Read Online Earth & Sky (The Earth & Sky Trilogy) by Megan Crewe - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Megan Crewe
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too-big glove and tried to snatch the ball when he tossed it to me. The first two times, it bounced off the rim and thumped onto the grass. I hated that ball. It wasn’t fair.
Noam crouched down across from me and said, “Hey, third time’s a charm!” And then he flipped the ball to me so gently it fell straight into the waiting glove. I remember laughing, it seemed so miraculous. “See,” he said. “You can do anything.”
Back in the present, I slip off the glove. So many emotions have welled up in my throat that I can’t swallow.
Even after twelve years, it hurts. I don’t know why he left. I can’t imagine what could have been so bad here that he couldn’t stay, that he’d clear out his bank account and take off and never speak to any of us again.
A thought sparks in the back of my head. I’ve wished so often that I could go back and ask him why he did it. If Win’s special cloth could whisk us back two thousand years, twelve should hardly be a problem . . .
The images from the Coliseum fly up—blood, sand, a groan of agony, the hiss of an arrow—and my lungs constrict. I push the glove away. There’s still so much I don’t understand about Win and his story. And what would he want from me in exchange for a favor like that?
“Sky?”
Mom’s come in. I close the box and turn around. “I just . . .” I say, but I don’t know how to explain what I’m doing here.
“It’s okay,” she says. “Accepting Noam’s gone doesn’t mean we can’t remember him.”
I rub my thumb and finger together, bringing back the feel of worn leather. “He was a good brother,” I said. “While he was here.”
She smiles. “He was an amazing brother. You know, we don’t mean to overreact when you’re a little late or we’re not sure where you are—”
“I know, Mom,” I say. “It doesn’t bother me.”
She puts her arm around me and squeezes my shoulder, and I lean into her. A part of me wishes I could tell her everything, but most of me is glad she hasn’t noticed anything’s wrong. So I can pretend for a little longer that nothing is.
The doorbell rings, and Mom straightens up, her eyebrows rising. My heartbeat stutters before I remember.
“That’ll be Angela,” I say. “I forgot to tell you she was coming over—we’ve got an English presentation on Hamlet we have to work on.”
“As long as she doesn’t stay too late,” Mom says with one last squeeze.
There’s still a moment as I open the door when I find myself bracing for a pale sneer. My relief when I’m met with Angela’s smiling face must be obvious.
“What’s up?” she asks as she steps in.
“Not much,” I say. “Just looking forward to getting this presentation over with.” It’s true enough. Angela’s shy, but she can get into the performance element of it, even when it involves acting out Shakespeare’s archaic vocabulary. I never stop feeling uncomfortable when the whole class is focused on me, every jitter and hesitation magnified.
“Well, I borrowed costumes I think Mr. Nebb will like from the drama department,” Angela says, heading upstairs with me. “So all we have left to do is figure out what to say about how ‘deep and meaningful’ the scene is afterward. And practice.”
“I wrote some notes . . .” I paw through the papers on my desk. When I turn around, Angela’s sat down cross-legged by the end of the bed, looking up at the da Vinci print with an appreciative eye.
And I think: if I’d died in the explosion yesterday, she would have too. She and Daniel and Jaeda and everyone in Ms. Vincent’s class. Wiped away like lines on a chalkboard.
I’ve been so distracted by the crazy, scary parts of Win’s story that I’ve overlooked that. I haven’t wanted to believe it; I haven’t wanted to face it, but I know what I felt yesterday was something. Something big and awful.
Quite possibly we’re only alive because of him. There must be a million other things he could have
Noam crouched down across from me and said, “Hey, third time’s a charm!” And then he flipped the ball to me so gently it fell straight into the waiting glove. I remember laughing, it seemed so miraculous. “See,” he said. “You can do anything.”
Back in the present, I slip off the glove. So many emotions have welled up in my throat that I can’t swallow.
Even after twelve years, it hurts. I don’t know why he left. I can’t imagine what could have been so bad here that he couldn’t stay, that he’d clear out his bank account and take off and never speak to any of us again.
A thought sparks in the back of my head. I’ve wished so often that I could go back and ask him why he did it. If Win’s special cloth could whisk us back two thousand years, twelve should hardly be a problem . . .
The images from the Coliseum fly up—blood, sand, a groan of agony, the hiss of an arrow—and my lungs constrict. I push the glove away. There’s still so much I don’t understand about Win and his story. And what would he want from me in exchange for a favor like that?
“Sky?”
Mom’s come in. I close the box and turn around. “I just . . .” I say, but I don’t know how to explain what I’m doing here.
“It’s okay,” she says. “Accepting Noam’s gone doesn’t mean we can’t remember him.”
I rub my thumb and finger together, bringing back the feel of worn leather. “He was a good brother,” I said. “While he was here.”
She smiles. “He was an amazing brother. You know, we don’t mean to overreact when you’re a little late or we’re not sure where you are—”
“I know, Mom,” I say. “It doesn’t bother me.”
She puts her arm around me and squeezes my shoulder, and I lean into her. A part of me wishes I could tell her everything, but most of me is glad she hasn’t noticed anything’s wrong. So I can pretend for a little longer that nothing is.
The doorbell rings, and Mom straightens up, her eyebrows rising. My heartbeat stutters before I remember.
“That’ll be Angela,” I say. “I forgot to tell you she was coming over—we’ve got an English presentation on Hamlet we have to work on.”
“As long as she doesn’t stay too late,” Mom says with one last squeeze.
There’s still a moment as I open the door when I find myself bracing for a pale sneer. My relief when I’m met with Angela’s smiling face must be obvious.
“What’s up?” she asks as she steps in.
“Not much,” I say. “Just looking forward to getting this presentation over with.” It’s true enough. Angela’s shy, but she can get into the performance element of it, even when it involves acting out Shakespeare’s archaic vocabulary. I never stop feeling uncomfortable when the whole class is focused on me, every jitter and hesitation magnified.
“Well, I borrowed costumes I think Mr. Nebb will like from the drama department,” Angela says, heading upstairs with me. “So all we have left to do is figure out what to say about how ‘deep and meaningful’ the scene is afterward. And practice.”
“I wrote some notes . . .” I paw through the papers on my desk. When I turn around, Angela’s sat down cross-legged by the end of the bed, looking up at the da Vinci print with an appreciative eye.
And I think: if I’d died in the explosion yesterday, she would have too. She and Daniel and Jaeda and everyone in Ms. Vincent’s class. Wiped away like lines on a chalkboard.
I’ve been so distracted by the crazy, scary parts of Win’s story that I’ve overlooked that. I haven’t wanted to believe it; I haven’t wanted to face it, but I know what I felt yesterday was something. Something big and awful.
Quite possibly we’re only alive because of him. There must be a million other things he could have
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