The Blue Door - By Christa Kinde Page 0,2
the lane’s neighboring rut.
“Just to get the mail,” she replied. “It should be here any minute.”
“That is good,” Koji said, sounding rather relieved.
As they walked side by side, Tansy wandered off, stalking something that moved through the long grass beneath the trees. Prissie didn’t mind since cats didn’t make very good conversationalists. “So, you said you’re new here?” she prompted.
“Yes,” he acknowledged. “That is why I am not sure how this is supposed to work.”
“Are you an exchange student or something?”
“No.”
“You must be staying somewhere nearby if you’re barefoot,” she pointed out.
“It is not far,” Koji replied carefully.
They reached the end of the lane, and Prissie deftly opened the green metal gate in the white-painted board fence that surrounded their property, holding it wide and waving the boy through. “Watch out for the ditch,” she instructed as she swung the gate back into place and re-twisted the wire that kept it secure.
Orchard Lane was the northernmost street in West Edinton as well as the last turn off of Centennial Highway before leaving Milton County. A handful of other families lived on the narrow gravel road, but after a few miles, it dead-ended in a wide turn-about in front of Pomeroy Orchard.
Matching white mailboxes surrounded by a profusion of purple coneflowers stood at the end of a long driveway, and Prissie made a beeline for them. An oval-shaped wooden sign hanging beneath them bore their farm’s logo — an overflowing bushel basket of apples. The neat block letters on the side of the first mailbox said, Peter & Nellie Pomeroy, and the second one read, Jayce & Naomi Pomeroy. Prissie perched on the top rail of the fence behind them, then patted the space next to her. “This is where I wait,” she announced.
Koji obediently climbed up beside her, murmuring, “Thank you.”
Prissie wasn’t sure what to think of the peculiar newcomer. Although he was a boy, he spoke quietly and politely, a refreshing change from her boisterous family. She wanted to make sure Koji was okay before turning him over to her brothers, who were always glad for a new playmate, but something about the shy way Koji watched her made her want to take him under her wing. Her brothers knew better than to pick on someone just because they were different, but she had a feeling that this guy would end up being teased at school.
“I’ve never seen clothes like those before,” she commented.
Koji glanced down at himself and touched the softly draping cloth. “Are they uncommon?”
“People around here definitely don’t dress like that,” Prissie replied. After a moment’s thought, she diplomatically added, “They look comfortable, though.”
“I did not expect to be seen,” he admitted. “Are they inappropriate?”
“Oh, no … just different. Don’t worry about it,” she replied reassuringly. “So, how old are you?”
Koji opened his mouth, then closed it again. Finally, he answered, “I am … uncertain.”
Prissie shook her head in disbelief. “How can you not know how old you are?”
“How old do I look?”
“Let’s see … you’re definitely older than Zeke, who’s eight, but I doubt you’re as old as Beau. He’s thirteen. What grade are you in?”
“Grade?” he asked blankly.
“Yes, what grade are you going into this fall?” she repeated. When he didn’t answer, she prompted, “You do go to school, don’t you?”
“I am an apprentice.”
Just then, the sound of an engine carried down the road, and they both looked toward the car that rattled toward them, kicking up a small cloud of dust. The faded green four-door rolled to a stop in front of the mailboxes, and Milo leaned out the window. “Hey there, Miss Priscilla!”
Milo was the only person besides her mother who called her by her full name, and Prissie loved it. Pink blossomed on her cheeks as she replied, “Hello, Milo.”
To her surprise, he didn’t acknowledge her companion but said, “Zeke was down here yesterday, and he said you were helping your grandma.”
“We were packing pickle jars,” Prissie explained, but her lips turned down. It wasn’t like Milo to ignore someone. She cleared her throat and arched her brows at him. “This is Koji, a new friend.” The boy beside her squirmed, and Prissie elbowed him gently. “Don’t worry; Milo’s okay. We’ve known him for ages.”
“I apologize,” the mailman smoothly interjected. “I didn’t intend to be rude. I simply wasn’t sure … well, never mind that, now. Hey, Koji … I see you’ve met Miss Pomeroy.”
“Yes.”
“How is it that the two of you became acquainted?” Milo gently asked.
Black eyes pleaded for understanding.