She swallows to clear the taste, but it lingers like a film. “I don’t think quite yet,” says Caitlin, the words bitter in her mouth. But Caitlin’s extra four years earn her a grudging respect. Caitlin often reflects that if they were the same age, Rosie would be more likely to punch her than talk to her. “I did!” Rosie is nine and very headstrong. “I heard a drop of rain,” Rosie whispers.Ĭaitlin stares up at the sky, which is clear and black and strewn with stars. Rosie took out her braids for the night, and her hair falls over her shoulders in tight ripples of brown. Scooching and shinnying, she inches down the flaking shingle roof until they are squatting across from each other, inches apart, mirror gargoyles. Caitlin guesses the Gideons rue having a house so close to her family, but she likes the proximity to Rosie. Slimmer and lighter than Caitlin, Rosie is perched on the edge of her roof expectantly, waiting.

Besides, if she told Rosie to stop, Rosie might start leaping onto the roof and banging loudly on a wall-or worse, ignore Caitlin altogether. She also can’t bring herself to tell Rosie Gideon to stop throwing pebbles at her window, even though window glass is more precious than almost anything on the island and Father would be furious with her if the window broke.

It makes Caitlin sad to know that someday she will probably get so big she falls through the roof-although in truth the roof could give tomorrow. Carefully creaking open the window, trying not to make any noise, Caitlin slithers out onto the roof. Burying her face in her pillow, Caitlin smiles a little.Ī few hours later, as Caitlin is dipping in and out of a doze, she hears little plinks against her windowpane, which means Rosie is awake. She’s looking at Caitlin, and her mouth is askew, and Caitlin realizes that she’s not angry or disapproving, just thoughtful. Tonight, when Caitlin closes her eyes, instead of seeing a scowling ancestor or terrifying monster, she sees Janey Solomon. Mother told her she’d understand when she was older. It doesn’t seem fair that boys are greeted with celebration, but that everyone cried when she came sliding into the world on a river of salt and blood. Vanessa once asked Mother why everyone cries for girls.

And so she balls her fists, licks the briny tears off her lips, arches over at the waist, and screams like she’s being slaughtered. The room is so full of noise that she calculates nobody will hear her if she scrunches up her face and yells as loud as she can. Nina blurs, then sharpens, then blurs again as tears spill down Vanessa’s face, gathering at her upper lip and jaw, dripping onto the already damp and salty straw. She glances at Nina, who has hidden her face in her hands. Surprised, Vanessa feels her eyes fill and tears slide hotly down her cheeks. Everyone at the birth is supposed to weep if it’s a girl, and now everyone is dutifully crying.

Gather the Daughters by Jennie Melamed