Read Online 7 Souls by Barnabas Miller, Jordan Orlando - Free Book Online
Authors: Barnabas Miller, Jordan Orlando
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shit —he’s right,” Ellen said, reaching for her own overstuffed book bag. “Mary, I’m sorry—I’ve got to get down there. Really, I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay.” Mary accepted Ellen’s quick, strong hug, but she’d already written Ellen off. She’s not going to help , Mary thought. She can’t do it, no matter how well intentioned she is—she just doesn’t have the emotional vocabulary . “We’ll talk later.”
“Nice to meet you,” Dylan said, prying open the door in the brick shed that covered the stairwell’s top landing, and holding it for them both. “Sorry you’re having a bad day.”
“Thanks,” Mary said, sniffing. And mind your own business .
A T TWO-FORTY-FIVE in the afternoon Mary realized, dully, that she hadn’t gone to a single class. She’d moved up and down the Chadwick staircase with the other students at one-hour intervals, buffeted by the crowd, whenever the way-too-loud class bell rang out from (it seemed) a corner of every ceiling, up and down the ten floors of the school. Around noon, she’d wandered into the cafeteria, seen none of her friends, and wandered right back out. But she hadn’t been able to bring herself to actually go into a classroom. The thought of sitting in a metal and Formica chair under fluorescent lights and staring at a blackboard seemed absolutely out of the question.
I’m going to get in trouble , she thought, over and over. I’m going to be in serious trouble for this . By her count, she’d already cut three classes and was about to cut a fourth; the consequences (even for a second-semester senior) were pretty dire.
But she couldn’t make herself care.
Nobody had wished her a happy birthday. Nobody was looking at her; their eyes brushed against her and then moved away, quickly, as if she was wearing that scarlet letter in that book she’d had to read for English class last year. It was beyond “Worst Birthday Ever,” and every time she saw her reflection in the glass panes of the school’s classroom doors, she saw her carefully assembled birthday outfit and felt even worse. It was like her own clothes were making fun of her.
It took five minutes for everyone to gallop madly from class to class … pausing to slam their lockers open and grab their books and shout and flirt and make jokes while their shoes squeaked on the linoleum … and then everyone was rushing back into the classrooms and the doors were closing and that prison-yard bell rang again, and Mary was alone, in the center of the corridor, shivering and trembling with her arms wrapped around herself.
I’m missing Shama , she thought absently. I’m missing that test .
Again, she just couldn’t make herself care.
And something else was happening, too—something she couldn’t ignore any longer.
It had started while she was with Patrick; she had been looking at him but seeing something else—a house silhouetted against a dark sky—that made her nervous, somehow. More than nervous—she was actually frightened, but she had no idea why. It had happened twice more: that same strange sliding feeling, like the world was slipping away. Mary had tried to ignore it. Hangover , she’d told herself.
An hour later, it happened again.
It was like someone had changed television channels. All the clamor around her was gone . Just like that, the school was gone, the warm recycled air with its unmistakable scents of gym clothes and perfume and chalk dust was gone, and she was cold, outdoors in the dark.
A freezing wind blew across her face as she gazed up at the vast sky and the pale bloodred glow beyond the flat, distant horizon. Snow fell like ash; she was standing in snow—deep, fresh powder that had seeped through her boots and frozen her feet numb—staring forward at the black shape of the house.
And this time, shivering in the cold, she saw movement, close to her: a darkness in the white ground; a hole in the snow that swirled like a drain. Peering through the dimness
“That’s okay.” Mary accepted Ellen’s quick, strong hug, but she’d already written Ellen off. She’s not going to help , Mary thought. She can’t do it, no matter how well intentioned she is—she just doesn’t have the emotional vocabulary . “We’ll talk later.”
“Nice to meet you,” Dylan said, prying open the door in the brick shed that covered the stairwell’s top landing, and holding it for them both. “Sorry you’re having a bad day.”
“Thanks,” Mary said, sniffing. And mind your own business .
A T TWO-FORTY-FIVE in the afternoon Mary realized, dully, that she hadn’t gone to a single class. She’d moved up and down the Chadwick staircase with the other students at one-hour intervals, buffeted by the crowd, whenever the way-too-loud class bell rang out from (it seemed) a corner of every ceiling, up and down the ten floors of the school. Around noon, she’d wandered into the cafeteria, seen none of her friends, and wandered right back out. But she hadn’t been able to bring herself to actually go into a classroom. The thought of sitting in a metal and Formica chair under fluorescent lights and staring at a blackboard seemed absolutely out of the question.
I’m going to get in trouble , she thought, over and over. I’m going to be in serious trouble for this . By her count, she’d already cut three classes and was about to cut a fourth; the consequences (even for a second-semester senior) were pretty dire.
But she couldn’t make herself care.
Nobody had wished her a happy birthday. Nobody was looking at her; their eyes brushed against her and then moved away, quickly, as if she was wearing that scarlet letter in that book she’d had to read for English class last year. It was beyond “Worst Birthday Ever,” and every time she saw her reflection in the glass panes of the school’s classroom doors, she saw her carefully assembled birthday outfit and felt even worse. It was like her own clothes were making fun of her.
It took five minutes for everyone to gallop madly from class to class … pausing to slam their lockers open and grab their books and shout and flirt and make jokes while their shoes squeaked on the linoleum … and then everyone was rushing back into the classrooms and the doors were closing and that prison-yard bell rang again, and Mary was alone, in the center of the corridor, shivering and trembling with her arms wrapped around herself.
I’m missing Shama , she thought absently. I’m missing that test .
Again, she just couldn’t make herself care.
And something else was happening, too—something she couldn’t ignore any longer.
It had started while she was with Patrick; she had been looking at him but seeing something else—a house silhouetted against a dark sky—that made her nervous, somehow. More than nervous—she was actually frightened, but she had no idea why. It had happened twice more: that same strange sliding feeling, like the world was slipping away. Mary had tried to ignore it. Hangover , she’d told herself.
An hour later, it happened again.
It was like someone had changed television channels. All the clamor around her was gone . Just like that, the school was gone, the warm recycled air with its unmistakable scents of gym clothes and perfume and chalk dust was gone, and she was cold, outdoors in the dark.
A freezing wind blew across her face as she gazed up at the vast sky and the pale bloodred glow beyond the flat, distant horizon. Snow fell like ash; she was standing in snow—deep, fresh powder that had seeped through her boots and frozen her feet numb—staring forward at the black shape of the house.
And this time, shivering in the cold, she saw movement, close to her: a darkness in the white ground; a hole in the snow that swirled like a drain. Peering through the dimness
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