Read Online Bad Girls Don't Die by Katie Alender - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Katie Alender
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“Now, sit. Finish the tree.”
I obeyed, feeling too bewildered to protest.
I don’t think I’m a great artist, but Kasey seemed enthralled by the lines I drew. She leaned forward, her chin on her hands, and watched me.
“You’re making me nervous,” I told her.
“Sorry,” she said, slumping back.
I concentrated on the silhouette of the tree trunk, plump and shapely, with gentle curves and little hollows. I drew a stub of a branch that had broken off, and another spot where a fresh layer of bark almost covered a gash in the side of the trunk.
I was vaguely aware of Kasey fidgeting across the table, making a click-click noise, and I could tell she was interested but trying not to show it.
Finally I sat up and looked at my drawing.
Wow.
Click-click.
It was totally different from anything I’d ever drawn. Usually I did well enough to get by in Pictionary— casual but effective line drawings.
There was nothing casual about this tree. It was covered in details. Even the drawing style was somehow different. The lines looked like they’d been drawn by someone else. . . .
Just like the story had been told by someone else.
Click-click.
And suddenly I felt sick.
Click-click.
I pushed my chair away from the table and looked up at Kasey. “STOP!” I shouted, scaring both of us. She paused midclick, and her eyes widened in distress when she realized what she’d been doing— Opening and shutting the back cover of my camera. Letting light spill in and expose the negatives. “I’m sorry!” she squealed as I yanked the camera from her hands and snapped the cover shut. “Lexi, I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t talk to me, Kasey!” I said. “Or I will be forced to murder you!”
I rushed out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
Kasey followed me into the foyer but kept a safe distance away, staring up at me, her mouth an O, her eyes red and streaming tears.
“I can’t believe you!” I called down to her, and thet I went into my bedroom and slammed the door.
Mom’s voice came faintly from behind her closed door. “
Girls, stop yelling. I’m trying to work!
” I let out an angry grunt and smacked my pillow.
A few minutes later I heard Kasey trudge by and close her door. I felt kind of bad, but not bad enough to go comfort her.
Let her think about what she’d done.
Alone.
I DIDN’T SLEEP WELL. Can you blame me? I kept having those falling dreams, where you jolt yourself awake just before you hit the ground.
After waking up and checking the clock every half hour or so, at 5:30 a.m. I decided to get out of bed. I’d be sleep-deprived, but at least I’d have time to work in the darkroom.
Walking to the tiny guest bathroom at the end of the hall, I tried not to think about my ruined film, which left plenty of mental space to think about all the other strange things that had happened the previous night. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled as I passed Kasey’s door, but when I reached the darkroom, a sense of calm washed over me. A sense of well-being.
As soon as I turned on the safelight (don’t be too impressed—it’s just a red lightbulb) and snapped the black curtain into place to keep light from leaking through the cracks around the bathroom door, all thoughts of boiling water and unstable sisters and absentee parents melted away.
A lot of people shoot digital pictures now, which is fine—it’s just not for me. To me, taking digital pictures is like finding something. But working with film is like making something.
Besides, I cherish the time I get to spend in the darkroom—away from my family.
It’s a pretty decent setup: an old enlarger (bought used from the junior college) and a table Dad and I built over the bathtub to hold trays of chemicals. Rolls of film and finished prints hang to dry on a clothesline behind the table.
What’s funny is that when we moved in, the tub was already dotted with chemical stains, and we found darkroom supplies under the sink. So somebody
I obeyed, feeling too bewildered to protest.
I don’t think I’m a great artist, but Kasey seemed enthralled by the lines I drew. She leaned forward, her chin on her hands, and watched me.
“You’re making me nervous,” I told her.
“Sorry,” she said, slumping back.
I concentrated on the silhouette of the tree trunk, plump and shapely, with gentle curves and little hollows. I drew a stub of a branch that had broken off, and another spot where a fresh layer of bark almost covered a gash in the side of the trunk.
I was vaguely aware of Kasey fidgeting across the table, making a click-click noise, and I could tell she was interested but trying not to show it.
Finally I sat up and looked at my drawing.
Wow.
Click-click.
It was totally different from anything I’d ever drawn. Usually I did well enough to get by in Pictionary— casual but effective line drawings.
There was nothing casual about this tree. It was covered in details. Even the drawing style was somehow different. The lines looked like they’d been drawn by someone else. . . .
Just like the story had been told by someone else.
Click-click.
And suddenly I felt sick.
Click-click.
I pushed my chair away from the table and looked up at Kasey. “STOP!” I shouted, scaring both of us. She paused midclick, and her eyes widened in distress when she realized what she’d been doing— Opening and shutting the back cover of my camera. Letting light spill in and expose the negatives. “I’m sorry!” she squealed as I yanked the camera from her hands and snapped the cover shut. “Lexi, I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t talk to me, Kasey!” I said. “Or I will be forced to murder you!”
I rushed out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
Kasey followed me into the foyer but kept a safe distance away, staring up at me, her mouth an O, her eyes red and streaming tears.
“I can’t believe you!” I called down to her, and thet I went into my bedroom and slammed the door.
Mom’s voice came faintly from behind her closed door. “
Girls, stop yelling. I’m trying to work!
” I let out an angry grunt and smacked my pillow.
A few minutes later I heard Kasey trudge by and close her door. I felt kind of bad, but not bad enough to go comfort her.
Let her think about what she’d done.
Alone.
I DIDN’T SLEEP WELL. Can you blame me? I kept having those falling dreams, where you jolt yourself awake just before you hit the ground.
After waking up and checking the clock every half hour or so, at 5:30 a.m. I decided to get out of bed. I’d be sleep-deprived, but at least I’d have time to work in the darkroom.
Walking to the tiny guest bathroom at the end of the hall, I tried not to think about my ruined film, which left plenty of mental space to think about all the other strange things that had happened the previous night. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled as I passed Kasey’s door, but when I reached the darkroom, a sense of calm washed over me. A sense of well-being.
As soon as I turned on the safelight (don’t be too impressed—it’s just a red lightbulb) and snapped the black curtain into place to keep light from leaking through the cracks around the bathroom door, all thoughts of boiling water and unstable sisters and absentee parents melted away.
A lot of people shoot digital pictures now, which is fine—it’s just not for me. To me, taking digital pictures is like finding something. But working with film is like making something.
Besides, I cherish the time I get to spend in the darkroom—away from my family.
It’s a pretty decent setup: an old enlarger (bought used from the junior college) and a table Dad and I built over the bathtub to hold trays of chemicals. Rolls of film and finished prints hang to dry on a clothesline behind the table.
What’s funny is that when we moved in, the tub was already dotted with chemical stains, and we found darkroom supplies under the sink. So somebody
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