Heaven by V.C. Andrews Page A

enemies in our school, because he was different, too good-looking, his clothes too “citified.” His poise was too annoying, his family too rich, his father too educated, his mother too haughty. It was presumed by the other boys he was a sissy. Even that first day Tom said that one day Logan would have to prove himself. The other boys tried all their silly, but not so harmless, pranks. They put tacks in his shoes in the gym; they tied his shoelaces together so he’d be late to his next class after gym; they put glue in his shoes, and backed away when he grew angry and threatened to beat the culprit.
    Before his first week was over Logan was placed two grades above Tom’s and my level. By that time he, too, wore jeans and plaid shirts, but more expensive designer jeans, and shirts that came from some place in New England called Bean’s. He still stuck out despite the clothes. He was too soft-spoken and polite when others were rude, loud, and rough. He refused to act like the other boys, refused to use their foul language.
    On Friday I skipped study hall, much to Tom’s amazement. He couldn’t stop questioning me as we strolled home in bright September sunshine. It was still warm enough so Tom could dive into the river, clothes and all—though he did pull off his worn sneakers. I fell on the grassy bank with Our Jane cuddled near my side, and Keith gazed up at a squirrel perched on a tree limb. I said without thought to Tom as he splashed around, “Iwish to God I’d been born with silvery-gold hair”; then I bit down hard on my tongue from the way Tom turned to stare at me. He shook his head to throw off the water as a dog would. Fortunately, Fanny had dropped far, far behind as we trudged home, and even from where we were, we could hear her faint lilting giggles coming over the hills and through the woods.
    “Heavenly, do ya know now?” Tom asked in the oddest hesitant whisper.
    “Know what?”
    “Why ya want silvery-blond hair when what ya got is fine, jus fine?”
    “Just a crazy wish, I guess.”
    “Now wait a minute, Heavenly. If ya an me are gonna stay friends, an more than just brother and sister, ya gotta be on the square. Do ya or don’t ya know who had that silvery-gold color of hair?”
    “Do
you
know?” I tried to evade.
    “Sure I know.” He came out of the water, and we headed toward home. “Always have known,” he said softly, “since t’first time I went t’school. Boys in the rest room told me about Pa’s first city wife from Boston with her long silvery-gold hair, an how everybody jus knew she couldn’t last livin up in t’hills. Jus kept on hopin
ya’d
neva find out, an stop thinking I was so dura wonderful. Cause I ain’t that wonderful. Got no Boston blood in me, no rich genes that’s been cultured an civilized—like you got. I got one hundred percent dumb hillbilly genes, despite what you and Miss Deale think.”
    It hurt to hear him say such things. “Don’t you talk like that, Thomas Luke Casteel! You heard Miss Deale talk on that subject the other day. The most brilliant parents in the world often give birth to idiots … and idiots can give birth to genius! Didn’t she say that it was nature’s way to equalize? Didn’t she say that sometimes when parents are too smart, they seem to use up all thebrain fodder on themselves and leave none of it for their children? Remember all she said about nothing in nature being predictable? The only reason you don’t get all the A’s I do is because you play hooky too much! You must keep on believing what Miss Deale said about all of us being unique, born for a purpose only we can fulfill. Thomas Luke, you keep remembering that.”
    “You keep remembering it too,” he said, gruffly, turning to give me a hard look, “and stop crying out in the night to be different than what you are. I like what you are now.” His green eyes were soft and luminous in the dim shade of the piny woods. “You’re my fair gypsy sister, ten times