“Hurry up, Shrimp! I ain’t got all day!” yelled Pete who was waiting behind Jamie to get off the school bus.

“Ah, Shut up!” Jamie yelled back, and with a smug grin she slowly stepped down onto the gravel shoulder of the country road.

Pete jumped down and ran off with one more “Shrimp!” flung back at her.

Jamie was about to return the insult, but Pete had disappeared behind a group of trees. Too late. She hated it when the other guy got in the last word.

“No friends, just stupid jerks,” she mumbled as she set out for her home on Cowiche Creek Road.

“No fun, just work,” she snarled, her hand lashing out at thin air.

“No hugs, just orders,” she yelled, kicking at a rock, then another.

Jamie wished that Rusty could have made the bus. The day was hot, and June had only just begun. Summer could become intense. If she were still living with Grandma she would head for the beach now and search out strange little creatures that fill the tide pools. Squirrely little wavelets suck the sand from beneath the toes, sand fleas pop up like corks, and the ocean breeze fans the sunshine. But here, the sun was hot; it bore down on the body like a heavy burden.

Her head and shoulders drooping, Jamie plodded on with her teeth clenched to keep from crying. A sudden flash of reflected sunlight caught her attention. Looking down, she saw a dime half buried in fine powdery soil. She picked it up. Visions of her growing escape fund brought a feisty smile to her pudgy face and speeded up her plodding feet.

Jiggling the coin in her hand, she turned into the driveway, which sloped past the farmhouse toward the garden where she took a long drink from the water faucet. Duty told her to check on her Mother now. Instead, she tiptoed past her Mother’s bedroom and softly climbed the stairs to her room. From way back in her closet she pulled out her money jar, emptied it on the floor, sat down before it and began to count.

Chores were calling. With a sigh, she stowed away her treasure and went to the barn. She took off her school dress and exchanged it for a pair of overalls. Dressed in her work clothes, she went to the door that led to the chicken house. She took the leggon hook from a nail and entered. A huge Rhode Island Red rooster strutted about, clucking loudly and moving toward Jamie. She kept him at bay by waving the leggon hook at him from time to time. Taking a basket off the shelf she began to gather eggs.

“Yeah, I know,” she said soothingly, keeping one eye on the rooster. “I know, you just wanna roost on my shoulder, like you did when you were a little chick. But I told you a hundred times, you’re just too darn big now, Red!”

The huge bird strutted and clucked and kept looking for an opening.

“You know, if you don’t quit bothering me, I’m gonna tell Dad. And you know what he’ll do with you, don’t you. He’ll have you for Sunday dinner, that’s what.”

The rooster gave a loud cluck of protest as though he knew full well that Jamie would never allow it. Hadn’t she set free the whole lot of those silly looking furry creatures with long, floppy ears. Secretly, she had done it, on the other side of the creek, so her Father couldn’t sell them to city people who wanted them for their dinners. And how about the time she had yelled at their neighbor, Old man Ricker, because his horses had nothing to eat but their own dung!

When she was finished, Jamie set the basket on a shelf. Poking her head through the barn door, she called for Rusty, but when he neither answered her call nor showed himself she decided to bring in the cow without his help. Isabelle, munching contentedly in the adjoining pasture, had other ideas though. Every time Jamie maneuvered her near the open barn door, the cow made a sudden mad dash away from it. Not until Rusty came to help did they manage to get her inside the stall where Jamie began to milk her.

“How do you ever make her come in?” she asked Rusty, a handsome, sturdy boy of thirteen and tall for his age. He had dark, brooding eyes, a square jaw, and a fine line of down adorned his upper lip. His thick curly brown hair always looked neat and tidy, even on the sweatiest days.

“You’re too short; she can’t see you,” he answered with a broad grin.

“Shut up!” she yelled, pretending anger. The milk hit the empty bucket with a vigorous, rhythmic zzaap, zzaap, zzaap. Rusty was leaning against the stall, watching Jamie work. His fingers plucked away at bits of straw that he had picked off the ground. Suddenly, he roused himself. “Is Mom o.k.?” he asked.

“I guess so.”

“Didn’t you check on her? You’re supposed to check on her,” he snarled as he left the barn.

“Why should I,” Jamie muttered and yanked hard on the teat. Isabelle didn’t notice.

“When does she ever care about me!” she yelled at the cow. Isabelle didn’t listen.

“Nothing but work, work, work,” she grumbled. Isabelle didn’t care.