Erasable Chapter Two
Mr. Pinchpenny's droning lesson on fractions never made it into Ellie's brain. He lectured on and on about pies and cutting up the pies and different sizes of pieces of pie. It made Ellie's stomach growl. She wondered if it mattered what kind of pie you were slicing up. Was one third of an apple pie the same as one third of a cherry pie? What about her favorite, lemon meringue? Surely that was different from apple or cherry pie. Her head was full of pie in all its glorious flavors when she felt a soft kick from Matthew behind her. Delicious thoughts of pie faded away. Mr. Pinchpenny had asked her a question and was staring at her, waiting for the answer.
"Uh ... could you please repeat the question?" Ellie asked, her stomach in a knot.
"I could, but I will not," Mr. Pinchpenny replied, in his dry as dust voice. "Since you can't pay attention in class, you will do an extra page of fractions for homework."
Ellie spent the rest of the morning erasing and redoing all the math problems that Mr. Pinchpenny had marked WRONG with large red Xs on her paper.
At lunch, Ellie spilled chocolate milk all over herself when reaching for a napkin. The lunchroom erupted in howls of laughter at the third grader dripping with chocolate milk. Mike Weaver swaggered over to a very red-faced and chocolatey Ellie.
"Are you sure your name is Ellie?" he sneered. "I think it's really Spilly!"
The other kids copied him gleefully. All afternoon, they greeted her with "Hi, SPILLY!", or "How ya doin', SPILLY?", or "Can I borrow some paper, SPILLY?" Ellie's face grew hot and her cheeks flamed with embarrassment every time someone called her "Spilly." Ava gave her a half-smile in sympathy, but said nothing.
When the bell rang at the end of the day, Ellie grabbed her backpack and fled out the door. She headed for home alone. When she neared the block where she lived, there was a PLOP on her head; then another, and another. As she tilted her head back to look up, several large raindrops splashed her right in the face.
Could my life get any worse? Ellie thought, wiping away the raindrop teetering on the end of her nose.
The rain started to fall harder. Lightning raced across the sky, and thunder boomed above the clouds. She began to run but the rain was pelting down furiously. By the time she got home, she was soaked through.
Ellie opened the front door and went in, dripping puddles on the scuffed wood floor as she dropped her backpack and pushed her dark hair back away from her face. Ellie's mother, her long braid hanging down her back almost to her waist, stood in front of an easel in her sunroom studio. She put down her paintbrush and looked across the room at her bedraggled daughter.
"Oh Ellie, you're soaking the floor," she said reprovingly. "Get some dry clothes on before you get sick, and please come back and dry off the floor."
She turned back to her easel, her oversized, brightly colored earrings clanking as she moved. She was painting a portrait of her feelings -- "painting out your emotions", the book she had bought called it. Ellie glanced at the picture as she sloshed on by on her way up to her room. The painting looked like a bunch of green paint globs on the canvas, or maybe like what a jar of relish would look like if you dropped it on the garage floor.
Ellie started up the stairs to her room. Her sneakers squished and squeaked on the steps. Her little brother Tyler came bounding down the stairs as she was going up.
"What happened to you? You look like a wet rat," he hooted as he passed her, jumping down the rest of the stairs two at a time.
Reaching her room, Ellie peeled off her sopping clothes. She grimaced at the sight of the large chocolate milk stain on her shirt.
Mom will not be happy to see that, she thought.
She tossed it over a chair to dry. She put on some dry clothes and rubbed her hair with a towel enough to get it to stop dripping. She got some old rags out of the hall closet and went downstairs to dry the floor. Tyler was running back and forth between the kitchen, the family room and the front entry way where Ellie was drying the floor. He held his arms straight out from his sides and made screaming engine noises, zooming past his sister as she finished up her task.
What a pain having a little brother who thinks he's an airplane, thought Ellie. Really, Mom ought to do something about him.
Tyler flew by again, dipping his wings and turning himself backwards as he threw himself into his famous barrel roll. He landed on the stained carpet in front of the sofa with a thud and loud plane-crashing noises. Revving his engines, he grabbed hold of the frayed arm of the sofa and pulled himself back up. His wings shot straight out and he took off again, circling back for another crash-landing on the carpet. Ellie picked up her rags and scurried quickly past him and back upstairs.
When she reached her room, Ellie hung the wet rags over the tub in her bathroom. She closed the door to her room and dragged herself over to her bed.
Little pieces of lint flew up from the worn green bedspread when she flopped down on it. They floated lazily in the air for a moment and then drifted back down to the bedspread that launched them. Ellie closed her eyes to shut out the day. Screeching little-brother-airplane sounds came right up through the floor and into her room.
Ellie's eyes sprang open.
Five year olds! They're infants! she thought. I am four whole years older than Tyler. It's so unfair that I am stuck in this house having to put up with all his noise and annoying behavior. Why can't he play something quiet? I don't know how Mom can paint with all that racket going on. I need some peace and quiet.
Glumly, Ellie got up. She paused for a moment to think, and then left her cluttered room and headed down the hallway. The hall carpet was thin and faded. The wood floor gaped up at her through a fraying hole that Tyler had dug into the rug. Ellie's nose wrinkled as she neared her brother's bedroom. Sticky handprints covered the chipped paint on the door to his room. Ellie hurried past on her way to the back stairs that led up to the attic. The stairs creaked as she went up the narrow, curving staircase. At the top of the stairs, the old glass doorknob of the attic door glinted a welcome. She turned the knob and went in.
The dark and gloom that greeted her inside made Ellie pause. The only bit of light came from a small, dirty round window at the other end of the room. There was a single light bulb that hung down from the ceiling in the middle of the attic. Ellie switched it on. It cast a dim light over the area directly below it. The rest of the attic remained cloaked in dusty darkness. Shadows in odd shapes climbed the walls. Ellie shuddered and swallowed hard. Her heart was thumping in her chest. She hadn't been up here very often, and never by herself. It was just a little too creepy.
The rain drumming on the roof made a soothing sound. Ellie's pounding heart began to quiet down. Peering through the gloom, she looked around for somewhere to sit and clear her head. An old rocking chair shoved up under the window offered her a cozy welcome. She made her way through piled up boxes, four large trunks, some mismatched furniture, a rusty metal tool box, several old umbrellas and rolled-up rugs, two empty bird cages and some kind of military uniform hanging up on a coat rack. The coat rack was blocking her path to the rocker. She pushed the uniform out of the way and slipped behind the coat rack. She sank into the rocker under the window and let out a long breath.
Ellie sat for several minutes, listening to the rain and rocking gently. The pattering rain, the gentle rhythm of the rocking chair, and the peaceful silence of the attic wrapped around her like a soft blanket. Ellie let out a long, deep sigh. The rocker was tucked into its little corner beside the window. If she pulled the hanging uniform over just a bit more, it closed the rocker off from the rest of the attic. It made a cozy little den, away from everyone and everything.
This can be my secret place, thought Ellie. I can come up here to think, to read, and to just be me.
Curiosity bubbled up in her brain. She began to look more closely at her surroundings. She got up from the rocker and began to examine some of the items in her little den. There were boxes of old clothes and some old-fashioned records and a record player. Behind them sat a carton full of old photos and papers. She pulled it out and set it under the window. She read the writing on the envelope on one of the letters in the box. Eleanor Edna Grayson, it said. Ellie stared at the name.
These are Grandmother's things, thought Ellie. Eleanor. The one I am named after.
At least they didn't name me after the Edna part of her name, Ellie thought. That sounds even more old-fashioned than Eleanor. I still don't like being named Eleanor. But maybe I can see what's here and find out more about her.
Ellie started poking through the letters. She took one out and began to read it. It was all handwritten in cursive and hard to read. It seemed to be news about someone getting married (June fifteenth), where someone named Johnny was stationed with the Navy (Virginia), and what color wallpaper the writer was putting up in her bedroom (light gray with dusty rose flowers). The letter was signed Love, Marge.
Other letters in the box proved to be just as dull, and Ellie soon lost interest in reading any more of them. She put the letters back and closed up the box. She carried it back to where she had found it. As she bent forward to drop it back behind the record player, a glint of light near the wall caught her eye. She put the carton down and moved closer to the shining object.
Pushed up against the wall was a pile of old army blankets. A faint hint of something solid poked up from under the blankets. A corner of the mysterious object stuck out and caught the pale light from the window, making the gleam that Ellie had seen.
Ellie stepped closer. She began pulling the blankets off. The pile was large, and the blankets were heavy. She pulled the last one off and stared.
A small wooden chest with brass hinges and a brass latch in front sat alone on the floor. It had two leather handles, one on each side of the chest. Ellie reached down and picked it up by the handles. It was heavier than she had expected it to be. The leather handles were dark and worn. The box was a little dented and battered, and the lid was grimy. Ellie took it over to the window to examine it. She could feel something rattling around inside it. She rubbed the top of the chest with an old bandanna from the box of clothes in front of the record player. As the grime came off, Ellie could make out something carved into the wood.
There were three lines of script, in a type of writing she had never seen before. The writing was curvy and flowing, and each line ended neatly exactly where the line above it ended. Ellie tried to lift the latch but it was firmly locked. She looked more closely and saw a keyhole at the bottom of the latch. She pursed her lips. There was no key in sight.
The tool box! She had passed an old tool box on her way to the rocker. Ellie made her way out of the rocker's corner, past the coat rack and the jumbled up boxes and household items that filled the attic floor. She came to the tool box and began rummaging around inside it. Her hand closed around a small screwdriver with a yellow handle and some sort of thin metal rod. She took them back to the chest and sat on the floor in front of it. Pulling the chest into her lap, she picked up the screwdriver and tried working it in the lock. She wiggled it and jiggled it and turned it every which way. Nothing happened. The latch stayed firmly locked.
Ellie put the screwdriver down and picked up the metal rod she had brought. She stuck it in the keyhole and pushed it around. She jiggled it just like she had jiggled the screwdriver. Nothing happened. The chest stayed securely closed up.
Ellie threw the metal rod down, scowling.
This always works in the movies, she thought. Why can't I get it to work? Just another unfair thing in my life.
Leaving the tools and the chest on the floor, Ellie stood up.
I really want to know what's in this chest, she thought. But I will have to figure out another way to get it open. Maybe I'll think of something tomorrow and come back then.
She turned to start toward the attic door and almost walked into a small piece of furniture covered with an old sheet. She pulled the sheet off. A beautiful rosewood desk gleamed in the dim light.
How come I didn't notice this before? wondered Ellie. This must have been Grandmother's writing desk.
She dragged the rocker over to the desk and sat down in front of it. Ellie examined the desk with great interest. The wood was smooth and glossy, of a rich creamy brown color. The desk had several little cubbies for storing letters, bills, or small items. There were three small drawers stacked up on one side of the desk. Ellie opened each drawer eagerly, but except for an old yellow pencil with no eraser, they were all empty. Her brow furrowed with disappointment, she sat back in the rocker and looked at the desk.
It's too bad there's nothing interesting in here, she thought. But I could use this desk to keep things in. I could write down my private thoughts when I'm in my secret den. The wood is so pretty. It would be nice to write at this desk.
Ellie leaned forward and looked at the desk more carefully.
One of the wooden panels under the cubbies was not set in exactly straight. Ellie reached out and touched it. It wobbled a bit under her hand. Ellie stood up and leaned in closer. She pressed the crooked panel with her hand. Suddenly, it popped open, revealing a hidden compartment. A dark shape filled the secret space.
Ellie reached in and pulled out a small, round box made of polished wood. Carved into its lid was the same type of flowing script that she had seen on the chest that she could not open. A tiny jewel of deepest purple graced the center of the lid.
Her eyes wide, Ellie opened the box. Inside, a silver key glittered in the pale light from the window. Etched along one side of the key was more of the same mysterious script that she recognized from the round box lid and the small chest.
Ellie picked up the key and held it in her palm. It was surprisingly warm in her hand, as if it were a living thing. Her heart began to beat faster as she turned around and faced the chest, still on the floor where she had left it. Tingling with anticipation, she walked toward it.
"Uh ... could you please repeat the question?" Ellie asked, her stomach in a knot.
"I could, but I will not," Mr. Pinchpenny replied, in his dry as dust voice. "Since you can't pay attention in class, you will do an extra page of fractions for homework."
Ellie spent the rest of the morning erasing and redoing all the math problems that Mr. Pinchpenny had marked WRONG with large red Xs on her paper.
At lunch, Ellie spilled chocolate milk all over herself when reaching for a napkin. The lunchroom erupted in howls of laughter at the third grader dripping with chocolate milk. Mike Weaver swaggered over to a very red-faced and chocolatey Ellie.
"Are you sure your name is Ellie?" he sneered. "I think it's really Spilly!"
The other kids copied him gleefully. All afternoon, they greeted her with "Hi, SPILLY!", or "How ya doin', SPILLY?", or "Can I borrow some paper, SPILLY?" Ellie's face grew hot and her cheeks flamed with embarrassment every time someone called her "Spilly." Ava gave her a half-smile in sympathy, but said nothing.
When the bell rang at the end of the day, Ellie grabbed her backpack and fled out the door. She headed for home alone. When she neared the block where she lived, there was a PLOP on her head; then another, and another. As she tilted her head back to look up, several large raindrops splashed her right in the face.
Could my life get any worse? Ellie thought, wiping away the raindrop teetering on the end of her nose.
The rain started to fall harder. Lightning raced across the sky, and thunder boomed above the clouds. She began to run but the rain was pelting down furiously. By the time she got home, she was soaked through.
Ellie opened the front door and went in, dripping puddles on the scuffed wood floor as she dropped her backpack and pushed her dark hair back away from her face. Ellie's mother, her long braid hanging down her back almost to her waist, stood in front of an easel in her sunroom studio. She put down her paintbrush and looked across the room at her bedraggled daughter.
"Oh Ellie, you're soaking the floor," she said reprovingly. "Get some dry clothes on before you get sick, and please come back and dry off the floor."
She turned back to her easel, her oversized, brightly colored earrings clanking as she moved. She was painting a portrait of her feelings -- "painting out your emotions", the book she had bought called it. Ellie glanced at the picture as she sloshed on by on her way up to her room. The painting looked like a bunch of green paint globs on the canvas, or maybe like what a jar of relish would look like if you dropped it on the garage floor.
Ellie started up the stairs to her room. Her sneakers squished and squeaked on the steps. Her little brother Tyler came bounding down the stairs as she was going up.
"What happened to you? You look like a wet rat," he hooted as he passed her, jumping down the rest of the stairs two at a time.
Reaching her room, Ellie peeled off her sopping clothes. She grimaced at the sight of the large chocolate milk stain on her shirt.
Mom will not be happy to see that, she thought.
She tossed it over a chair to dry. She put on some dry clothes and rubbed her hair with a towel enough to get it to stop dripping. She got some old rags out of the hall closet and went downstairs to dry the floor. Tyler was running back and forth between the kitchen, the family room and the front entry way where Ellie was drying the floor. He held his arms straight out from his sides and made screaming engine noises, zooming past his sister as she finished up her task.
What a pain having a little brother who thinks he's an airplane, thought Ellie. Really, Mom ought to do something about him.
Tyler flew by again, dipping his wings and turning himself backwards as he threw himself into his famous barrel roll. He landed on the stained carpet in front of the sofa with a thud and loud plane-crashing noises. Revving his engines, he grabbed hold of the frayed arm of the sofa and pulled himself back up. His wings shot straight out and he took off again, circling back for another crash-landing on the carpet. Ellie picked up her rags and scurried quickly past him and back upstairs.
When she reached her room, Ellie hung the wet rags over the tub in her bathroom. She closed the door to her room and dragged herself over to her bed.
Little pieces of lint flew up from the worn green bedspread when she flopped down on it. They floated lazily in the air for a moment and then drifted back down to the bedspread that launched them. Ellie closed her eyes to shut out the day. Screeching little-brother-airplane sounds came right up through the floor and into her room.
Ellie's eyes sprang open.
Five year olds! They're infants! she thought. I am four whole years older than Tyler. It's so unfair that I am stuck in this house having to put up with all his noise and annoying behavior. Why can't he play something quiet? I don't know how Mom can paint with all that racket going on. I need some peace and quiet.
Glumly, Ellie got up. She paused for a moment to think, and then left her cluttered room and headed down the hallway. The hall carpet was thin and faded. The wood floor gaped up at her through a fraying hole that Tyler had dug into the rug. Ellie's nose wrinkled as she neared her brother's bedroom. Sticky handprints covered the chipped paint on the door to his room. Ellie hurried past on her way to the back stairs that led up to the attic. The stairs creaked as she went up the narrow, curving staircase. At the top of the stairs, the old glass doorknob of the attic door glinted a welcome. She turned the knob and went in.
The dark and gloom that greeted her inside made Ellie pause. The only bit of light came from a small, dirty round window at the other end of the room. There was a single light bulb that hung down from the ceiling in the middle of the attic. Ellie switched it on. It cast a dim light over the area directly below it. The rest of the attic remained cloaked in dusty darkness. Shadows in odd shapes climbed the walls. Ellie shuddered and swallowed hard. Her heart was thumping in her chest. She hadn't been up here very often, and never by herself. It was just a little too creepy.
The rain drumming on the roof made a soothing sound. Ellie's pounding heart began to quiet down. Peering through the gloom, she looked around for somewhere to sit and clear her head. An old rocking chair shoved up under the window offered her a cozy welcome. She made her way through piled up boxes, four large trunks, some mismatched furniture, a rusty metal tool box, several old umbrellas and rolled-up rugs, two empty bird cages and some kind of military uniform hanging up on a coat rack. The coat rack was blocking her path to the rocker. She pushed the uniform out of the way and slipped behind the coat rack. She sank into the rocker under the window and let out a long breath.
Ellie sat for several minutes, listening to the rain and rocking gently. The pattering rain, the gentle rhythm of the rocking chair, and the peaceful silence of the attic wrapped around her like a soft blanket. Ellie let out a long, deep sigh. The rocker was tucked into its little corner beside the window. If she pulled the hanging uniform over just a bit more, it closed the rocker off from the rest of the attic. It made a cozy little den, away from everyone and everything.
This can be my secret place, thought Ellie. I can come up here to think, to read, and to just be me.
Curiosity bubbled up in her brain. She began to look more closely at her surroundings. She got up from the rocker and began to examine some of the items in her little den. There were boxes of old clothes and some old-fashioned records and a record player. Behind them sat a carton full of old photos and papers. She pulled it out and set it under the window. She read the writing on the envelope on one of the letters in the box. Eleanor Edna Grayson, it said. Ellie stared at the name.
These are Grandmother's things, thought Ellie. Eleanor. The one I am named after.
At least they didn't name me after the Edna part of her name, Ellie thought. That sounds even more old-fashioned than Eleanor. I still don't like being named Eleanor. But maybe I can see what's here and find out more about her.
Ellie started poking through the letters. She took one out and began to read it. It was all handwritten in cursive and hard to read. It seemed to be news about someone getting married (June fifteenth), where someone named Johnny was stationed with the Navy (Virginia), and what color wallpaper the writer was putting up in her bedroom (light gray with dusty rose flowers). The letter was signed Love, Marge.
Other letters in the box proved to be just as dull, and Ellie soon lost interest in reading any more of them. She put the letters back and closed up the box. She carried it back to where she had found it. As she bent forward to drop it back behind the record player, a glint of light near the wall caught her eye. She put the carton down and moved closer to the shining object.
Pushed up against the wall was a pile of old army blankets. A faint hint of something solid poked up from under the blankets. A corner of the mysterious object stuck out and caught the pale light from the window, making the gleam that Ellie had seen.
Ellie stepped closer. She began pulling the blankets off. The pile was large, and the blankets were heavy. She pulled the last one off and stared.
A small wooden chest with brass hinges and a brass latch in front sat alone on the floor. It had two leather handles, one on each side of the chest. Ellie reached down and picked it up by the handles. It was heavier than she had expected it to be. The leather handles were dark and worn. The box was a little dented and battered, and the lid was grimy. Ellie took it over to the window to examine it. She could feel something rattling around inside it. She rubbed the top of the chest with an old bandanna from the box of clothes in front of the record player. As the grime came off, Ellie could make out something carved into the wood.
There were three lines of script, in a type of writing she had never seen before. The writing was curvy and flowing, and each line ended neatly exactly where the line above it ended. Ellie tried to lift the latch but it was firmly locked. She looked more closely and saw a keyhole at the bottom of the latch. She pursed her lips. There was no key in sight.
The tool box! She had passed an old tool box on her way to the rocker. Ellie made her way out of the rocker's corner, past the coat rack and the jumbled up boxes and household items that filled the attic floor. She came to the tool box and began rummaging around inside it. Her hand closed around a small screwdriver with a yellow handle and some sort of thin metal rod. She took them back to the chest and sat on the floor in front of it. Pulling the chest into her lap, she picked up the screwdriver and tried working it in the lock. She wiggled it and jiggled it and turned it every which way. Nothing happened. The latch stayed firmly locked.
Ellie put the screwdriver down and picked up the metal rod she had brought. She stuck it in the keyhole and pushed it around. She jiggled it just like she had jiggled the screwdriver. Nothing happened. The chest stayed securely closed up.
Ellie threw the metal rod down, scowling.
This always works in the movies, she thought. Why can't I get it to work? Just another unfair thing in my life.
Leaving the tools and the chest on the floor, Ellie stood up.
I really want to know what's in this chest, she thought. But I will have to figure out another way to get it open. Maybe I'll think of something tomorrow and come back then.
She turned to start toward the attic door and almost walked into a small piece of furniture covered with an old sheet. She pulled the sheet off. A beautiful rosewood desk gleamed in the dim light.
How come I didn't notice this before? wondered Ellie. This must have been Grandmother's writing desk.
She dragged the rocker over to the desk and sat down in front of it. Ellie examined the desk with great interest. The wood was smooth and glossy, of a rich creamy brown color. The desk had several little cubbies for storing letters, bills, or small items. There were three small drawers stacked up on one side of the desk. Ellie opened each drawer eagerly, but except for an old yellow pencil with no eraser, they were all empty. Her brow furrowed with disappointment, she sat back in the rocker and looked at the desk.
It's too bad there's nothing interesting in here, she thought. But I could use this desk to keep things in. I could write down my private thoughts when I'm in my secret den. The wood is so pretty. It would be nice to write at this desk.
Ellie leaned forward and looked at the desk more carefully.
One of the wooden panels under the cubbies was not set in exactly straight. Ellie reached out and touched it. It wobbled a bit under her hand. Ellie stood up and leaned in closer. She pressed the crooked panel with her hand. Suddenly, it popped open, revealing a hidden compartment. A dark shape filled the secret space.
Ellie reached in and pulled out a small, round box made of polished wood. Carved into its lid was the same type of flowing script that she had seen on the chest that she could not open. A tiny jewel of deepest purple graced the center of the lid.
Her eyes wide, Ellie opened the box. Inside, a silver key glittered in the pale light from the window. Etched along one side of the key was more of the same mysterious script that she recognized from the round box lid and the small chest.
Ellie picked up the key and held it in her palm. It was surprisingly warm in her hand, as if it were a living thing. Her heart began to beat faster as she turned around and faced the chest, still on the floor where she had left it. Tingling with anticipation, she walked toward it.