Read Online Foreverland Is Dead by Tony Bertauski - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tony Bertauski
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the roof. The rooster is quiet.
Jen snatches a fuzzy sweater from the pile, holds it up to her chest. “Liz Claiborne. You like?”
“The fuzzy collar will drive you nuts,” Mad says.
“But what will the boys think?”
Mad’s laughter is punctuated with a snort. The first time she’s ever done that. Maybe only the third time she’s laughed.
There’s a stack of clothing next to Cyn’s bed. It’s like Santa brought sweatshirts and coats and balled up socks. On the bottom, thick and puffy, are tan coveralls.
“Those are yours,” Jen says. “We thought you could use them when you explore the countryside.”
“It’s cold out there,” Mad adds. “Plus, you’re not getting new boots.”
“Nothing’ s going to fit your paddles, Cyn,” Jen says. “Unless Miranda finds snowshoes.”
The girls laugh. Cyn joins them. She’s got wide feet for a girl.
Her body odor wafts out , permanently stained and eternally damp from the sheets. Cyn shucks her clothing, dropping each piece at the foot of the bed. Her soft, warm skin contracts in the frigid air.
“Whoa!” Mad hides her face. “Decency, girl!”
Kat stares, smiling. “ Panties in there. On the bottom.”
Cyn never thought she’d be e xcited about underwear, but denim has about rubbed her parts raw. She craves cotton. The fabric snugs against her hips, feel nice between her legs. She pulls a padded sports bra over her head and quickly puts a new Ralph Lauren on.
Lastly, she steps into the Carhartt coveralls. It’s all baggy , but so warm, so comforting, like a mother’s embrace. Exactly what she needs.
Thank you.
The stove throws orange light against the walls. Shadows stretch over the floor. Jen struts to the front door.
“You like?”
She’s wearing jeans cuffed at the bottom with sequins stapled to the outer seams and a cardigan that hangs to her knees. The girls clap. She stops at the front door and turns, lips pouty, and catwalks to the stove. Kat puts her fingers in her mouth and a whistle splits the bunkhouse.
“ Shut the hell up!” Roc flops over in bed.
They look at the lump in the corner bed and stifle their laughter.
“Let’s grab some breakfast,” Cyn says. “I’ll get the eggs.”
17
A gust of wind splashes against the window. The brick house creaks under the assault.
Miranda takes the sweet honeysuckle candle into the bedroom, to the left of the kitchen. Adagio for Strings plays in the front room. She sits at the desk and sorts through the tubes of lipstick and lotions, humming along with the music, imagining the conductor’s steely glare and fluid hands.
The upper desk drawer is full of office supplies. The second drawer is a mess of papers and envelopes. There’s a box at the bottom. She pulls an oversized pair of binoculars out of it.
Mighty powerful ones.
She steps to the window, lifts them to her eyes , and scrolls the middle dial. The wind harvester comes into focus. Kat is pulling on the barn door. The hinge must be damaged; the door only gets halfway closed before the wind snatches it back. Cyn helps push while Kat gets the latch into place. They run for cover.
Binoculars just armed Miranda in the battle against boredom.
She puts them on the bed, digs t hrough the middle drawer for more treasure, strikes gold again. This time, a fat manila envelope full of photographs. They’re old and scratched, bent at the corners; mostly shots of the ocean, yachts, beach houses. The sorts of things wealthy people photograph.
The bottom drawer is mostly junk. A few more photos and a box of necklaces. She starts to shut it when she notices a leather-bound notebook, scuffed and tied with an elastic band, at the very bottom.
The pages are rough -cut. The script is beautifully written in blue ink. She flips the pages, captivated by the handwriting. The words are a work of art.
There’s no n ame inside the cover. The line on the first page reads:
They call this place the Fountain of Youth. I call it
Jen snatches a fuzzy sweater from the pile, holds it up to her chest. “Liz Claiborne. You like?”
“The fuzzy collar will drive you nuts,” Mad says.
“But what will the boys think?”
Mad’s laughter is punctuated with a snort. The first time she’s ever done that. Maybe only the third time she’s laughed.
There’s a stack of clothing next to Cyn’s bed. It’s like Santa brought sweatshirts and coats and balled up socks. On the bottom, thick and puffy, are tan coveralls.
“Those are yours,” Jen says. “We thought you could use them when you explore the countryside.”
“It’s cold out there,” Mad adds. “Plus, you’re not getting new boots.”
“Nothing’ s going to fit your paddles, Cyn,” Jen says. “Unless Miranda finds snowshoes.”
The girls laugh. Cyn joins them. She’s got wide feet for a girl.
Her body odor wafts out , permanently stained and eternally damp from the sheets. Cyn shucks her clothing, dropping each piece at the foot of the bed. Her soft, warm skin contracts in the frigid air.
“Whoa!” Mad hides her face. “Decency, girl!”
Kat stares, smiling. “ Panties in there. On the bottom.”
Cyn never thought she’d be e xcited about underwear, but denim has about rubbed her parts raw. She craves cotton. The fabric snugs against her hips, feel nice between her legs. She pulls a padded sports bra over her head and quickly puts a new Ralph Lauren on.
Lastly, she steps into the Carhartt coveralls. It’s all baggy , but so warm, so comforting, like a mother’s embrace. Exactly what she needs.
Thank you.
The stove throws orange light against the walls. Shadows stretch over the floor. Jen struts to the front door.
“You like?”
She’s wearing jeans cuffed at the bottom with sequins stapled to the outer seams and a cardigan that hangs to her knees. The girls clap. She stops at the front door and turns, lips pouty, and catwalks to the stove. Kat puts her fingers in her mouth and a whistle splits the bunkhouse.
“ Shut the hell up!” Roc flops over in bed.
They look at the lump in the corner bed and stifle their laughter.
“Let’s grab some breakfast,” Cyn says. “I’ll get the eggs.”
17
A gust of wind splashes against the window. The brick house creaks under the assault.
Miranda takes the sweet honeysuckle candle into the bedroom, to the left of the kitchen. Adagio for Strings plays in the front room. She sits at the desk and sorts through the tubes of lipstick and lotions, humming along with the music, imagining the conductor’s steely glare and fluid hands.
The upper desk drawer is full of office supplies. The second drawer is a mess of papers and envelopes. There’s a box at the bottom. She pulls an oversized pair of binoculars out of it.
Mighty powerful ones.
She steps to the window, lifts them to her eyes , and scrolls the middle dial. The wind harvester comes into focus. Kat is pulling on the barn door. The hinge must be damaged; the door only gets halfway closed before the wind snatches it back. Cyn helps push while Kat gets the latch into place. They run for cover.
Binoculars just armed Miranda in the battle against boredom.
She puts them on the bed, digs t hrough the middle drawer for more treasure, strikes gold again. This time, a fat manila envelope full of photographs. They’re old and scratched, bent at the corners; mostly shots of the ocean, yachts, beach houses. The sorts of things wealthy people photograph.
The bottom drawer is mostly junk. A few more photos and a box of necklaces. She starts to shut it when she notices a leather-bound notebook, scuffed and tied with an elastic band, at the very bottom.
The pages are rough -cut. The script is beautifully written in blue ink. She flips the pages, captivated by the handwriting. The words are a work of art.
There’s no n ame inside the cover. The line on the first page reads:
They call this place the Fountain of Youth. I call it
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