A Work in Progress: The Gambler's Daughter Chapter 8
sweet potatoes and trades
The Set Up
If you’re new, you can start the story from the beginning HERE or go ahead and jump in.
This is the working draft of a new Roosevelt County Novel about Maxine, a ten-year old girl growing up in Eastern New Mexico in the 1930s. Think Little House on the Prairie, but on the edge of the Dust Bowl and Pa is a gambler.
In these installments, I pull back the curtain on my revision process, posting drafts-in-progress, complete with the typos, question marks, and random “add more here!” notes to self. I’ll explain what has me “stuck” in the chapter or what problems I’m still working to resolve.
For aspiring writers, I hope it gives you permission to write terrible drafts, and learn to work with them to make mediocre drafts, and then keep working until you have something great.
For fans of Roosevelt County fiction, you’ll get early access to my next novel and see how the story develops along the way. You’ll also be invited (begged) to give feedback, so stick around for the Issues section and comment button.
Chapter 8
At school on Monday, we scattered across the playground and unpacked the lunches we’d carried in sacks or pails that morning. I relayed Saturday’s events to my friends, trying to imitate all of Momma’s gestures, inflection, and pauses.
When I finished the story, I peeled away the cloth from my sweet potato. It was the same lunch I had every day. Despite sitting at my desk all morning, my breakfast had worn off long ago, and I was too hungry to be particular. I only wished I could have eaten it as soon as it came out of the oven. It held a little heat at its center, but by the time I got to that bite, it had cooled off.
“I wish we could cook beans so fast,” Freeda Mae said.
“I wonder how it works,” said Deane. “How does sealing the lid make everything cook faster?” Then, turning her head toward Cleo, she asked, “Did you forget your lunch again?”
Cleo laughed. “I must have left it sitting on the table,” she said. “It’s okay though, I’ll eat it as soon as I get home.”
As much as I hated to part with my own modest fare, I offered Cleo the remaining half of my potato.
“Oh, no, Max! You don’t need to do that,” Cleo said. “Like I said, I’ll eat my lunch as soon as I get home. It’s my own silly fault!”
“Are you sure?” I asked. I wasn’t full, but I could see the way Cleo’s eyes lingered on the half-potato in my hand. “I’m finished with it,” I said. “You know how a sweet potato can fill you up.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” Cleo said. I was sure, so I handed her the rest of my lunch.
Since I had nothing more to eat, I pulled out the small drawstring pouch from my lunch sack and emptied my jacks and rubber ball onto the ground. Deane, Freeda Mae, and I had our own sets, so we started playing while Cleo and Earlene watched. I tossed my jacks onto the ground, gave the ball a gentle bounce, and snatched one of the jagged pieces before catching the ball with ease. With each round, I bounced the ball slightly higher, adding another jack to my grab before catching it in mid-air. The first three rounds were a breeze; I barely had to think about them. But as the game went on, I felt my lips purse and twist in concentration. I was on ninesies, just one round away from winning, when a herd of second-grade boys, led by my brother Claude, came barreling through our game. They trampled jacks, scattered balls, and just like that, I’d lost my chance to win.
We didn’t have time to pick up our games before the bell rang, signaling the end of recess. As I lined up with the fourth-grade class, I saw Claude running in the opposite direction, sticking his tongue out at me and laughing. Until that moment, I thought maybe the trampling was an accident, but now I wasn’t so sure. When the second graders lined up, I noticed a lumpy bulge in Claude’s pocket. I wondered how he had gotten so many marbles during recess, especially since he hadn’t even been playing marbles.
By the end of the school day, I felt hungry again. I wished I hadn’t given away so much of my lunch, but then I thought about how hungry Cleo would have been if I hadn’t. As we walked home from the bus stop, I nudged Cleo and pointed to Claude’s pocket.
“You sure have a lot of marbles in your pocket,” Cleo said casually.
“Yep,” Claude answered.
“How’d you manage that?” Cleo asked.
“I traded ’em,” he said, his lips curling into a sly grin.
“Traded ’em for what?” I asked, trying to sound just as casual.
“Somethin’ other kids wanted,” Claude replied, clearly enjoying keeping me in the dark.
I realized I wasn’t going to get any real answers out of him. He just wanted to see how long he could string me along. I decided it was best to let it go or leave it to Momma and Daddy. Cleo and I agreed to restart our game of jacks at lunch the next day, and we parted ways to head home.
The Issues
I’m actually pretty happy with this section, though I’m sure I’ll go back through it to punch up Maxine’s internal dialogue, both from the child perspective and from the adult narrator’s.
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