My little roly-poly

I woke with a start. You would think that I would be used to the loud banging on the chipping green on my door, but for the 12 years I’ve lived at this orphanage I never have. I sat straight up and went through my typical morning routine. It was 7:30 AM. I was hardly aware of what I was doing; sliding on my yellow and white plaid skirt, that went just below the knees how Harlem liked it. I made a sour face at the thought of the brute.

Harlem was the head of the orphanage I was raised in, proper and cold as a jagged stone from the ocean. He would always call me Lucille, just because he knew I hated it. "My name is Lucy” I would tell him, but to no avail.

I finished slipping into my matching checkered blouse and fixed the puffed up sleeves just so. I swept my nimble fingers through my long black hair and stared at my reflection through the stained mirror. My features shone brightly through the grime. I didn’t like to spend too much time staring at myself, for I had more important things to worry about. My gaze wandered towards the window behind me, letting in a blinding light that my tattered curtains couldn’t block out. I walked over to the gleaming light and opened the window as far it could go, which was really less than half way.

I sighed as I took a deep breath of the summer air of 1947. The breeze was dry and warm, and the crops growing on the Sacramento plains blew in the wind. I imagined myself among the many fields, sitting amongst the scratchy stalks, writing a poem of sorts. Or maybe a short story, of a girl who–

“Lucy Murtill!” A sharp voice called from the door.

I slammed the window shut in a flash, silencing the dreams and wishful thinking.

“Coming!” I hastily replied. On a normal (and boring) day, I would be headed down to eat breakfast with the few other kids still left at “Harlem's Orphanage.”

But today was different from the rest. I had a meeting with Harlem I had taken upon myself to arrange. We would discuss college, money and jobs. And if fate was on my side that day, perhaps I would be on my way to the University of San Francisco in a jiffy. Really, it was only a daydream. But I was not one to give up for any reason whatsoever. So I held my head up high and waltzed out the door.

The sound of my slippers clicked loudly throughout the hollow orphanage. Tall pillars surrounded the dusty flooring of the main common room. The cool lighting lit the quiet room, and a chilly breeze brushed against my face. I walked, with purpose, past the solemn faces of three younger kids eating the gloppy mush the staff called ‘breakfast’. I averted my eyes and continued on. I used to be just like them, young and frail. I had just one memory from when I was younger, of someone close to me, almost a guardian, calling me their little roly-poly. It was a silly nickname, but it always made me feel good to think about.

But luckily I had found my escape from the sadness and that escape was writing. I fell in love with the way my hand glides over the pages like a ballerina as imagination and adrenaline fuels the words being spilled upon the pages. It made me feel giddy just thinking about it.

Now I’m 17, trying to convince a stone-hearted man to get me a scholarship to a university where I can pursue my writing–and as a woman, no less. It was my last chance before I was on my own and in need of a job. In only weeks time I was to turn 18, which meant being kicked to the streets. I had to make this work.

I had arrived in Harlem’s office and I carefully sat myself on top of the guest chair. It was comfy and in perfect condition. In fact everything in Harlem's office was perfect, right down to the way he organized his pens on his wooden desk. I looked into his sea-green eyes without hesitation. They were emotionless. Then, I began talking.

“Well, I am here to discuss the matter of University, sir.” Disgust laced my voice as I let the word ‘sir’ roll off my tongue.

“Ah yes, well, I’m here to tell you no,” he replied. Anger was engraved into my usually calm features as I heard these words. My hands clenched into tight fists as I spoke in the most calm voice I could muster.

“I’m sorry, but we have not even discussed the terms yet,” I said begrudgingly.

“No, and we don’t need to. You will never be a writer, Lucille!”

“My name is Lucy!” I said with frustration. Somehow I was now standing over my seat. “And yes I will! Just because I am a women doesn’t mean I cannot pursue my dream, and you cannot tell me otherwise you cockeyed man!”

Suddenly, Harlem’s features began to change. His pale cheeks turned cherry red and his eyes narrowed into thin slits. Fury had been etched into his face and I gulped with fear. I began to regret my outburst.

“You will never ever amount to anything more than a good housewife cooking in the kitchen. So listen to me when I tell you that if you ever come here again searching for an impossible dream, it will be anything but a gas! I will not be paying for any university! If you’re such an amazing writer, you can come up with the money yourself.” I grunted with frustration and was almost out the door when he called me once more.

“Someone dropped this by earlier today, I didn’t see who,” he said with newfound composure. I turned around to see him holding a little black book. “They said it was for writing inspiration.” He snorted at the comment. “It’s just a bunch of poems, maybe you can use it to keep your temper at bay. Now leave.”

I snatched the book away from him as quickly as possible and left in a hurry.

The moonlight shone brightly through my window that night. I sat on my bed holding the small journal he had given me. I lit my kerosene lantern and opened it up. I noticed the way the journal felt in my hands. Light and airy, but filled with so much creativity and inspiration. The cover was smooth and textured. I had already opened it and skimmed through the poems, but I continued to want to look at it just once more. So by the light of my lantern and the crescent moon I opened it and began to read.

I stayed up for hours reading most of the poems when I came to a peculiar page. All the rest of the pages had been neat and tidy, but this one had a very large and noticeable ink splatter on it. I looked at it curiously and began to read.

Lucy Murtill, a girl with dreams.

Writing she wants to fulfill

at a grand university.

Midnight tonight, near the saloon

to the left and far down you will be safe and sound.

A package will wait, do not hesitate.

Happy Birthday dear Lucy

I gasped at the poem. My hands trembled as I closed the thin cover of the journal. I went to my window, pulse racing and peered out its dusty glass. The breeze of the air filled my lungs with fresh hope. Hope that perhaps, things could turn out alright. I just had to trust whoever this mysterious person was. With my birthday so soon, I thought for only a moment more before making my decision.

“Well,” I said to myself. “I have nothing left to lose.”

It was 11:50 when I left my small room at the orphanage that night. I couldn’t leave through the window so I had to brave going through the hopefully empty halls. I slipped off my shoes to make less noise as I tiptoed down the dark corridor. I held my breath all the way and finally made it to the back door. I opened it slowly, cringing when it squeaked. I stood for a moment to make sure no one heard, and dashed into the night.

I walked briskly through the quiet town, hoping to avoid any attention at all. Tonight was a full moon, which I found ominous considering the circumstances. I was nearing the saloon and began to tremble. Without my consent my feet stopped walking. Should I really be doing this? This could be a trap, someone could take me! Perhaps I should leave.. I spun on my heels and began to retreat when I stopped in my tracks once more. But this is my only chance for a life! I will have nothing left if I don’t come up with some money, and fast, I thought to myself.

“Oh come on! I’m going,” I said with determination. So I turned around for the last time and headed off towards the saloon. I stood in front of it, not knowing what to look for. That’s when I noticed something shiny coming from a hallway across the street. I decided to check it out and walked over in a hurry. I made sure no one saw me and began to walk down the alleyway.

With each step the world around me darkened and I gulped at the sight of all the shadows around me. Anyone could be lurking in them.

“Snap out of it Lucy! You can do this, you’re strong!” I told myself. So without another thought, I ran to the end of the alley. There was just enough lighting to see what was in front of me. A velvet box sat idle near my toes. I picked it up and examined it. It was shaped like a jewelry chest and was a deep ruby red. The top of it was made out of a dark oak, and engraved on it was the words, “Happy Birthday, little roly-poly.” I dropped the box with a sudden gasp. Whoever sent me this box knew me as a child. I began to feel anxious and quickly picked back up the box. I opened it without hesitation and nearly fainted at the sight. Inside were wads and wads of 100 dollar bills!

I was nearly hyperventilating as my fingers fumbled to count the cash. It took me 15 minutes to count it and I was shaking uncontrollably when I finished. Inside that box was 20,000 dollars, for me.

“Lucy Murtill!”

I woke with a start. But this time, I had a smile on my face. 2 weeks had passed since I found the money and it was now my birthday. With my newfound money I was able to go to the University of San Francisco and pursue writing. I had worked everything out with Harlem and I was leaving today in my brand new Packard Clipper I had bought. However I had never learned to drive so one of the staff members of the orphanage was taking me. I was giddy with excitement as I got into the car. As we drove off I thought about the message on the box. “Happy Birthday my little roly-poly.” A warm smile spread across my face as I thought about it. I knew whoever gave it to me, even if it was fuzzy. Someday I would find out who it was. But for now, I had a life to pursue.