Read Online A Breath of Eyre by Eve Marie Mont - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Eve Marie Mont
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path is pretty worn down. Apparently, guys from Braeburn sneak here all the time. They tied yellow markers on the trees to guide people.”
“There’s one,” I said, pointing midway up the trunk of a tree to a little flicker of fabric. We entered into the brush, slowly making our way deeper into the woods and trying to stay on the makeshift path. Michelle’s flashlight cast a small pool of light ahead of us, but everything else disappeared in the gloom. Wind whipped through the trees, making the trunks heave and whine. The largest trees, twisted and gnarled with age, looked like giant goblins.
When we got to the log that lay between the banks of the stream, my stomach clenched. The water wasn’t that deep here, but the currents could be really strong. Ever since the incident this summer, I’d been acutely aware of water’s power and its indifference to my survival.
Michelle crossed the log with ease and stood waiting for me on the other side. “Come on, slowpoke!” she shouted.
I could barely see ahead of me. The woods were inky dark. I remembered how the Puritans who once lived here believed this wilderness was the devil’s territory. During the witch trials, a few of the condemned escaped and followed the Old Salem Road all the way to these woods, where they hid in a network of caves somewhere on the Danforth plantation. I couldn’t help but imagine the spirits of those escaped souls lurking behind me, waiting for the moment I fell into the water and drowned so they could enter my body and take over my human form.
Cautiously, I sidestepped along the log until I was poised over the deepest part of the stream. The water whooshed below my feet, hypnotizing me, fixing me in place. Michelle’s voice woke me out of my daze.
“What’s taking so long?”
“You’re not helping!” I said.
The log jiggled, and I froze, crouching down and clutching the log. In her impatience, Michelle had come back across to fetch me. She reached down and took my hand, then lit the rest of the way with her flashlight. I tried not to look down as she guided us safely to the other side.
For another twenty minutes, we trudged across pine needles and fallen leaves until we heard the sounds of music and the crackling of a great fire. We emerged from the woods into an overgrown meadow that led to the football field of Braeburn’s campus. Some kids were making out on the bleachers as we passed, so we followed the noise and the smoke up the hill to a large parking lot, where an enormous fire was blazing, lighting up the sky.
Michelle pointed to a figure strumming a guitar by the bonfire, surrounded by a few other guys. It was Owen. He was wearing a pin-striped suit and tie with a fedora and singing some old blues song.
“You made it!” he said when he saw us, launching into an intentionally off-key version of “A Little Help from My Friends.” He had this big, goofy grin on his face that made me want to hug him.
“Who are you supposed to be?” Michelle asked.
“Robert Johnson. You know, the blues legend?”
“I know who Robert Johnson is,” Michelle said, laughing. “I just didn’t recognize you because you’re so ... so ...”
“So white?”
“Exactly.”
“I may be white, but I’ve got the blues in my sooooul,” he crooned.
Michelle and I cracked up. “What have you been smoking?” she asked, laughing.
“Sadly, nothing,” he said. “Come meet some of my friends.”
He introduced us to some guys—a surfer type named DJ or TJ, a very small freshman named Benjamin, and an extremely good-looking guy named Flynn.
Despite her issues with the girls at our school, Michelle had no such problems with guys. She flocked to them, and they responded in kind. Her exchanges with Owen’s friends were easygoing and tinged with flirtation. I, on the other hand, went mute in the presence of boys.
Owen sat at the center of our group, his face golden in the firelight so he looked like a tiny sun, all these other boys
“There’s one,” I said, pointing midway up the trunk of a tree to a little flicker of fabric. We entered into the brush, slowly making our way deeper into the woods and trying to stay on the makeshift path. Michelle’s flashlight cast a small pool of light ahead of us, but everything else disappeared in the gloom. Wind whipped through the trees, making the trunks heave and whine. The largest trees, twisted and gnarled with age, looked like giant goblins.
When we got to the log that lay between the banks of the stream, my stomach clenched. The water wasn’t that deep here, but the currents could be really strong. Ever since the incident this summer, I’d been acutely aware of water’s power and its indifference to my survival.
Michelle crossed the log with ease and stood waiting for me on the other side. “Come on, slowpoke!” she shouted.
I could barely see ahead of me. The woods were inky dark. I remembered how the Puritans who once lived here believed this wilderness was the devil’s territory. During the witch trials, a few of the condemned escaped and followed the Old Salem Road all the way to these woods, where they hid in a network of caves somewhere on the Danforth plantation. I couldn’t help but imagine the spirits of those escaped souls lurking behind me, waiting for the moment I fell into the water and drowned so they could enter my body and take over my human form.
Cautiously, I sidestepped along the log until I was poised over the deepest part of the stream. The water whooshed below my feet, hypnotizing me, fixing me in place. Michelle’s voice woke me out of my daze.
“What’s taking so long?”
“You’re not helping!” I said.
The log jiggled, and I froze, crouching down and clutching the log. In her impatience, Michelle had come back across to fetch me. She reached down and took my hand, then lit the rest of the way with her flashlight. I tried not to look down as she guided us safely to the other side.
For another twenty minutes, we trudged across pine needles and fallen leaves until we heard the sounds of music and the crackling of a great fire. We emerged from the woods into an overgrown meadow that led to the football field of Braeburn’s campus. Some kids were making out on the bleachers as we passed, so we followed the noise and the smoke up the hill to a large parking lot, where an enormous fire was blazing, lighting up the sky.
Michelle pointed to a figure strumming a guitar by the bonfire, surrounded by a few other guys. It was Owen. He was wearing a pin-striped suit and tie with a fedora and singing some old blues song.
“You made it!” he said when he saw us, launching into an intentionally off-key version of “A Little Help from My Friends.” He had this big, goofy grin on his face that made me want to hug him.
“Who are you supposed to be?” Michelle asked.
“Robert Johnson. You know, the blues legend?”
“I know who Robert Johnson is,” Michelle said, laughing. “I just didn’t recognize you because you’re so ... so ...”
“So white?”
“Exactly.”
“I may be white, but I’ve got the blues in my sooooul,” he crooned.
Michelle and I cracked up. “What have you been smoking?” she asked, laughing.
“Sadly, nothing,” he said. “Come meet some of my friends.”
He introduced us to some guys—a surfer type named DJ or TJ, a very small freshman named Benjamin, and an extremely good-looking guy named Flynn.
Despite her issues with the girls at our school, Michelle had no such problems with guys. She flocked to them, and they responded in kind. Her exchanges with Owen’s friends were easygoing and tinged with flirtation. I, on the other hand, went mute in the presence of boys.
Owen sat at the center of our group, his face golden in the firelight so he looked like a tiny sun, all these other boys
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