Read Online After the First Death by Robert Cormier - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Cormier
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nose running now. “I want my chraff.”
“She means her giraffe,” said a boy who sat slumped next to the girl. He had seemed to be deep in sleep. In fact, his eyes were still closed as he spoke. He was a fat little kid, all roundnesses. Fat cheeks, fat stomach. “She always takes her giraffe with her, but she forgot it today,” the boy said.
The girl’s face lit up with delight. “You know my Classie, Raymond?” she asked.
“Of course I know her,” he answered. His voice was deep, as if coming from a long distance inside his body. He opened one eye and looked around, first at the girl and then at Kate. The eye was bright and alert, gleaming with intelligence. Hardly the eye of anyone drugged. Then he closed the eye again. Kate studied him. She had a feeling that he was sitting there awake, listening, waiting.
“Can we go back and get my Classie?” the girl asked.
“Later, maybe,” Kate said. And to change the subject, “What’s your name?”
“Monique,” the child answered, yawning, rubbing her eyes, her head dropping slowly to one side.
Miro had come down from his perch and advanced toward her now. The mask accented his eyes and his lips. They all looked alike in the masks. His lips had looked sensuous before; now they were merely big and thick. His eyes were magnified: hard and dark and penetrating.
“You don’t like the mask?” Miro asked.
“You look repulsive,” Kate said, filling her voice with contempt, hoping it disguised her fear, her panic.
Miro drew back. In his mask he had encountered fear and terror before, but never the kind of hatred he saw on the girl’s face.
“We will not wear the masks all the time,” he said, stumbling a bit over the words. He was uncertain of how to proceed. He wanted to follow orders, win her over, but did not know how to make that look of hate vanish from her face. “We will wear the masks only outside the bus. With the windows taped, there is no need to wear them inside. And they might disturb the children.”
Kate turned away. As she did so, she caught sight of the dead child who had been laid across the long rear seat. The body was covered with a piece of bleached linen Artkin had obtained from the van. The child’s feet portruded from the covering: tiny green sneakers, almost new, white shoestrings tied neatly, pale green socks bunched at the ankles. Poor Kevin McMann. That was the boy’s name. They had allowed Kate to search the boy’s body for identification. She’d found his name on a frayed card noting his membership in the Uncle Otto Teevee Club (“Fun For You On Channel 2”). His pockets had yielded few other clues as to who Kevin McMann had been or might have been had he lived. An unwrapped stick of Spearmint gum. An orange crayon. A curled-up length of string, the kind a boy might use to fly a kite or catch a fish.
She wanted to flee the sight of the boy, flee this bus, this bridge; she felt the panic rising in her again, unable to stop the panic just as you can’t stop yourself from bleeding. She willed herself to remain outwardly calm at least, and walked toward the front of the bus, sinking into the driver’s seat. The sun splashed through the uncovered strip on the windshield, hurting Kate’s eyes. I will not cry, she told herself. I will not cry.
Actually, she couldn’t remember the last time she cried. Perhaps as a child when she was little Katie Forrester and her mother dressed her up in lace andfrills like a child movie star. That had been her first disguise, the first of many. She often wondered where her disguises left off and the real Kate Forrester began. So many disguises. There was the most obvious one, the disguise provided by nature: she was blond, fair-skinned, slender, no weight problems, had managed to avoid adolescent acne. A healthy body with one exception: the weak bladder. That was Disguise Number One: Kate Forrester, healthy young American girl, cheerleader, prom queen, captain of the girls’
“She means her giraffe,” said a boy who sat slumped next to the girl. He had seemed to be deep in sleep. In fact, his eyes were still closed as he spoke. He was a fat little kid, all roundnesses. Fat cheeks, fat stomach. “She always takes her giraffe with her, but she forgot it today,” the boy said.
The girl’s face lit up with delight. “You know my Classie, Raymond?” she asked.
“Of course I know her,” he answered. His voice was deep, as if coming from a long distance inside his body. He opened one eye and looked around, first at the girl and then at Kate. The eye was bright and alert, gleaming with intelligence. Hardly the eye of anyone drugged. Then he closed the eye again. Kate studied him. She had a feeling that he was sitting there awake, listening, waiting.
“Can we go back and get my Classie?” the girl asked.
“Later, maybe,” Kate said. And to change the subject, “What’s your name?”
“Monique,” the child answered, yawning, rubbing her eyes, her head dropping slowly to one side.
Miro had come down from his perch and advanced toward her now. The mask accented his eyes and his lips. They all looked alike in the masks. His lips had looked sensuous before; now they were merely big and thick. His eyes were magnified: hard and dark and penetrating.
“You don’t like the mask?” Miro asked.
“You look repulsive,” Kate said, filling her voice with contempt, hoping it disguised her fear, her panic.
Miro drew back. In his mask he had encountered fear and terror before, but never the kind of hatred he saw on the girl’s face.
“We will not wear the masks all the time,” he said, stumbling a bit over the words. He was uncertain of how to proceed. He wanted to follow orders, win her over, but did not know how to make that look of hate vanish from her face. “We will wear the masks only outside the bus. With the windows taped, there is no need to wear them inside. And they might disturb the children.”
Kate turned away. As she did so, she caught sight of the dead child who had been laid across the long rear seat. The body was covered with a piece of bleached linen Artkin had obtained from the van. The child’s feet portruded from the covering: tiny green sneakers, almost new, white shoestrings tied neatly, pale green socks bunched at the ankles. Poor Kevin McMann. That was the boy’s name. They had allowed Kate to search the boy’s body for identification. She’d found his name on a frayed card noting his membership in the Uncle Otto Teevee Club (“Fun For You On Channel 2”). His pockets had yielded few other clues as to who Kevin McMann had been or might have been had he lived. An unwrapped stick of Spearmint gum. An orange crayon. A curled-up length of string, the kind a boy might use to fly a kite or catch a fish.
She wanted to flee the sight of the boy, flee this bus, this bridge; she felt the panic rising in her again, unable to stop the panic just as you can’t stop yourself from bleeding. She willed herself to remain outwardly calm at least, and walked toward the front of the bus, sinking into the driver’s seat. The sun splashed through the uncovered strip on the windshield, hurting Kate’s eyes. I will not cry, she told herself. I will not cry.
Actually, she couldn’t remember the last time she cried. Perhaps as a child when she was little Katie Forrester and her mother dressed her up in lace andfrills like a child movie star. That had been her first disguise, the first of many. She often wondered where her disguises left off and the real Kate Forrester began. So many disguises. There was the most obvious one, the disguise provided by nature: she was blond, fair-skinned, slender, no weight problems, had managed to avoid adolescent acne. A healthy body with one exception: the weak bladder. That was Disguise Number One: Kate Forrester, healthy young American girl, cheerleader, prom queen, captain of the girls’
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