My story began ten years ago, the day I turned sixteen.

It seemed just another moving day--not a real birthday. Pa and I had moved all over the South, mostly sticking to small towns because he hated the city. The reason we moved, he told me, was because he was half gypsy, and the ground started pulling him down to an early grave if he stayed in one place too long. I knew the real problem lay, not in the earth, but in Pa's unfortunate habit of drinking and getting into trouble. Anyway, after a few weeks in Charleston, we packed our few possessions in the blue Ford and moved southward. The Ford broke down in Goshen, about a hundred miles from Charleston. It was, as Pa said, as good a place as any to "start a new life."

I didn't suppose my life would be any different than the last sixteen years. Then I saw the gates of Whiteoak.

Pa and I hitched a ride from the garage, after the mechanic pronounced our car "dead on arrival." The farmer who picked us up drove a narrow country road lined on one side with oak trees and on the other with a reedy marsh. I could see the sun shining on patches of whitish water, and in the distance the Atlantic showed itself in a thin blue line.

"Do you know where we're going?" I asked Pa, clutching my backpack for security. Every time we moved, I brought my books. They were the first things placed in our new "home." They made the succession of shacks and rundown houses less empty.

"Naturally," he replied, taking a furtive gulp from the bottle he clutched in a paper sack. His security.

"Naturally," I echoed with more than a hint of sarcasm.

The pickup slowed. Without realizing it, I held the backpack close to my chest, so tightly my fingers started hurting. We stopped, and I looked up at two white pillars carved like oak trees, their branches joining in a graceful arch fifteen feet high.

"Whiteoak," our driver declared, leaning his head out the cab and staring at us.

"Yes, thank you, my man," Pa said, jumping from the truck as nimbly as a boy. I threw him a suitcase held together by rope, then climbed down after him.

"Can't see what the likes of you would want here," our benefactor said slowly, shaking his head. I half expected him to scratch it, as if that would help his brain to think.

"Can't you, now?" Pa asked, with the hint of an Irish brogue. The farmer shook his head once more, then drove off to his farm faster than we expected his truck to go. Pa had succeeded in arousing questions in yet another comfortable mind.

"What are we doing here, Pa?" I asked, feeling far from comfortable.

"You always wanted to live in a real nice place, girl. Consider this your birthday present."

"What?" I demanded, well acquainted with his little games.

"Come on," was all he replied as he skipped through the open gateway and down the newly-paved drive. I stood beside one white pillar and watched him go. The sun splashed his brown head with lacy patterns through oak branches. He seemed like a leprechaun leading me to his pot of gold. He even wore a torn green shirt.

"Come on," he turned and yelled. I shouldered my backpack, picked up the suitcase, and followed.

The road continued far. When I reached the end I was hot and sweaty. I laid the suitcase down for the third time, wiped my face on my sleeve, and looked up. The house greeted me as if sprung out of nowhere--tall and pillared and white against the afternoon sky. Deep green lawns, newly cut, spread around it like rays around a sun. Flowers and hedges and little paths would in intricate curves on one side, like colorful snakes entwined. Back from the house stood a barn and a long white corral where horses grazed. I passed a hand over my eyes and looked again, feeling like a lost soul in Dante's "Inferno," standing at Heaven's border and looking in.

"Well, I sure did it this time, Ellie. I sure did!" Pa sprung from a tree shadow and pronounced loudly and wetly in my ear.

"You sure did," I repeated, dreamily. Then I looked at my grimy hands and faded jeans. Reality returned.

"You sure did!" I spat. "What do you expect to do, buy the place and move in? How would this--" I kicked the suitcase for emphasis--"look on that verandah, next to the stained glass window? We'd better go before they spot us and call the police."

"Aw, Ellie," Pa drawled, and I knew I had hurt his feelings. "Don't you trust your ol' Pa? I know we've had a lot of bad breaks, especially since your poor mother died--"

"And since you started drinking and conning people out of their money," I added.

He went on as if I never interrupted: "But today's your sixteenth birthday." He reached out a thin hand and patted me on the head. He was not a tall man, and I stood almost on a level with his light blue eyes. His face was tanned and slightly wrinkled, but still young-looking. His whole body looked spare and tough, without an ounce of extra fat. But the whites of his eyes glowed yellow from drink, and the corners of his mouth sagged.

"And look at you," he said, his voice breaking a little. "You've grown from a little pig-tailed girl into a tall young lady." He ran his hand down the side of my face and picked up a lock of my hair between his thumb and forefinger.

"You're the image of your mother, with her blonde hair and green eyes. Your long fingers look like they could play the piano, too. Did I tell you she was playing Mozart when I first saw her? Her hair lit up like sunlight from clear across the room. We met at a poetry reading. Bet you didn't realize I knew about Mozart and Keats. Your mama used to recite love poems to me, when we were first married with you on the way. Maybe you heard the words from her dark secret belly. Maybe that's why you love to read."

Pa did have the Irish gift of words. Poetry. Yes, I could believe he once read poetry. Some of the best poets were drunks.

He stared at me, and I thought his eyes were watery from too much liquor. Or did they hold tears?

Perhaps I shouldn't rib him so. Perhaps I should show more respect. It's just that he didn't respect himself. Those little square bottles sucked all his respect away . . .

Pa spared me an awkward apology by snapping quickly out of his sentimental lapse.

"This is the plan, girl. While we were at the gas station, I picked up a paper. There was an ad for a rental cottage--here, at Whiteoak. That name sounded like something out of those books you read, so I thought we'd take a look."

"Really?" I asked, hardly daring to believe we could live in such a place.

In answer, he headed for the front door. I picked up the suitcase and grabbed his arm.

"We'd better go around back," I suggested, shame clutching me. We couldn't meet the house's master as we looked. White trash is what he'd call us. Others had.

Pa listened, mainly because I held tightly to his arm.

The house's back looked nearly as lovely as its front, with a little stone walkway, a marble fountain, and a huge oak tree surrounded by a round wooden bench. How lovely to sit under that tree in the afternoon sunlight, sipping lemonaide and reading a book! I pictured myself there, like Scarlett O'hara, puffy skirts and all. I paused to smell a daffodil before heading toward the kitchen entrance.

Like most old Southern plantation houses, the kitchen was a lower rectangular building added to the back of the house. Pa walked to the door and knocked.

"Yes?" a round black face inquired from behind the barely-opened door.

"We've come to rent your cottage, Madam," Pa declared with a bow. The woman laughed and opened the door wider.

"You have? Well, the owners are out of town for awhile, but they said I could rent it to a suitable family. You don't look like a family to me, sir."

I stepped away from the oak tree where I had more or less been hiding.

"Oh, but we are. My mother died, you see."

She looked me over carefully, and I felt my face blush. Did she notice my greasy hair and holey sneakers?

"Do you have the money? First and last month's rent are required, plus a $200 deposit."

Pa took out his wallet and counted eight hundred-dollar bills.

"Would this be enough?" he asked.

She took the money. I didn't look surprised. Pa had his moments.

"I'll get the key," she said and closed the door.

"My name is Mrs. Jackson," she informed us when she returned with the key. She was a largish woman with hands that looked like they could handle anything from calming a runaway horse to delivering a baby. "I am the housekeeper. My husband is the plantation overseer. We and our six kids live in the cottage next to yours. It gets noisy sometimes."

"Oh, I don't mind," I said hastily. "I love children."

"That's because you haven't got any," our new hostess replied.

We walked toward our new home in silence. It lay far behind the big house, half hidden among oaks and apple trees. Rather small, with a heavy bark roof and plastered white walls, it reminded me of a fairy tale--Hansel and Gretel's gingerbread house, perhaps? It even had a picture window with a wooden flower box. The afternoon sun glinted on the glass and the daffodils beneath it. I love the color yellow!

"Not quite the big house, but comfortable enough," Mrs. Jackson commented as she unlocked the door. I clasped my hands together in delight and said,

"'This was the place, a happy rural seat of various view.'"

"What?" Mrs. Jackson asked, having opened the door and turned around to look at me.

"Oh, just poetry. Milton's 'Paradise Lost.'"

"Don't mind Ellie," Pa said cheerily, picking up the suitcase and following Mrs. Jackson inside. "She fills her head with nonsense so much it comes out at unexpected times."

Mrs. Jackson gave us a quick tour and left. We were alone in our cottage--a small place with two bedrooms, one bathroom, a parlor, and a tiny kitchen. I threw my arms around Pa and kissed him soundly on his leathery cheek.

"It's beautiful, beautiful! Thank you so much for my birthday present."

He slid out of my embrace and waved his hand.

"See, it's got wood floors and white curtains. Not exactly lace like you always wanted, but at least they're white."

Pa felt so pround of his gift that he didn't take a drink for at least an hour. I felt so happy that I didn't scold him when he did.

The next morning my enchantment broke a little when I looked in the mirror.

"Ugh," I thought as I surveyed my face. My complexion was broken out a little again, mostly around my nose. How could I possibly look pretty with a red mark on my nose tip? My hair usually hung rather limply down the sides of my face, hiding any other pimples I might get along the hairline. This, unfortunately, made me look thinner. I tied my hair back with a frayed red ribbon. What I needed was makeup and a haircut. Some decent clothes wouldn't hurt. I wanted to make a good impression my first day of school.

School. I hated always being the new girl in school. Year after year, I started a new school halfway through the year--or worse, just before summer vacation. Everybody knew everybody. If I made friends, which wasn't easy, I would leave them before the next semester began. I supposed I'd end up a bitter old lady with no prom to look back upon, no reunion, no age-long friends with whom I could dote over yearbook pictures and giggle at how young and silly we looked.

God, did anybody understand how sick I was of moving? Did anyone understand how much I longed for a real family, a real home? Why did I always stand on the outside, looking in through the picture window, at the family drinking tea by their fireplace? See the bronze-colored heads, bobbing with laughter, unaware of me. See the blue-floral sofa, with lace doilies on its armrests. See the family portrait on the wall (all the red and green and yellow paint), the rosebud china in the oak cabinet (the firelight reflecting on its glass casing). See the mother, father, brothers, sisters. How lovely lamplight and firelight glow through this family, through their window to my eyes. I stand waiting, watching, in the cold rain.

Then I turn away, with my worn-out suitcase and ragged clothes. Most nights home is a tent, a car, or--if we're lucky--a cheap motel room which smells of cigarette smoke. I know what people call Pa and me. They call us, if they're bountiful, vagrants. They call us, if they're mean, white trash.

So I stared in the mirror, images dancing before my eyes as if I were watching a T.V. movie. I shouldn't feel sorry for myself. I'd met the true homeless, who sleep in streets, hold signs saying Will Work For Food, and pick through trash cans for recyclable tin cans. We weren't really one of them, were we? At least not now, not in our cottage at Whiteoak.

I won't let that cycle start again. I'll make it change, I vowed to myself that first morning after I turned sixteen.

It was Saturday, so I had time to buy school necessities. I peeked in Pa's room, but he was already gone. For a drinking man, he amazed me by getting up early every day. I would have to wait until he returned to convince him I needed a loan--if he still had some money.

As soon as I unpacked and arranged everything (which didn't take long), I headed for Mrs. Jackson's cottage. I wanted to learn everything about my new home--especially about the people who lived in the Big House.

Mrs. Jackson invited me in and gave me a Pepsi. I soon found out, however, that she was too busy to gossip. Her smaller children forayed in and out, asking for sweets, toys, and bandaids. Soon the eldest daughter, Nina, showed up and volunteered to take me for a tour. At thirteen, she was tall and thin, her hair carefully braided down her back in one long strand. Her smooth brown complexion showed no sign of pimples, and her amber eyes sparkled with humor. Yet a barrier fluttered somewhere between her lashes and her pupils, as if, because of my skin color, she would not reveal herself entirely.

"The plantation is three hundred years old," she said as we wandered to the red barn. "It used to grow cotton. The cottages we live in used to be for the slaves."

She looked at me as if I lived 150 years ago and kept slaves. I blushed, not knowing what to say. As a Southern woman, I've always carried guilt in me about how black people were (and are) treated. I didn't know how to fix the guilt or become a black person's friend.

"Well, we live in one of the cottages now," I said. "Right next to you. I hope we can be friends."

Nina stared at me a moment, fluttering her incredibly long lashes (I wondered if they tickled her cheek). Then she smiled and guided me toward the white-fenced corral and continued her tour narration.

"Now this place is used to breed Arabian horses. The people who bought it moved here only a couple weeks ago. They're from the North. We're glad they kept us here, since we've always overseen this land."

Then it should be yours, by rights, I thought. Who determines land ownership, anyway? How can mere money buy a home?

"So the owners are from the North," I observed, knowing that fact made them as much an outsider as me.

"Yes. Boston, I think. They're kind of weird--they stay away from town. Townsfold talk about them. You know how it is in the South."

I nodded. "Anything else about them?" I asked.

"Their name's O'Leary, like yours."

I was stroking the velvety brown muzzle of a yearling when Nina said those words, and my hand stayed suspended in the air even after the horse moved away.

"Do they have any children?" I inquired, moving my hand just in time as a stallion brushed by to nip it.

"No. They're only about forty, Mr. and Mrs. O'Leary. But no children. I think they had one, but she died."

"Really?" I exclaimed, leaning against the fence and looking up at the house set like a castle on its hill. I suppose my mind began planning that very moment, though I held no conscious thought of what I was going to do.

"Yes, really," Nina replied irritably. "Do you think I've been telling you lies?"

"No, of course not! I always say 'really.' Tell me about the house, and more about Mr. and Mrs. O'Leary."

Nina seemed satisfied I believed her, for she smiled again. Something about the way she held herself so straight and tall relaxed itself, and she leaned against the fence beside me.

"I'm usually only in the kitchen to help Mama cook. Of course, the O'Learys decorated everything differently than before. The house had been vacant awhile, pretty run down. An old Southern gentleman owned it until he died. Been in his family for years. His relatives couldn't afford to keep it, and it might have been torn down if the O'Learys hadn't bought it. They spent a year fixing it up before moving in. It sure is grand now. You should see the antique furniture, the old tea sets, the chandeliers, and the winding staircase in the front room."

"Like in 'Gone With the Wind'?" I asked.

"Yeah. Right off the Hollywood set!" Nina giggled, and I joined her. That was a rather silly movie, after all. We both knew the South wasn't quite like Hollywood filmed it.

"So, what do the O'Learys look like?" I prodded.

"Hmmm," she said as she started walking away from the corral and toward a stream that ran behind the barn. "Mr. O'Leary is tall, with reddish hair, freckly skin, and a great fuzzy beard. I don't think he's especially good-looking, but he has a certain . . . dignity about him. He's an investment banker, I think. Travels to Charleston a lot. Usually Mrs. O'Leary goes with him. She doesn't like to be alone. She's a beauty--small and fine, like a china doll. Her blonde hair and blue-green eyes are--well, like yours, I guess. She seems kind of sad and thoughtful, like her eyelashes are always tugging toward her cheeks to make her cry. But you really should decide for yourself. I've only seen them up close a couple of times."

"That's a great description for only a couple of viewings!" I declared. "You should be a writer, Nina. I plan to be. Do you ever read books?"

"Only when I have to," she said as she sat down to take off her sneakers.

"You don't know what you're missing," I commented as I sat down beside her and did the same. The water felt good on our feet, on a hot May morning. "Books are my friends, Nina. They open up new worlds and adventures. They speak to me when I'm alone."

"Maybe you need a human friend," Nina suggested.

"Yes," I agreed. "School starts for me on Monday. I wish you went to high school."

"You'll meet people," Nina predicted. After a few minutes of delicious silence, Nina made a chain out of the daisies that grew on the bank. I watched her absently, mostly staring at the stream rolling over my bare feet. Sunlight flickered on the water like stars. Nina, tired of her daisy chain, threw it into the creek. It floated like a fairy barge down the current.

"We're as different as our colors," Nina observed with a grin, splashing me a little. "I think we'll get along fine.

We got up and raced to the cottages, Nina winning by a good three yards.

So I did find a friend.

By Monday I had managed to get both makeup and a hair trim (I didn't want short hair--just bangs and one length in back. I still reached past my shoulder blades). Clothes were another problem, but I put on my best jeans and a relatively new blue blouse. Pa was gone before I finished dressing. Somehow he had managed to get a "job."

I was the only person at the high school bus stop, by the Whiteoak gates. When the bus finally rumbled in view, I felt a moment of panic and grabbed a gatepost to keep my feet from running home.

Somehow I forced myself up the black stairs into the yellow monster. I forced myself down the half-full aisle, past the curious staring eyes. I noticed only swatches of images--a red ribbon in black hair, a green-covered book, a well-worn leather shoe. I slipped close to the window, behind two girls who were too busy chattering to notice me.

As we pulled away I stared past the gate and down the tree-covered road, thankful for my new home. If only we could stay! I wouldn't mind the bus delivering me to those gates, day in and day out, year in and year out. What would it be like to become part of Whiteoak? To grow down roots like an oak tree, never moving?

I turned from the window and stared at the nickel-colored seat in front of me. If I knew Pa, we wouldn't stay at Whiteoak past the summer.

"What's yoah na-ame?" the orange-haired school secretary asked with a drawl so Southern in made me wince. I must admit that sometimes the accent bothered me, though I was raised with it. I also must admit to being a frustrated actor. Since I never had time for school plays, I often gave little performances of my own. Armed with a gift for accents, I decided to speak like my old Northern English teacher. With a perfect Boston accent, I replied,

"My name is Ellen."

"Ellen what?" the secretary pestered. "Ah need yo-ah address, too."

"Ellen O'Leary. I live at Whiteoak."

"Ooh," she said, as if my answer solved a mystery. "Phone numbah?"

"We just moved in," I snapped, ashamed to say that Pa and I never could afford one.

"You did, didn't you? Coupla weeks ago."

The bell for first period rang, and I snatched the white paper from the secretary's desk, not bothering to correct her mistake. I didn't want to be late, on top of everything!

"Yankees!" I heard her exclaim as I sprinted down the locker-lined hall for my first class. I smiled, despite my quick-drawn breaths. Another faultless performance!

I'll skip the sordid details of that first school day. By day's end I'd felt so many stares I dreamed about eyes all night. Even so, I decided I'd like all my classes except math. The English teacher seemed especially nice, expecting us to write poetry. I did possess another talent, besides reading, writing, and performing. I aced school. This was handy, considering that if I didn't learn easily, I would have been held back several years by now and still remain in fifth grade.

The bus was half full again, and I hoped no one would talk to me. I found the same back window seat and slouched down, pretending to read my Spanish book.

"Hi," a voice said, low, behind me.

I pretended not to hear. The persistent voice repeated its greeting. I had no choice but to turn around. Chocolate brown eyes stared at me. The owner of the eyes was a boy (or should I say young man?) with curly dark hair; an angular, dimpled chin; and a broad, infectuous smile. Gorgeous!

"Hi," I replied, hoping my fair skin didn't betray me with a blush.

"I saw you get on this morning at Whiteoak. How do you like your new home? I'm your neighbor two miles away--Brett Thompson."

He stretched his hand over the seattop. I was amazed at how big it was--the fingers longer than mine!

"I'm Ellen," I managed to squeek. "Ellen O'Leary."

"Yes, I remember Dad telling me O'Leary was the name of our new neighbors. He's been trying to ask your folks over for the past week."

"Oh, they're out of town right now."

"That explains it. I must admit, the whole town is curious about the Yankee family who wants to raise Arabians instead of cotton."

"What's wrong with horses?" I asked, feeling the need to defend people I had never even met.

"Don't be so touchy," he laughed. I realized it would be difficult to be angry with Brett Thompson. "I have nothing against horses. It's just unusual around here to raise them, that's all. Goshen is a small Southern town."

I was about to say I knew enough about small Southern towns but decided not to. I was still, half unconsciously, using my Boston accent.

"We're having a barbeque this Saturday," Brett continued. "Will your parents be home by then? We'd love you all to visit."

"I'm not sure when they'll be back," I replied (truthfully, this time).

"Then you come alone. My place has the red brick gate just north of yours. About noon would be fine."

"I d-don't drive," I admitted, wondering how I was going to think myself out of this one.

"I'll pick you up."

The bus stopped at Whiteoak.

"At the gate," I said as I stood. "I like to walk."

He looked at me quizzically as I hurried down the bus' steps.

Without turning back I walked between the twin carved oaks I had seen the first time just two days ago. So far I'd made a friend honestly and been offered a date through deception. Without even realizing it I had slipped myself into a lie. Where would it lead? Oh forget it, I thought as I skipped toward my cottage. I'm changing my life!