancing under the huge Christmas tree, not a tiny tree like the potted one in the atrium. Ellin’s toes pointed, her free hand turned on the wrist, like a flower opening. She could feel all the muscles in her legs tightening. There was the wicked mouse king, and she ran, like a little wind runs, so quick, so smooth and pretty.
“Ellin isn’t listening,” crowed Mama One. “Ellin’s a sleepy head.”
“Am, too, listening,” said Ellin. “My eyes are bored, so I shut them.”
“Poor baby,” whispered Mama One, gathering Ellin in. “Are you Mama One’s poor baby? Bored with the whole world? Well, a night’s sleep will make it all right. And tomorrow, well, Ellin’s having a surprise!”
Inside, something lurched, like it did when you stepped on one of Benjamin’s marbles and had to balance quickly or fall down. “Surprise?”
“Ellin’s six years old tomorrow. A birthday! And the people from History House are coming.”
Ellin told herself she hadn’t heard. She was so sleepy, she hadn’t heard it. William had, though. She saw the mean glitter in his eyes, saw his lips move. “Told you,” his lips said. “I told you.”
The little lurch inside became something worse, like a throwing up feeling. She couldn’t just let it lie there, making her sick.
“Mama One,” she said desperately, sitting up and opening her eyes wide. “William says you’re not my mama. William says Papa One isn’t my papa. William says me and Benjamin and Tutsy don’t belong here.”
“William,” said Papa One in a threatening voice. “Shame on you. What a thing to say to the child!”
“The brats aren’t yours,” crowed half-grown William in his nasty voice that cracked and jumped, like the broken piano at the kindergarten. “That’s the truth. Why shame on me for telling the truth?”
Mama One said something, but she choked. She had to swallow hard and try again. “Ellin and Benjamin and Tutsy do belong here. This is their infant home. Unfortunately, this is also William’s childhood home, and he is a selfish pig about it.”
“What’s infant?” Ellin asked.
“It’s a baby,” William crowed defiantly. “It’s a baby. And tomorrow you won’t be a baby anymore.”
“That’s true,” said Papa One in the heavy voice he sometimes used when he was very angry. “And next week, William won’t be a child anymore. Next week, William, you will be fourteen. And when children reach fourteen, they are placed for education.”