hand.
She strokes me. I grunt and cry.
After a while I feel her get up. I hear her move around the room, picking up my things, putting them in a bag.
Finally my tears are spent. I lie there in a heap.
Harj comes back. She sits down beside me again. âItâs hard. Believe me, I know, Brendan.â
I have no answer for this. I donât say anything.
Harj leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. âYou take care of yourself, Brendan,â she whispers. âStay strong. Stay healthy. Iâll see you in a couple of months.â
She leaves.
I lie there for a minute, then force myself to get up. I take one last look around my room. It looks empty now, a strangerâs room. I pick up my bag and trudge down the hall.
On my way out, I go into Larkâs room. Her stuff is still in it. The purple canopy. The turquoise bedspread. The sunflowers, the peacockâs feather. The picture of the ballerina, the chocolate-smeared children. Lottie the sheep.
Lark is so present. I can see her. Smell her. Feel her.
It canât be.
The anger returns. Screw this. Screw everything.
I grab Lottie from the bed, crush her to me as if I want to crush the stuffing out of her.
âWhy?â I wail into Lottieâs wool. I donât know who, or what, Iâm asking the question of. I just know thereâs no answer.
I sit down, under the canopy, clutching Lottie. I see Lark, fluttering her arms, that day she told me about âThe Dying Swan.â I remember when she showed me how to lie on the floor to fight the nausea. Her delight in the taste of chocolate, of butterscotch. When we danced. I got a little red rooster too lazy to crow for day⦠How we floated in the candlelight.
Was that only a few nights ago?
I remember our fights. When she insisted it was so worth it to make her room beautiful. When she laughed at me for calling her a saint. When she gave me crap for being rude to my relatives.
Her words come back to me. Itâs about how you want to live, with whatever time youâve got.
How do I want to live?
I know what Lark would say. You live like you dance. Like you play basketball. Like you taste butterscotch pudding.
But I canât, I think. Not without her.
Then I hear her voice again. You take the next breath, and the next. Thatâs brave.
I donât feel brave. I donât feel anything except furious and empty.
But what else can I do?
It smells of the lemon tea she always drank. It smells of her peppermint shampoo. I stuff it in my bag. I place Lottie back on the pillow. Tuck her in. Then I pull down one of the purple scarves. Her parents wonât mind. Itâs just one. I crush it to my face.
I close the door behind me.
I turn and go, down the hall, down the elevator. I step outside. Sunshine falls on my face. I pause, letting it soak in. Over my bald head I tug the baseball cap my teammates gave me.
I hear the hum of traffic, the brrring of a bicycle bell, a kidâs shout of laughter from the park across the street.
I walk toward my parentsâ waiting car, taking deep breaths, filling my lungs with air.
Titles in the Series
o rca s o undings
Back
Norah McClintock
Bang
Norah McClintock
Battle of the Bands
K.L. Denman
Big Guy
Robin Stevenson
Blue Moon
Marilyn Halvorson
Breathless
Pam Withers
Bull Rider
Marilyn Halvorson
Bullâs Eye
Sarah N. Harvey
Cellular
Ellen Schwartz
Charmed
Carrie Mac
Chill
Colin Frizzell
Comeback
Vicki Grant
Crush
Carrie Mac
The Darwin Expedition
Diane Tullson
Dead-End Job
Vicki Grant
Death Wind
William Bell
Down
Norah McClintock
Exit Point
Laura Langston
Exposure
Patricia Murdoch
Fastback Beach
Shirlee Smith Matheson
First Time
Meg Tilly
Grind
Eric Walters
Hannahâs Touch
Laura Langston
The Hemingway Tradition
Kristin Butcher
Hit Squad
James Heneghan
Home Invasion
Monique Polak
House Party
Eric Walters
I.D.
Vicki Grant
Impact
James C. Dekker
In the
She strokes me. I grunt and cry.
After a while I feel her get up. I hear her move around the room, picking up my things, putting them in a bag.
Finally my tears are spent. I lie there in a heap.
Harj comes back. She sits down beside me again. âItâs hard. Believe me, I know, Brendan.â
I have no answer for this. I donât say anything.
Harj leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. âYou take care of yourself, Brendan,â she whispers. âStay strong. Stay healthy. Iâll see you in a couple of months.â
She leaves.
I lie there for a minute, then force myself to get up. I take one last look around my room. It looks empty now, a strangerâs room. I pick up my bag and trudge down the hall.
On my way out, I go into Larkâs room. Her stuff is still in it. The purple canopy. The turquoise bedspread. The sunflowers, the peacockâs feather. The picture of the ballerina, the chocolate-smeared children. Lottie the sheep.
Lark is so present. I can see her. Smell her. Feel her.
It canât be.
The anger returns. Screw this. Screw everything.
I grab Lottie from the bed, crush her to me as if I want to crush the stuffing out of her.
âWhy?â I wail into Lottieâs wool. I donât know who, or what, Iâm asking the question of. I just know thereâs no answer.
I sit down, under the canopy, clutching Lottie. I see Lark, fluttering her arms, that day she told me about âThe Dying Swan.â I remember when she showed me how to lie on the floor to fight the nausea. Her delight in the taste of chocolate, of butterscotch. When we danced. I got a little red rooster too lazy to crow for day⦠How we floated in the candlelight.
Was that only a few nights ago?
I remember our fights. When she insisted it was so worth it to make her room beautiful. When she laughed at me for calling her a saint. When she gave me crap for being rude to my relatives.
Her words come back to me. Itâs about how you want to live, with whatever time youâve got.
How do I want to live?
I know what Lark would say. You live like you dance. Like you play basketball. Like you taste butterscotch pudding.
But I canât, I think. Not without her.
Then I hear her voice again. You take the next breath, and the next. Thatâs brave.
I donât feel brave. I donât feel anything except furious and empty.
But what else can I do?
It smells of the lemon tea she always drank. It smells of her peppermint shampoo. I stuff it in my bag. I place Lottie back on the pillow. Tuck her in. Then I pull down one of the purple scarves. Her parents wonât mind. Itâs just one. I crush it to my face.
I close the door behind me.
I turn and go, down the hall, down the elevator. I step outside. Sunshine falls on my face. I pause, letting it soak in. Over my bald head I tug the baseball cap my teammates gave me.
I hear the hum of traffic, the brrring of a bicycle bell, a kidâs shout of laughter from the park across the street.
I walk toward my parentsâ waiting car, taking deep breaths, filling my lungs with air.
Titles in the Series
o rca s o undings
Back
Norah McClintock
Bang
Norah McClintock
Battle of the Bands
K.L. Denman
Big Guy
Robin Stevenson
Blue Moon
Marilyn Halvorson
Breathless
Pam Withers
Bull Rider
Marilyn Halvorson
Bullâs Eye
Sarah N. Harvey
Cellular
Ellen Schwartz
Charmed
Carrie Mac
Chill
Colin Frizzell
Comeback
Vicki Grant
Crush
Carrie Mac
The Darwin Expedition
Diane Tullson
Dead-End Job
Vicki Grant
Death Wind
William Bell
Down
Norah McClintock
Exit Point
Laura Langston
Exposure
Patricia Murdoch
Fastback Beach
Shirlee Smith Matheson
First Time
Meg Tilly
Grind
Eric Walters
Hannahâs Touch
Laura Langston
The Hemingway Tradition
Kristin Butcher
Hit Squad
James Heneghan
Home Invasion
Monique Polak
House Party
Eric Walters
I.D.
Vicki Grant
Impact
James C. Dekker
In the
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