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"I'll get even with her," I muttered, glaring after Aggie.
"You sure are a slow learner," he answered.
Our schoolhouse was small because it was only for the twenty or so kids who lived in the Carr Fork area of Bingham. There were almost a dozen other schools in other parts of the canyon—Highland Boy, Lark, Dinkeyville, Frog Town, Mark- ham, Freeman, Heaston Heights, Copper Heights, Terrace Heights—but none of them, save for the main school in Bingham proper, was much bigger than ours. Since we were mostly Swedes in Carr Fork, there was a disproportionate number of blond heads in the room when our caps and hats came off. Bo was a vivid exception to the general rule: His hair was the color of an orange peel.
We sat side by side at our desks, as always, with Agnes directly in front of us, and the only thing out of the ordinary I remember happening that entire school day was when Erik Kalberg—a hapless boy with a lazy eye and a stutter—dropped his pencil in front of Agnes's desk and bent down to fetch it, attempting to peek up her skirt. The toe of her shoe caught him squarely on the forehead, sending him sprawling at our teacher's feet. Mrs. Sundberg made them both stand with their backs to the class, in separate corners of the room; Agnes kept glowering at me over her shoulder, feeling sorely ill-used and expecting me to do something about it.
I held up my hand. "Mrs. Sundberg?"
"Yes, Isaac?"
"I think Agnes would learn her lesson a whole lot faster if you put a bag over her head."
The class's laughter and my sister's outrage were equally gratifying, but the pleasure was short-lived. I saw Bo sadly shaking his head as Mrs. Sundberg dragged me from my chair to another corner of the room.
Other random memories from that day:
Bo walking Agnes and me home after school, then leaving for his own house as soon as our feet touched the boards of our porch; my baby sister Hilda's greedy blue eyes, coveting a wooden top spinning across the kitchen table between my hands; Mama teaching Agnes and me how to make köttbullar— meatballs with minced beef and pork, butter and black pepper—and letting us help her knead the dough for her crusty rye bread and cut up some cabbage and onions for supper; Agnes and I doing our homework at the table as the bread baked in the oven; Father coming home from work, tired and snappish, but cheering up after eating; Mama telling Agnes to never bother with a man before his stomach was full; Mama and Father arguing about him going out again to play cards; Agnes and I reading by candlelight until Mama made us stop, fearing for our eyes; Mama heating water for our bath; Agnes and I splashing each other in the tub as Mama sang to Hilda; three or four young Poles in the street outside, yelling and clowning in their blurred, baffling language as they passed our house, their voices fading as they made their way home, no doubt to Highland Boy.
Just another day in Bingham, Utah.
Excerpted from The Very Long, Very Strange Life of Isaac Dahl by Bart Yates. Copyright © 2024 by Bart Yates. Excerpted by permission of A John Scognamiglio Book. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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