The Secret Diaries of Katherine Barlow
The Secret Diaries of Katherine Barlow (REWRITE)
Part I
Author: C.L. Curtis
Disclaimer: I don't own Kate or Holes or anything that Louis Sachar dreamed up in that brilliant mind of his. I do, however, own all of the original characters that are bound to pop up throughout this. Don't steal them, or I'll beat you with a rolling pin. Violently.
Note: This is a rewrite and continuation of the fic with the same title that I started four years ago. Those of you who read the original will see similarities, but a lot is bound to change.
May 1, 1890
As I sit at my desk and listen to the children laugh and talk outside, my thoughts linger on my own family, and how I miss them. Elizabeth will have her seventh birthday this summer, and Jacob has just turned fourteen. While it is true that my time is normally otherwise occupied with my students, at times like this I can't help but feel that something is missing.
I left our home in Killeen to come to Green Lake. Coming from a wealthy family, it never occurred to me that many, many people have never had the opportunity to read or write. Always a lover of books and poetry, I couldn't imagine what it would be like to look at a page of words and see only symbols in place of a story. The thought scared me, to put it bluntly.
It all began one day when, traveling with my family, we stayed at Green Lake with a friend of my father's for a day. I sat on the front porch reading a book of poetry by Edgar Allan Poe, when a young girl of about ten years approached me.
"Hello there." I greeted her with a smile.
"Hi," she answered shyly, before inquiring: "What are you reading?"
"A book of poetry, by Poe," I answered. In return, I received only an expression of utter blankness.
I laughed. "My goodness, child. Haven't you ever read any Poe?"
"No," she answered, still more shyly. "I can't read." She drew in the dust as she continued to speak, avoiding my eye this time. "Not many folks here can. The men work all day…"
Here, her eyes finally met mine. "And we don't have anyone to teach us." She gestured towards an old ramshackle schoolhouse. The windows were dark, and people walked past it without half a glance.
I was astounded, and unsure of exactly how to reply. At last I was able to will my mouth to form words, and I replied: "Well, then it's time you started!"
Smiling brightly, the little girl sat down at my side. I began to read her one of my favorite poems.
"It was many and many a year ago.
In a kingdom by the sea
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee-
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me."
I must have read her twenty poems that day, and am proud to say that her interest in poetry grew steadily by the end of each. When her mother came to collect her, I sat back and thought about her, and the many other children who will likely never know the pleasures of reading.
The very next year, I moved to Green Lake. Miss Emma Wilson, now thirteen, became one of my best students.
May 2, 1890
While watching the children head home this afternoon, I realized that the weather is changing. Beautiful and sunny all week, it has suddenly turned humid, dark clouds hovering in the grayish blue sky. Dreading walking from the schoolhouse to my cabin in the rain, I gathered up my books and paper and valiantly made my way onto the street. And whom should I meet there but "Onion Man" Sam, as he is known fondly by the people of Green Lake.
"Onions! Get your hot, sweet onions! Only eight cents a dozen!" he was calling. Several of my students were gathered around him, and there was a twinkle in his eye as he spoke to them.
Assuming my place at the back of the crowd, I smiled to myself and listened to the biography of Sam's donkey, Mary Lou, yet again.
"Did you know that Mary Lou is over 50 years old?" Sam was asking the group, feeding the beloved donkey an onion out of the palm of his hand. "The secret to her long life? The only thing she eats is onions!"
"You're saying that if you only eat onions, you could live to be 50?" asked Danny Pike, a mischievous eleven year old. "That's really old!"
"Oh, you could live to be far over 50!" Sam replied with utter charisma. "Over 200! However, 50 years old is extraordinary for a donkey."
"It sure is," I spoke up, unable to help myself. "But how would you know?" Plain as day, Sam can't be any older than 25, half the alleged age of Mary Lou.
Sidestepping my question, Sam simply replied with a grin: "It's true! The onion is God's chosen vegetable. It can do amazing things."
Sensing that this was the conclusion to Sam's "presentation", the students went about their separate ways, calling their goodbyes over their shoulders. In spite of myself, I bought three onions for myself, and one extra for Mary Lou. I laughed as she ate from the palm of my hand, my happy mood fading only when I looked to the sky.
"Is everything okay, Miss Katherine?" asked Sam.
"Oh, I suppose," I replied, with a sigh that was probably less than convincing. "It just looks as though it's going to rain, is all."
"Why don't you like the rain?" Sam inquired innocently. "Me and Mary Lou, we like the rain."
"Oh, I do like the rain, don't get me wrong," I responded honestly. "The more, the better for us, really. It's only that the roof of the schoolhouse leaks something horrible…"
"I can fix that," he offered, cutting my lamentation short and replacing the smile to my face.
The conversation extended on a bit from there, but the point of the matter is this: Sam is going to come fix the roof, in exchange for six jars of my spiced peaches. An even trade, I would say.
May 4, 1890
I taught night school for adults last night, and at its conclusion I was dismayed to find Trout Walker requesting my company on a date. I declined with a "No, thank you" that I deemed to be both polite and appropriate, but he persisted.
"No one says no to Trout Walker!" he exclaimed, the heat rising in his face. A weaker woman may have withered and given in just there, but I am proud to say that I held my ground.
"I believe I just did," I responded curtly. "Have a good night, Mr. Walker."
Mumbling under his breath something that was probably obscene, he purposely knocked into a desk on his way out.
Pondering the possible repercussions of my actions, I sat down at my own desk, rubbing the tension from my temples. Trout Walker is such an ignorant, rude man, and yet I can't help but pity him. While his family owns the lake and most of the town, people care for him for the person he is about half as much as they care for his money and power. However, I can't help but to wonder if he would act the way he does if he weren't born into such money and power.
May 5, 1890
Sam began work on the roof today. I must admit that it was very nice to have someone to talk to as I sat grading papers. Admittedly, however, that conversation is somewhat limited.
"How are you doing up there?" I called at one point, while there was a brief pause in the pounding of the hammer. The words were barely out of my mouth before it resumed.
"Just fine!" I could hear him reply faintly. I tried to say something else, but found it impossible to compete with the noise.
Before I knew it, I had to head home for supper before night classes began.
"You go on ahead, Miss Katherine," he assured me, when I apologized for needing to leave. And so I did, but with a heavy heart.
May 12, 1890
After a long day at work, Sam finished repairing the roof today. Shouting up through the beams, we were able to have an inspiring conversation. I was somewhat surprised to learn of his tremendous interest in poetry. I discovered this as I was reading him a poem by Longfellow.
"Awake! arise! the hour is late!
Angels are knocking at thy door!
They are in haste and cannot wait,
And once departed come no more-" I began to recite.
"- Awake! arise! the athlete's arm
Loses its strength by too much rest;
The fallow land, the untilled farm
Produces only weeds at best," he finished, pausing in his work to smile down at me.
Though simple, the act amazed me. I have known Sam for close to two years, but only since this past week can I honestly say I know him.
When he was finished with the roof, he entered the door of the school
house, grinning.
"I guarantee that roof for at least 5 years, Miss Katherine," he said with an air of accomplishment, wiping his hands and face.
I thought it would have been easier to smile at this news, but in all truth, I was sad that the job was done. I barely had time to ponder on my conflicting feelings, when he posed a very complicated question.
"Is something wrong?" My expression must have given me away.
"No, you did a wonderful job." Taking a quick glance around the room, my eyes settled on the windows. I sighed wistfully. "I couldn't ask for anything more…But the windows won't open. The children and I would enjoy a breeze now and then."
"I can fix that," he replied, and I thought I caught a twinkle in his eye.
May 13, 1890
I got to spend another afternoon with Sam today while he fixed the
windows. It was much easier to talk with him this time, seeing as he wasn't all the way up on the roof. I hardly have a voice left at all from shouting to him all week.
It was after dark by the time he finished. Instead of preparing for night classes, I prepared to leave. Everything in town is closed, including school, as the Walkers are having one of their signature parties. I hardly expected an invitation.
"If you don't mind, Miss Katherine, I would like to walk you home," he stated as I got to my feet, very matter-of-face. "It's not safe for a woman to walk alone at night."
"I highly doubt we have anything to be afraid of in Green Lake," I replied, but accepted his offer gladly.
Don't think I haven't noticed how very pathetic it is that I am so joyous over every minute that I get to spend with Sam. However, every moment spent with him is an adventure in itself, and totally worthwhile.
May 20, 1890
I must admit to you, diary, that my relationship with Sam has evolved into something I can't quite begin to put into the words. I feel for him much more strongly than I ever have for a friend before, and am desperate to remain in his company.
Over the past week I have complained that "The door doesn't hang
straight" and that "The desk wobbles." Sam finished his work on the
schoolhouse today, and it looks incredible. Now there is nothing left to be
fixed, although I feel wounded in my own heart.
May 21, 1890
Today was a rainy, dreary Saturday. Finding myself with nothing else to do, I sat inside the schoolhouse, reading. The room was silent, save for the steady drops of rain on a newly-whole roof. Once again found myself very lonely, my thoughts drifting once more to Sam, and how he had looked as he stood in the very same room, happy to devote his time to helping me. Sighing and attempting to push the thought from my mind, I flipped to the next page of the book, and what should I come across but "awake! Arise"? In that moment, I gave in to the tears and let them fall, burying my head in my arms.
I know not how much time passed. Only that, as if from a dream, I heard a familiar voice calling on the street. I hardly dared to believe it at first.
"Onions! Get your hot, fresh onions!"
And that was all it took. In half a second, everything made sense. It was all clear as day. I love him.
My God, I love him.
I don't know what exactly came over me, but I ran out into the street, for once not giving a thought to the weather. I threw my arms around Mary Lou's neck, clinging to the animal for some comfort even as I looked up at Sam through bleary eyes.
"Oh, Sam," I managed through tears. Faltering, at as loss as to what to say next, the words that followed poured from my soul, open and honest. I have never felt so vulnerable in all of my life. "My heart is breaking."
A moment of silence passed between us, gazes locked. When he spoke next, his voice was as filled with emotion as my own. I might have imagined it, but it seemed as though his own deep brown eyes were bright as well.
"I can fix that," he said at last, taking both of my hands in his and lifting
me to my feet. Then, without a moment's hesitation, he kissed me.