Monday, September 23, 1935
Nat’s going back to the Esther P. Marinoff School today. She hasn’t pitched a fit about it either. Of course my mom has made sure her yellow dress is brand-new clean-the one with the buttons Sadie sews on every time she’s done something well. My mom is in the kitchen packing up the lemon cake to take along, just in case Trixle decides to sharpshoot into the bay like the last time. Even though Trixle admitted Natalie helped apprehend the cons, he still isn’t her biggest fan. I don’t think there’s anything Natalie could do to change his mind about that either. Trixle’s mind is made of stone. It doesn’t change; it just chips off here and there.
Nat is smiling to herself and running her hands along the buttons on her yellow dress.
“Good idea Sadie had there. Kind of like badges the generals wear,” I tell her, surveying the small collection of buttons on Nat’s dress. They look like they belong on the dress because Sadie has sewn them so artfully.
“New button.” Nat runs her fingers along the bottom button, which is small and ordinary-the kind sewn on a man’s shirt. But when it comes to buttons there’s no such thing as ordinary for Natalie. It’s like me and baseball games, I guess. No two are alike.
“I’ll bet Sadie will give you a new button if you cooperate today,” I tell Natalie.
Nat shakes her head emphatically as if she wants to jiggle the hair right out of her scalp. “New button.” She points again to the simple white button.
“Not that new. You haven’t seen Sadie in two weeks,” I tell her.
“No Sadie.”
“No Sadie. Mom put that on?”
“No Mom.”
“Dad?” My voice squeaks hopefully, though I can’t imagine Dad threading a needle, much less sewing a button on.
“No Dad.” Natalie keeps shaking her head. “Moose.”
“I didn’t sew it on, Natalie. Mom’s just kidding about me sewing.”
“No Moose,” Natalie agrees.
“Who did it then?” I ask.
“Good job,” Nat answers, handing me a scrap of paper-brown with lines folded in half in handwriting I’ve come to know so well.
Good job, it says.