Read Online Gives Light(Gives Light Series) by Rose Christo - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rose Christo
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to the radio; Granny didn't have one, so we'd head back to his house and hole ourselves up in his room. The only station we ever agreed on was the country station. Sometimes I'd switch to jazz when he wasn't paying attention, just so he'd smack my shoulder and act disgusted. I liked it when he did that.
But he never wanted to stay inside for very long. He hated it; it made him act like a caged animal, more frantic than ever, until finally he'd snag my arm and drag me out of the house to find something else to do. I had never known anyone with so many moods. My own were pretty static by comparison; I think I've always been a mellow guy. It was exhilarating, somehow, being friends with someone so different from me. And it wasn't long before bumming around with Rafael became my favorite part of the day.
He showed me the windmills one day, great, spinning spires in a grassy field of their own just north of the farmland. We lay on the grass, dry and green, and he read to me from The Tempest .
"I like Caliban," he told me.
It didn't surprise me that his favorite character was the monster.
"He follows his nature. Like the elm and the elk. When you try to give order to nature, you get a bunch of boring Ferdinands." He added, gruffly, "Don't see why Miranda likes Ferdinand so much."
I gave him a placating, sleepy smile. I didn't understand half the things girls did, but I knew better than to question them.
At dinner, too, he'd drag me away from the bonfire, insistent, and we'd sit by the lake and talk, the moon high overhead and full and bright on the surface of the argent water. Sometimes I wondered whether it bothered Rafael that he was doing all the talking. On the other hand, Rafael sure had a lot to say. No one would have looked at him and pegged him for a chatty guy--not when he was scowling and skulking in the shadows--but he had an opinion on everything, absolutely everything, under the sun. Like turbines and mouthwash and hardtack. How do you have an opinion on hardtack? The more he talked, the more I listened. The more I listened, the more I forgot that I wasn't talking back. I could scratch my chin or quirk my eyebrows or tilt my head and he knew exactly what the gesture meant. He knew what I was feeling, if not what I was thinking. He made me feel like I had a voice.
Then, one day, he actually gave me one.
He had wanted to show me the badlands from an inside perspective, but because I wouldn't go hunting with him, he'd had a hard time finding an occasion for it. When it started to rain lightly one afternoon--and a good thing, because the land really needed it--he loaded us up with peppermint tea and led me out to the canyons. We climbed down a grassy gulch, Rafael's hand on my arm to steady me; I didn't have his experience with the rough terrain, and underneath his own rough exterior, I suspect he was concerned. Up close I saw that the grass was sparse and dry. I wondered how the half-dead vegetation sustained any animal life even as Rafael stopped and pointed out a prairie dog burrowing beneath the clay. He was still watching after the prairie dog when I spotted something small and pitiful lying on the ground, not yards away from our feet. Alarmed, I grabbed Rafael's elbow.
"What?" He followed my gaze and frowned. He drew a couple of inches closer to the creature, but stopped short.
"It's a falcon fledgling," he said.
I didn't know exactly what "fledgling" meant at the time, but I could see that the bird, soft and pudgy and gray, was only a baby. I jostled Rafael's arm. I didn't mean to annoy him--he didn't look annoyed--but what if the bird was still alive? Wasn't there any way we could return it to its nest?
Rafael shook his head; I caught a glimpse of the iron earring dangling from his right ear. "Falcons don't build nests. There's no way to tell where it came from. Just wait for its
But he never wanted to stay inside for very long. He hated it; it made him act like a caged animal, more frantic than ever, until finally he'd snag my arm and drag me out of the house to find something else to do. I had never known anyone with so many moods. My own were pretty static by comparison; I think I've always been a mellow guy. It was exhilarating, somehow, being friends with someone so different from me. And it wasn't long before bumming around with Rafael became my favorite part of the day.
He showed me the windmills one day, great, spinning spires in a grassy field of their own just north of the farmland. We lay on the grass, dry and green, and he read to me from The Tempest .
"I like Caliban," he told me.
It didn't surprise me that his favorite character was the monster.
"He follows his nature. Like the elm and the elk. When you try to give order to nature, you get a bunch of boring Ferdinands." He added, gruffly, "Don't see why Miranda likes Ferdinand so much."
I gave him a placating, sleepy smile. I didn't understand half the things girls did, but I knew better than to question them.
At dinner, too, he'd drag me away from the bonfire, insistent, and we'd sit by the lake and talk, the moon high overhead and full and bright on the surface of the argent water. Sometimes I wondered whether it bothered Rafael that he was doing all the talking. On the other hand, Rafael sure had a lot to say. No one would have looked at him and pegged him for a chatty guy--not when he was scowling and skulking in the shadows--but he had an opinion on everything, absolutely everything, under the sun. Like turbines and mouthwash and hardtack. How do you have an opinion on hardtack? The more he talked, the more I listened. The more I listened, the more I forgot that I wasn't talking back. I could scratch my chin or quirk my eyebrows or tilt my head and he knew exactly what the gesture meant. He knew what I was feeling, if not what I was thinking. He made me feel like I had a voice.
Then, one day, he actually gave me one.
He had wanted to show me the badlands from an inside perspective, but because I wouldn't go hunting with him, he'd had a hard time finding an occasion for it. When it started to rain lightly one afternoon--and a good thing, because the land really needed it--he loaded us up with peppermint tea and led me out to the canyons. We climbed down a grassy gulch, Rafael's hand on my arm to steady me; I didn't have his experience with the rough terrain, and underneath his own rough exterior, I suspect he was concerned. Up close I saw that the grass was sparse and dry. I wondered how the half-dead vegetation sustained any animal life even as Rafael stopped and pointed out a prairie dog burrowing beneath the clay. He was still watching after the prairie dog when I spotted something small and pitiful lying on the ground, not yards away from our feet. Alarmed, I grabbed Rafael's elbow.
"What?" He followed my gaze and frowned. He drew a couple of inches closer to the creature, but stopped short.
"It's a falcon fledgling," he said.
I didn't know exactly what "fledgling" meant at the time, but I could see that the bird, soft and pudgy and gray, was only a baby. I jostled Rafael's arm. I didn't mean to annoy him--he didn't look annoyed--but what if the bird was still alive? Wasn't there any way we could return it to its nest?
Rafael shook his head; I caught a glimpse of the iron earring dangling from his right ear. "Falcons don't build nests. There's no way to tell where it came from. Just wait for its
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