Supervision. Alison Stine

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ my sister said.

      “At the train station.”

      “Well, was your train late?”

      “No.”

      “I’m sure it’s a mistake,” the Firecracker said. “A misunderstanding.”

      I remembered her raging about our grandmother, about her strangeness, her habits. Eccentric was the word the Firecracker used, which, as a child, I had thought was electric; I kept waiting for our grandmother to light up like a Christmas tree.

      “You know where she lives,” my sister said.

      “No, I don’t.”

      “Well, you have the address. And you remember the house.”

      “Yes,” I said.

      I couldn’t forget the house.

      I hung up the phone, hoisted my suitcases, and started up the hill to the road. Soon a truck passed me, a group of bare-chested boys hanging out in the bed. Wellstone boys. I thought about hitchhiking, though the Firecracker would kill me if she found out, but the truck didn’t slow.

      I began to remember the way. Past the gas station and fairgrounds. There was the hill. There was the road, the driveway cracked and steep. I tightened my grip on the suitcases and started up. The driveway veered, and there was the house: glowering from on top of the hill. The house was three stories, mostly brick, and over a hundred years old. It had belonged to someone important. It had been passed down. It had a name—but I couldn’t remember what it was.

      I passed my grandmother’s station wagon parked in front of the collapsing barn. When the driveway ended, I dragged my suitcases through the grass, tearing through the weeds to get around the house. The grass hadn’t been mowed in a long time, and there were tree limbs down all over the yard. Wide steps led to a front porch and double doors, thrown wide open to the afternoon. When I walked up the steps, four blurs shot out of the doors and down, yowling.

      Cats. My grandmother fed a whole herd of them, all tailless. Manx, I remembered they were called.

      “Scat!” I told them. I dropped my suitcases on the porch and knocked at the open door. “Grandma?” I called.

      No one answered.

      I went inside.

      I hadn’t remembered how high the ceilings of the house were, how the wooden floors echoed. I peeked in the doorway of the first room to my left: empty, except for bookshelves and a piano. The room on the right, the dining room, had a heavy oak table in the center, drapes drawn shut over the windows, and a fireplace, the marble mantle cluttered with candles. There were candles on the floor in the hallway too, all dusty and blackened, burned down to nubs.

      A ballroom stood on the third floor, I remembered now—I had roller skated there. A big staircase led up to it, but I kept walking down the hall. I came to a smaller set of stairs, the servant steps. To my right was the kitchen. To my left was the sitting room where my grandmother waited for me, watching television with the sound off.

      “Grandma?” I whispered.

      Blue light flickered over her face. It was her. She was the same, only shrunken, only not speaking to me for some reason.

      “I’m here,” I said.

      She didn’t say anything.

      “Esmé? Jennifer’s daughter?”

      It hurt to say my mother’s name. Not hurt exactly. It felt forbidden, like a spell. It felt like I shouldn’t speak her name aloud. I wished I hadn’t. I felt dizzy, like I might be sick.

      Her face unfroze at the sound of my and my mother’s names. She looked around, concentrating, as if she was listening hard. I thought she was going to speak. But she only reached over to the end table, picked a phone, saw that nobody had called or was calling, and turned the phone facedown again. She never met my eyes.

      I turned away. “I’ll just go get my bags,” I said.

      I lugged them up the main stairs because I didn’t want to have to face her again. Was she mad at me already? What had my sister said to her about me?

      On the second floor, there were four closed doors, and two open ones. The front room held a white canopied bed. There were magazines and old, moldy books on the night table, and house slippers underneath it—my grandmother’s room.

      That left the smaller room for me. I was relieved to see the bed had sheets on it, a pink quilt folded at the foot, towels draped over a chair. I opened the two doors in the room to find a closet, and a bathroom with a tub ringed in rust.

      Had this been my room? I set my suitcases down, opened the drapes at the window, and looked out. The room faced the backyard. Beyond the old barn, there was a pond, round and still. I hadn’t remembered that, either.

      Exhausted, too worn out to be hungry, I climbed into bed and pulled the quilt around me. I didn’t bother getting undressed, or calling the Firecracker to tell her I was here. Not home. I was not home. I would never say that word again.

      I was too nervous to sleep beyond the first beam of sun breaking through the drapes. Despite weak water pressure, the shower worked. I combed out my long hair, pulled on a new shirt and jeans. The door to my grandmother’s bedroom was closed, and downstairs, there was no sign of her. I remembered her working nights, remembered the Firecracker making dinner, and grumbling about it. I found a bowl and cereal in the cabinet, milk in the fridge. I ate standing up over the sink, then washed and dried my dishes, putting them away where I had found them.

      I wouldn’t bother my grandmother. I wouldn’t be a burden; she wouldn’t notice me at all.

      The school bus stop was at the bottom of the driveway, my sister had told me, and a handful of kids already stood out there by the road. One of the boys looked up as I approached. One of the girls was studying a book, and another boy tried to knock it out of her hands.

      She snatched it away. “I’ve got a test.”

      “New girl today,” the boy said.

      I adjusted my bag. I just wanted to get this over with. “I’m Esmé,” I said.

      “Weird name,” he said.

      “Weird family,” a second girl said.

      “Do you think she’s a witch like her grandma?” the boy asked.

      I held my bag tighter. “My grandma’s not a witch,” I said.

      “All I know is,” the girl with the book said, “this girl got kicked out of her old school. She’s like, a juvenile delinquent or something. A total freak.”

      “I am not,” I said.

      But the boy just lunged for the girl’s book again. They wrestled, the girl smacking the boy on the shoulder, the other girl ignoring them, examining the split ends of her hair. I stood at the back of the bus line, hating this place, and hating my grandmother and my sister for bringing me here.

СКАЧАТЬ