Read Online Cycler by Lauren McLaughlin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lauren McLaughlin
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and box spring, pull on my jeans and dig out the one pair of shoes I own: ancient white Converse All Stars, which are buried beneath a pile of Jill’s clothes and are at least two sizes too small. I’ve never worn them, never had to.
Kneeling on the pink wooden chest beneath the frosted window, I stare into the darkness beyond, then flip the locks and open it. Cold hits me with a quick and unforgiving blow. A coat. People wear coats outside, don’t they?
Damn,
I realize.
I’m going outside.
I grab Jill’s long black wool coat, which barely reaches my wrists and squeezes my shoulders. It looks ridiculous and—
WHAT AM I, NUTS?
I can’t go outside! Someone might see me.
Nevertheless, I step onto the wooden chest and slide over the windowsill backward. Frigid air burns my ankles as I dangle a good five feet from the ground. I should have worn socks. Not that I have socks. As my fingertips strain to hold my weight, I realize that after I drop, I have no way of getting back up to the window. I’ll have to come in the front door. But, of course, I don’t have a key on me, and despite the fact that there has never been a break-in anywhere near my house, Mom keeps this place locked up like Fort Knox.
My fingers are about to give out when I dig my feet into the brick face and climb back up. With a giant heave, I pull my chest across the windowsill, then wriggle to the floor.
I can’t go through with this. I can’t go jumping through windows and roaming the streets of Winterhead to spy on a girl as she sleeps.
But I’m going to.
I just have to do a little planning first. Jill would never go off half-cocked like this. She’d have backup plans and abort protocols. She’d have spreadsheets and pie charts. There’d be Plans A through Z and Projects One through One Hundred. I have to think!
I know Jill has a key to the front door, but I don’t want my return to wake up Mom, whose bedroom is dangerously close to it. So I take the sheet off the bed and tie it around the leg of Jill’s pink chest. The sheet only hangs down a few feet, so I pull the fitted sheet off the bed and tie that to the end of it. This buys me another seven feet or so, enough to jump and grab when I’m on the ground. I dig through Jill’s underwear drawer for some socks, but finding only bright, girlie, lacy crap with polka dots and stuff, I decide to suffer.
Before the remains of good sense can stop me, I hang out the window and drop to the soft wood chips below.
Cold air burns my throat. What a rush.
Above me is Mom’s darkened window. I freeze in anticipation of her light coming on. It doesn’t. At knee height is the basement window behind which Dad sleeps. It too remains dark. After another deep breath of cold air, I slip between two holly bushes and creep to the edge of the front lawn. You can’t see any other houses from here. We’re at the end of a winding street.
Everything seems so far away—the giant pine tree whose branches dip into Trask Road, the telephone wires snaking away. Even the sky, jet-black with wispy clouds, seems impossibly distant.
Pulling Jill’s coat tight, I look at our house dwarfed by that big sky, then turn to begin my journey down Trask Road.
When I’ve rounded the bend that leads me toward Main Street, I realize I’ve seen all of this before—the Rennies’ house, with five cars jammed in the driveway, the Mazzaglias’ house, meticulously landscaped by old Mr. Mazzaglia with a tiny pair of scissors—but only through Jill’s perception. I know every inch of this route, yet it all feels new.
The Bukers’ ferocious boxer, chained to a post out front, snarls at me but doesn’t bother getting up. When I get to Main Street, not a car is in sight. I skip across to the sidewalk on the other side, then head north toward the center of town. Streetlights cast blobs of light.
When I hear a car up ahead, I tuck into the mouth of the Perkins’ driveway to squat behind a bittersweet bush. The car
Kneeling on the pink wooden chest beneath the frosted window, I stare into the darkness beyond, then flip the locks and open it. Cold hits me with a quick and unforgiving blow. A coat. People wear coats outside, don’t they?
Damn,
I realize.
I’m going outside.
I grab Jill’s long black wool coat, which barely reaches my wrists and squeezes my shoulders. It looks ridiculous and—
WHAT AM I, NUTS?
I can’t go outside! Someone might see me.
Nevertheless, I step onto the wooden chest and slide over the windowsill backward. Frigid air burns my ankles as I dangle a good five feet from the ground. I should have worn socks. Not that I have socks. As my fingertips strain to hold my weight, I realize that after I drop, I have no way of getting back up to the window. I’ll have to come in the front door. But, of course, I don’t have a key on me, and despite the fact that there has never been a break-in anywhere near my house, Mom keeps this place locked up like Fort Knox.
My fingers are about to give out when I dig my feet into the brick face and climb back up. With a giant heave, I pull my chest across the windowsill, then wriggle to the floor.
I can’t go through with this. I can’t go jumping through windows and roaming the streets of Winterhead to spy on a girl as she sleeps.
But I’m going to.
I just have to do a little planning first. Jill would never go off half-cocked like this. She’d have backup plans and abort protocols. She’d have spreadsheets and pie charts. There’d be Plans A through Z and Projects One through One Hundred. I have to think!
I know Jill has a key to the front door, but I don’t want my return to wake up Mom, whose bedroom is dangerously close to it. So I take the sheet off the bed and tie it around the leg of Jill’s pink chest. The sheet only hangs down a few feet, so I pull the fitted sheet off the bed and tie that to the end of it. This buys me another seven feet or so, enough to jump and grab when I’m on the ground. I dig through Jill’s underwear drawer for some socks, but finding only bright, girlie, lacy crap with polka dots and stuff, I decide to suffer.
Before the remains of good sense can stop me, I hang out the window and drop to the soft wood chips below.
Cold air burns my throat. What a rush.
Above me is Mom’s darkened window. I freeze in anticipation of her light coming on. It doesn’t. At knee height is the basement window behind which Dad sleeps. It too remains dark. After another deep breath of cold air, I slip between two holly bushes and creep to the edge of the front lawn. You can’t see any other houses from here. We’re at the end of a winding street.
Everything seems so far away—the giant pine tree whose branches dip into Trask Road, the telephone wires snaking away. Even the sky, jet-black with wispy clouds, seems impossibly distant.
Pulling Jill’s coat tight, I look at our house dwarfed by that big sky, then turn to begin my journey down Trask Road.
When I’ve rounded the bend that leads me toward Main Street, I realize I’ve seen all of this before—the Rennies’ house, with five cars jammed in the driveway, the Mazzaglias’ house, meticulously landscaped by old Mr. Mazzaglia with a tiny pair of scissors—but only through Jill’s perception. I know every inch of this route, yet it all feels new.
The Bukers’ ferocious boxer, chained to a post out front, snarls at me but doesn’t bother getting up. When I get to Main Street, not a car is in sight. I skip across to the sidewalk on the other side, then head north toward the center of town. Streetlights cast blobs of light.
When I hear a car up ahead, I tuck into the mouth of the Perkins’ driveway to squat behind a bittersweet bush. The car
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