Read Online Eye of the Storm by Kate Messner - Free Book Online Page B

should be getting home anyway. It’s—”
    â€œJaden, wait.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. It’s tentative, barely there, but it keeps me from walking away. “I want to show you something.” He steps onto a low stone wall that runs along the barn. “Follow me.”
    I hesitate.
    â€œPlease?”
    I climb up and follow him to a patch of garden on the south side of the barn. Mounds of green grow out of straw-covered soil, and ripening red spots peek out from each plant.
    â€œYou
grow
strawberries?” I’ve never seen strawberries growing outside, as far as I can remember. They were one of the first DNA-ture products. Dad used to bring home cartons full of fat, smooth, seedless berries. “These are so much smaller than real ones.”
    Alex laughs. “These
are
real ones.” He squats down, gently brushes aside some leaves with one hand, reaches deep into the heart of the plant with the other, and pulls out a perfect red berry.
    No. It’s not perfect.
    The berry is asymmetrical. One ripe, red side bulges higher than the other, and raggedy green leaves stick out the top in every direction, like some crazy puppet hat. The dimple at the base of the fruit looks a little like the one on Alex’s chin.
    He holds it up. “
This
is a
real
strawberry. Look.”
    â€œIt looks great,” I say.
    â€œNo.
Really
look.” He rests one hand on my shoulder and with the other, holds the strawberry out about a foot in front of my face. “Tell me what you see.” I try to ignore the warmth spreading down my arm and look, really look.
    â€œIt’s red.” But even as I say it, I know it’s more than that. It’s not red like the strawberries in Mirielle’s refrigerator at the house. Not the perfect, crayon-box red, the same on every side. This one is a million shades of red, from the deep rich color of new blood tothe blush that must be creeping up my cheeks. “It’s a lot of different promises of red.”
    â€œWhat else?” He turns the strawberry slowly, but doesn’t move his hand from my shoulder.
    â€œThe seeds are different colors, too.” I can’t compare them to the seeds on DNA-ture strawberries because they’ve been engineered out—people who took the “build-a-better-fruit” surveys complained they got stuck in their teeth—so they’re gone now. The skin is perfectly soft and smooth. But this strawberry has tiny hairs that catch the sun and raindrop-shaped seeds spilling down the sides, around all of its uneven curves. “Gold and pink and brownish.”
    â€œNow.” Alex smiles a little. “Close your eyes.”
    I look at him.
    â€œDon’t worry.” He laughs a little and takes his hand off my shoulder. “I want you to taste this.
Really
taste it.”
    I close my eyes. I can still feel the warmth of his hand on my shoulder, or maybe it’s the sun getting warmer.
    â€œReady? Open your mouth.”
    I do.
    The soft-rough seeds brush my lips first. Then that same surface—alive, I think—settles on my tongue, along with the warmth. It feels like this berry still holds the heat of the sun inside it.
    I am almost afraid to bite down, but Alex’s hand rests on my shoulder again, and I am painfully self-conscious of what I must look like standing here with my mouth around a strawberry, so I take a bite.
    And I taste the sun.
    All of the warmth, the sweetness, this imperfect outdoor berry has collected explodes in my mouth. And eyes still closed, suddenly, I am three years old, sitting cross-legged in a garden or field—I don’t know where exactly—but I am picking berries with Aunt Linda. Dropping them into a big wicker basket in the dirt between us, and my hands are stained red, and my chin is sticky with sweet red juice, and Aunt Linda is laughing in the sun.
    I had forgotten what strawberries felt like until now.
    I open my eyes.