Read Online Ferris Beach by Jill McCorkle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jill McCorkle
Ads: Link
and poor Oliver clawed my chest and then took off under the house where it was safe. I knew it was Merle’s voice, but all I saw at the far end of my yard was the thick hedge of abelia, the small white blossoms already appearing with the approach of spring, and then the tangled overgrowth, strawlike weeds and briars that tumbled around old discarded boards and pieces of chicken wire which did not belong to us. I felt my heart beating faster and faster as I waited, almost holding my breath, and then slowly I got to my knees, began gathering my books.
“Yeah! I see London, I see France!” I looked that time to see a flash of bright yellow-white hair and pale skin. Once a boy at school said that the Huckses were albinos, and when Merle got wind of that, he beat the boy in the stomach until the principal came to break it up and sent Merle home for the day. I had never had the nerve to speak to Merle, tried not to look at him, and if I felt I had to look at him, made certain I did it while he wasn’t looking. And there were times when I felt that I did have to look; there was no good reason except that I had to. It was like I imagined poor Lot’s wife must have felt when she had to get just one more glimpse of Sodom; she had no good reason for looking back except that she was able to swing her head around and do it. I felt sometimes I had to look just to make sure he didn’t have pink eyes as a real albino would have.
“Yeah! I see London, I see France, I see old puss face’s underpants.” His hair was unusually clean that day as if he had just taken a shower or gone swimming; instead of being slicked back, it looked like pale thistles, like a fluffy baby duck’s down. There was no shaking to Merle’s voice by then. He still got called out of class once a week to go out to the little mobile classroom wherethe speech teacher stayed, and we all assumed that it was
because
of these visits that his voice was so clear. It was rumored that he also met with the guidance counselor every single week, but nobody had seen him come out of the counselor’s trailer and nobody dared to ask.
“Meeerrroooowwww.” I heard a laugh and leaves shredding from branches as he slid from his perch and landed just within vision on the other side of the hedge. “What’s your problem?” he yelled, but I ignored him and went quietly up the back steps. I prayed that Oliver would stay put, up in the cool shadiness beneath the house. I had such a clear picture in my mind of the cat that was supposedly destroyed by a firecracker that it made me jerk to think of it, my hand automatically reaching and covering my cheek.
“Why you hiding your face?” Now he had disappeared behind the bushes, and I could only hear the faint rustle of his feet and and knees in the brambles. “Trying to hold in the ugly?”
“Go away!” I yelled, my voice high and foreign-sounding as I crawled up under the house where the cat had gone. Then I just sat there for the longest time, leaning against the high brick pillar, that damp musty smell comforting in that it reminded me of all those rainy afternoons or hot summer days when Misty and I had played under there, drawing Barbie-house floor plans in the dirt. I had one day taken a red Magic Marker and very carefully colored in my Twist-n-Turn Barbie’s left cheek, thinking it would make me feel better, but when I looked at her, I hated her. I knew she would never be touched again. I pulled her head off and threw it out into the kudzu.
“Buttermilk might make your place go away,” Misty had offered. She was sincere and yet her choice of words—
your place,
like a scab or some unfortunate accident—stayed with me. “I bet it’ll be gone by the time we’re in high school,” she told me, her eyes the palest blue I’d ever seen, her skin china-white without a trace of the freckles like on her legs and arms. “And I’m goingto be thin and glamorous.” Her plumpness and thin fuzzy hair were only reminders of
“Yeah! I see London, I see France!” I looked that time to see a flash of bright yellow-white hair and pale skin. Once a boy at school said that the Huckses were albinos, and when Merle got wind of that, he beat the boy in the stomach until the principal came to break it up and sent Merle home for the day. I had never had the nerve to speak to Merle, tried not to look at him, and if I felt I had to look at him, made certain I did it while he wasn’t looking. And there were times when I felt that I did have to look; there was no good reason except that I had to. It was like I imagined poor Lot’s wife must have felt when she had to get just one more glimpse of Sodom; she had no good reason for looking back except that she was able to swing her head around and do it. I felt sometimes I had to look just to make sure he didn’t have pink eyes as a real albino would have.
“Yeah! I see London, I see France, I see old puss face’s underpants.” His hair was unusually clean that day as if he had just taken a shower or gone swimming; instead of being slicked back, it looked like pale thistles, like a fluffy baby duck’s down. There was no shaking to Merle’s voice by then. He still got called out of class once a week to go out to the little mobile classroom wherethe speech teacher stayed, and we all assumed that it was
because
of these visits that his voice was so clear. It was rumored that he also met with the guidance counselor every single week, but nobody had seen him come out of the counselor’s trailer and nobody dared to ask.
“Meeerrroooowwww.” I heard a laugh and leaves shredding from branches as he slid from his perch and landed just within vision on the other side of the hedge. “What’s your problem?” he yelled, but I ignored him and went quietly up the back steps. I prayed that Oliver would stay put, up in the cool shadiness beneath the house. I had such a clear picture in my mind of the cat that was supposedly destroyed by a firecracker that it made me jerk to think of it, my hand automatically reaching and covering my cheek.
“Why you hiding your face?” Now he had disappeared behind the bushes, and I could only hear the faint rustle of his feet and and knees in the brambles. “Trying to hold in the ugly?”
“Go away!” I yelled, my voice high and foreign-sounding as I crawled up under the house where the cat had gone. Then I just sat there for the longest time, leaning against the high brick pillar, that damp musty smell comforting in that it reminded me of all those rainy afternoons or hot summer days when Misty and I had played under there, drawing Barbie-house floor plans in the dirt. I had one day taken a red Magic Marker and very carefully colored in my Twist-n-Turn Barbie’s left cheek, thinking it would make me feel better, but when I looked at her, I hated her. I knew she would never be touched again. I pulled her head off and threw it out into the kudzu.
“Buttermilk might make your place go away,” Misty had offered. She was sincere and yet her choice of words—
your place,
like a scab or some unfortunate accident—stayed with me. “I bet it’ll be gone by the time we’re in high school,” she told me, her eyes the palest blue I’d ever seen, her skin china-white without a trace of the freckles like on her legs and arms. “And I’m goingto be thin and glamorous.” Her plumpness and thin fuzzy hair were only reminders of
Similar Books
