December 24, 1774

Christmas Eve. Mr. Whitefield, Elma, and I are finally going to get a day off! Like I could really use that, and so could Mr. Whitefield... but I think Elma needs it more than either of us. Although Mr. Whitefield doesn't like to admit it, she's really been keeping our head above water lately. He hasn't really been feeling well enough to keep track of anything, and I never was any good at math, so if she wasn't doing all the bookkeeping I don't know what we would do.

She seemed pretty tired tonight, after I brought her the newspaper. She went through half a candlestick, but she did get everything finished. I kind of hung around in the shop until she was done. I really hope I didn't distract her, but she told me that I didn't and she liked having some company. I asked her what was bothering her, then. She told me after she was finished and had looked at the newspaper.

I really wasn't expecting it.

You know all those times Mr. Whitefield asks me to start debating politics or something like that (actually, it's mostly him debating politics and me sitting and nodding at just about everything he says)? Well... Elma knows what we talk about (actually, better than I do... way better than I do). She really wants to share her thoughts with someone but except for her friend Daphina, who has enough problems of her own, and the perpetually (okay, Elma taught me that word... I hope I'm using it right!) unfruitful stream of suitors, she doesn't really get to talk to very many people.

So we went for a walk. Yes, that late at night. It really wasn't cold out at all. And Elma explained everything in a way that actually made sense to me, much more sense than the newspapers or Mr. Whitefield. She explained everything I've been missing over the past several years, about the taxes, about the tension (another word of hers) between us and England, about how we might even go to war.

We were just rounding the bend that leads to the river when she asked me point-blank.

"Norville?" she questioned.

"Yeah?" I answered. I love the way she didn't wince when I said that, like everybody else does "in regards to his hideously casual speech."

"Norville... if somebody gave you the chance to fight in this war, if it did happen... would you fight?"

I answered no instinctively. She seemed vaguely troubled for a minute, but relieved as well.

"But Norville... if you were going... what side would you be on?"

The idea of going to war itself was really scary, so I had to think on that a while. Finally, I told her, "I guess the Patriots..."

"So you wouldn't be upset about people going to fight for them? People... people you know?"

I shook my head no.

She smiled. "I guess... I guess I just wish..."

I waited, but she shook herself. Then she didn't say anything.

"You wish...?"

"Well... I know sometimes Father wishes I were his son. And lately I've been wishing the same thing."

That really caught me off-guard. I didn't know what to say.

"I mean... I want to fight too. Except I can't. I guess... I guess some small part of me was hoping I could sort of... live through you. That you would maybe go off and... but what am I saying?" She seemed almost like she was talking to herself now. "I wouldn't want you to go!"

That sounded good, somehow. I can't exactly put my finger on why.

"Well..." I answered, trying to find the right thing to say. "I guess we just have to be glad you aren't a man. Because I wouldn't want you to go either."

"Jinkies..." she muttered.

"What?"

She blushed. "I have no idea what I just said. It sounds good, though. Maybe I'll have to say it again sometime!"

I laughed. She continued.

"And then I suppose if Father had a son... he never would have hired you."

I pondered this. She was right. And if Mr. Whitefield had not hired me... I don't suppose anyone would.

And then what? For the first time in my life since coming here, I feel like I can actually do something, that I'm not entirely bad at everything. I feel like I'm with people who accept me, and will talk to me. I feel like there really are people who care about me. I can't imagine not coming here.

We turned and walked back to the house, still talking, but about more carefree stuff, stuff like crazy things we did when we were kids. Elma muttered that made-up word, "Jinkies," a few more times, earning laughter from me every time.

I felt really bad when I finally had to say good night to my one true friend in the world.