Kit Kittredge: An American Girl Page #4

Why don't you come over here|and say that to my face, Roger.

Okay. You're all a bunch of freeloaders!

What's that you've got behind you?

Got any eggs? Bock, bock, bock!

How much for the eggs, Roger?

Bock, bock, bock!|Look at Mr. Feather Pants.

Ha-ha-ha!|- And how's our mural...

...coming?

But, Mother, it was Roger's fault.|- Oh, Kit.

Please don't take everything|people say so personally.

Everyone's in trouble these days.

In fact, we've had to move|your things into the attic.

The attic? Why?

Your mother and I have decided|we're gonna take in boarders.

Boarders? Like...

...strangers?

That are gonna come and live in our house|and eat our food and sit on our sofa?

There's no shame in it, honey.

Lots of people are doing it to get by.

We're not gonna start selling eggs,|are we?

Ha, ha. We hadn't planned on it.

This is only temporary, sweetheart,|I promise.

You know...

...once I get to Chicago...

...I'll find a good-paying job,|just as quick as you can say "Plymouth."

Chicago?

What? You're leaving?

- I have some good leads in...|- No.

- No.|- Kit.

You said we were going to be okay.

We're not okay if we're not together.

Ah.

Don't let it beat you, Kit.

You know, when I was about 14...

...my dad traded some old farm equipment|for a used Model t.

One time I was cranking it, to start it...

...and the crank broke in half.

Car kind of groaned,|and it just died right in our front yard.

I wanted to junk the darn thing|when my dad walked in...

...and he said,|"Don't let it beat you, son."

Don't let it beat you.

Drove it for five more years after that.

So whether it's an old Model t...

...or a typewriter ribbon...

...or going to Chicago to find work...

...we can't let it beat us, sweetheart.

Come on.

It's time for bed.

What if you don't come back?

I, Jack Kittredge...

...do solemnly swear...

...that I will write you once a week.

And that there is nothing in this world...

...that could ever keep me|from coming back to you.

Do you promise, Dad?

Really promise?

I do.

Gwanga, gwanga, galoolie...

Kariba, kariba, kariv.

I love you, Dad.

- I love you.|- I love you too, sweetheart.

Bye.

June 17th, 1934. Dear Dad.

Thanks for the letter. We miss you too|and hope you're finding work in Chicago.

Here at home, things are hopping.

School's out, and I can't call my friends|because the phone's been disconnected.

No phone?

So now all I do is clean|and sweep and fold...

... and iron and wipe and cook.

And fold and clean and sweep and iron|and wipe and cook some more.

My grand plans for being a real reporter|are kind of on the back burner.

Don't get me wrong, Dad.|I'm not complaining. I'm just...

... well, complaining.

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