Read Online 7 Souls by Barnabas Miller, Jordan Orlando - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Barnabas Miller, Jordan Orlando
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between the dancing snowflakes, Mary realized that something was in the hole: a dark shape—something alive, reaching for her and calling to her.
A chill passed through her, making her shiver, and then she was in the Chadwick corridor, alone in the middle of the fourth floor, missing the physics test. The cold wind was gone, replaced by the stale Chadwick air and the muffled sounds of teachers’ droning voices from behind the classroom doors lined up on either side of her.
I’m sick , she thought miserably. I’ve got to be sick; something’s wrong with me . The morning hangover had distracted her from how bad she really felt. Now the hangover was gone, but her head was still swimming; there was a strange, disconnected sensation in her brain that she couldn’t place or understand.
And I’m seeing things .
Mary had no idea what to do. She heard herself whimpering, which alarmed her, and tried to stop , to get a grip . Moving to the wall, she collapsed against the lockers and slid to the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees and rocking back and forth. She only realized that she’d lost track of time when the bell clanged again, hammering her eardrums, and then the same deafening ballet started all over again, the classroom doors banging open and the students leaping out like racehorses obeying a starting gun. Mary didn’t move until someone—Jenny Mullen, a junior she barely knew—tripped over her knees and nearly went sprawling across the floor, her book bag spilling its contents.
“Damn it!” Jenny yelled, glaring at Mary balefully. “Like, get out of the road , yo! You’re totally in the way.”
“Sorry,” Mary said, rising dutifully to her feet.
I’m totally in the way .
Despair was flooding over her like quicksand. This was supposed to be the day she was the center of attention. Everybody has a day like that, once a year—it’s as basic as breathing—and this was supposed to be hers . Instead, she was “totally in the way.” It wasn’t fair at all.
“Hey, snap out of it!”
The voice was very familiar and very close. Mary was thinking about the black house in the field of snow—the place she was absolutely sure she didn’t remember, didn’t recognize. It took her a moment to focus and realize that somebody was standing right in front of her, speaking to her—somebody she knew.
“Mary? What the hell—you look awful.”
Amy Twersky, Mary’s best friend (her other best friend, she corrected herself), was looking at her intently. Mary felt a wave of relief at the sight of Amy’s familiar, beloved face. She’d somehow managed to miss all her friends so far that day—it was the first time she’d seen Amy since arriving at school.
Amy was pretty—pale, like a figure in a Renaissance portrait, freckle-faced, with long, flowing orange-red locks—but Mary saw she was downplaying her looks, as usual. Amy was the most self-conscious person Mary had ever met. She looked adorable today: she was wearing a cute Gaultier bubble dress with studded Balenciaga gladiator sandals. But she’d hidden the entire top half of the dress with a smocklike J. Crew cardigan.
Amy had no self-esteem. That had been true for as long as Mary could remember: back to the second grade, when they “officially” became best friends—there was an actual Best Friend Contract buried somewhere in Mary’s bedroom closet, scrawled out in marker and sprinkled with purple sparkles, notarized by Hello Kitty and signed with thick red Crayolas.
“Hi, Amy,” she said weakly. She couldn’t muster anything else. The rush-hour crowd of yelling students and the slamming of lockers meant they had to raise their voices, but Mary didn’t want to make the effort. It didn’t seem worth it.
“I’m sorry,” Amy said quickly. “You don’t look awful—I can’t believe I said that. You look beautiful, totally beautiful. You look hot.”
There was no way to stop Amy from apologizing for everything, Mary knew; she had
A chill passed through her, making her shiver, and then she was in the Chadwick corridor, alone in the middle of the fourth floor, missing the physics test. The cold wind was gone, replaced by the stale Chadwick air and the muffled sounds of teachers’ droning voices from behind the classroom doors lined up on either side of her.
I’m sick , she thought miserably. I’ve got to be sick; something’s wrong with me . The morning hangover had distracted her from how bad she really felt. Now the hangover was gone, but her head was still swimming; there was a strange, disconnected sensation in her brain that she couldn’t place or understand.
And I’m seeing things .
Mary had no idea what to do. She heard herself whimpering, which alarmed her, and tried to stop , to get a grip . Moving to the wall, she collapsed against the lockers and slid to the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees and rocking back and forth. She only realized that she’d lost track of time when the bell clanged again, hammering her eardrums, and then the same deafening ballet started all over again, the classroom doors banging open and the students leaping out like racehorses obeying a starting gun. Mary didn’t move until someone—Jenny Mullen, a junior she barely knew—tripped over her knees and nearly went sprawling across the floor, her book bag spilling its contents.
“Damn it!” Jenny yelled, glaring at Mary balefully. “Like, get out of the road , yo! You’re totally in the way.”
“Sorry,” Mary said, rising dutifully to her feet.
I’m totally in the way .
Despair was flooding over her like quicksand. This was supposed to be the day she was the center of attention. Everybody has a day like that, once a year—it’s as basic as breathing—and this was supposed to be hers . Instead, she was “totally in the way.” It wasn’t fair at all.
“Hey, snap out of it!”
The voice was very familiar and very close. Mary was thinking about the black house in the field of snow—the place she was absolutely sure she didn’t remember, didn’t recognize. It took her a moment to focus and realize that somebody was standing right in front of her, speaking to her—somebody she knew.
“Mary? What the hell—you look awful.”
Amy Twersky, Mary’s best friend (her other best friend, she corrected herself), was looking at her intently. Mary felt a wave of relief at the sight of Amy’s familiar, beloved face. She’d somehow managed to miss all her friends so far that day—it was the first time she’d seen Amy since arriving at school.
Amy was pretty—pale, like a figure in a Renaissance portrait, freckle-faced, with long, flowing orange-red locks—but Mary saw she was downplaying her looks, as usual. Amy was the most self-conscious person Mary had ever met. She looked adorable today: she was wearing a cute Gaultier bubble dress with studded Balenciaga gladiator sandals. But she’d hidden the entire top half of the dress with a smocklike J. Crew cardigan.
Amy had no self-esteem. That had been true for as long as Mary could remember: back to the second grade, when they “officially” became best friends—there was an actual Best Friend Contract buried somewhere in Mary’s bedroom closet, scrawled out in marker and sprinkled with purple sparkles, notarized by Hello Kitty and signed with thick red Crayolas.
“Hi, Amy,” she said weakly. She couldn’t muster anything else. The rush-hour crowd of yelling students and the slamming of lockers meant they had to raise their voices, but Mary didn’t want to make the effort. It didn’t seem worth it.
“I’m sorry,” Amy said quickly. “You don’t look awful—I can’t believe I said that. You look beautiful, totally beautiful. You look hot.”
There was no way to stop Amy from apologizing for everything, Mary knew; she had
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