The War that Saved My Life by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley

We were having dinner. Jamie reached across the table for another piece of
bread and Miss Smith grabbed his arm. “What’s that?” she asked.
When she pushed his sleeve back I saw the deep red mark on Jamie’s wrist.
It reminded me of when I’d tied him up in our flat, only worse: His skin had
been rubbed away until it bled. It looked awful.
Jamie snatched his arm back. “Nothin’,” he said, pushing his cuff back
down.
“That’s not nothing,” Miss Smith said. “What happened?”
He wouldn’t say.
“Did somebody hurt you?” I asked. “Somebody tie you up? Some boy at
school?”
Jamie looked at his plate. He shrugged.
“Oh, honestly,” Miss Smith said. “Speak up! You can’t let people bully
you. Tell us what’s wrong so we can help you.”
He wouldn’t talk, not then nor later to me in the bed. “You’ve got to tell
me,” I coaxed. “I take care of you, remember?”
He wouldn’t tell.
At lunch the next day Miss Smith surprised me by saying, “Ada, would
you like to come with me to take Jamie to school? We might do a bit of
shopping on the way home.” I was worried enough about Jamie that I nodded,
even though I suspected her of plans involving velvet.
Miss Smith marched Jamie into the school building the way I supposed she
always did. I stayed outside. “We’ll go get a cup of tea,” she said, when she
returned, “and come back in half an hour.”
We went to a tea shop, which was a place full of tables where you could
buy things to eat and drink. Like a pub, only without beer, and cleaner.
“Miss,” I whispered, taking my seat, “why are there blankets on the
tables?”
“They’re called tablecloths,” Miss Smith whispered back. “They’re to
make the tables look nice.”