P.T. Barnum's Oddities

Chapter 5: Anne and W.D.

Anne grunted as she pulled down a loose hanging rope from off of a warehouse.
Her plan was to poke the rope through a hole in the ledge of the warehouse's roof, slip half of the rope through, tying one half to the cinder block. She would then tie the hoop onto the rope.
And then she could do her tricks. Just like the trapeze artists.
She tied the rope to the cement block.
Piling one milk crate on top of another, she stood on top of an unsteady, makeshift ladder.
Gripping the ledge of the roof for support, she began to make her way toward a broken piece of the gutter.
But just as she was about to reach it, the milk crates toppled out from under her, and she was left dangling off the edge of the roof.
Now, you may think any six year old little girl hanging from off of a tall building would call for help, but Anne knew better. The wrong people may come to her attention.
Alone in the alley without W.D. to help her, she had to think. And fast.
What did she have other than her malnourished little body? Muscles. And muscles were meant to be used, scrawny or not.
So Anne slowly moved her tiny hands along the ledge. Rope still in hand, she hoisted herself up a little and let go of the gutter with one hand so she was able to slip it through the hole.
Whether she was at risk of falling to her death or not, you could bet she was still determined to be one of those trapeze artists, so she wasn't going to miss the perfect opportunity to put her plan into action.
Anne flung herself down again in a position under the gutter so that she could pull the rope all the way through.
"Now, to get down." She thought to herself.
She proposed to herself a plan that was incredibly risky, but would work quick. W.D. was going to be back any second and she knew that if he caught her in this state she would surely be in big trouble.
After all, normal little girls her age were supposed to still have their Ma's and Pa's to take care of them and they were supposed to be dressed up in cute, prissy little dresses, not a baggy old shirt they found on the street. Heck, if she were being honest with herself right now, she'd say that perfect little girls were supposed to be white. Not black. Not living in alleyways.
The thought of it made her want to burst into tears.
But not right now. She couldn't be weak.
So she forced herself to stop thinking and grab onto the rope that dangled before her.
She held on with both hands, and came falling down. Dropping all but three or four feet above the ground, she quickly hopped off, grabbed her hoop and tied it around the rope.
There it swung before her. Anne's plan had worked. It looked just like the circus.
She wiped away her tears from earlier.
Because normal girls don't cry.