Carmella Commands
“Gosh, I’ve got to go to school some, haven’t I? I’ll get the dickens from dad if I get reported.”
“Old Carroll never’ll report you. I know him. Hell! I used to get away with two days a week the year before I was sixteen. Besides, you don’t let your old man use the rough stuff any more, do you?”
“When my dad starts to lick you bet you stand for it—a lot of it. Of course, I don’t let mother lick me any more.”
“All applesauce!” said Nicolo. “My mother she ain’t tried to touch me since dad got killed. She’s got old country ideas, m’ mother has, but she knows enough not to try ’em on me.”
“But you’re sixteen,” said Carmella, with some slight tone of awe in her voice.
“Well, you’re thirteen, ain’t you? And you do your dad’s interpreting. What’s the big idea? Afraid to sign up with John Hancock and all them independence guys?”
“I’m as independent as you are,” cried Carmella hotly. “And I’ll be a damn sight more independent than you when I’m sixteen.”
“L-i-k-e hell!” said Nicolo, drawling the “like” in the way which is peculiarly maddening to second generations.
“Are you gonna go with me or are you gonna stick with teacher?” he added tauntingly. “Remember, I got two passports in my pockets.”
“Say,” asked Carmella, “where’d you get your little
[112]
