The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane Page #3

But you shouldn't be working now.

You should be at the ball game.

The Wildcats need

all the help they can get.

Whose class are you doing the paper for?

Excuse me. Maybe I can

get there by halftime.

You're a liar, Mrs. Hallet.

You're a liar.

Rynn, where you going?

Back home.

If you can wait a second,

I'll give you a lift.

No, really. I'm fine.

I was hoping maybe you and...

Some other time, then.

Could you give your mother

a message for me?

Tell her I have those jelly glasses...

and any time she wants to come by,

they'll be there.

I can come by later myself, if you like.

I think it'd be better if she came.

My father wants to talk to her.

Yeah, I'll tell her.

- Everything all right, miss?

- Fine, officer.

I mean, he wasn't bothering you, was he?

Mr. Hallet?

Your folks let you wander

around town by yourself?

I live with my father. He lets me

come into town when I want.

- What's your name?

- Rynn Jacobs.

Do you have a name, officer?

Oh, sure, yeah. Sorry.

The name's Miglioriti.

- Miglioriti.

- Yeah. You got it.

But call me Ron.

Miglioriti. That's a nice name.

It's Italian.

It's hard for most Americans.

And have the Miglioritis been living

in this town a long time?

Hey, you sound like you've been

talking to Mrs. Hallet.

To her, if you weren't on

the first ship that put in here...

you'll always be an immigrant.

I guess we're the newest,

me and my father.

You've been here, what,

a couple of months?

Yeah, about that.

Like it?

- Is school okay?

- Yeah, it's okay.

- Yeah, being new isn't easy.

- There's the lane.

Around here, folks can be

a little cold at first...

but when you've been here longer,

they'll seem even colder.

Thanks for the ride.

Maybe I could have

a talk with your father.

- Why?

- Nothing to worry your head about.

Well, I can't disturb him

when he's working.

Yeah, well, let's see if he is.

Sorry, he's working.

He's translating some Russian poetry.

When that door's locked,

I can't bother him.

I suspect the only reason Mrs. Hallet

lets us into her village...

is because my father's a poet.

Mrs. Hallet loves poets.

That's one of his books over there.

- He wrote that, huh?

- Yeah.

Want him to sign a copy for you?

Yeah, sure. I never met a real poet.

I mean, look, don't laugh at me...

but I can't believe people like poetry.

I'm not talking about that

birthday-card stuff, but real poetry.

I mean, when it doesn't even rhyme.

No, I'm not laughing at you.

My father says that most people

who say they like poetry...

only pretend to like it. You're honest.

He's your favourite poet, huh?

No. He's my father.

Emily Dickinson's my favourite.

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