Read Online Glimmer by Phoebe Kitanidis - Free Book Online Page B

existence—I’m getting used to that treatment around here—but the man turns his head and winks at me. Weird. He stands directly in front of the poster, as if he wants to become one with it, but I can still see a smiling white couple in the foreground. When I say white, I mean really white: the woman blond with a bright white face, the man with his blindingly white arm around hers. I read enough of the words at the bottom to guess that it says something like: “Turn your frown upside down with a holiday in Summer Falls!”
    The British guy whistles. “Pristine condition too. Hundred bucks is a steal.” He pulls out a brown battered wallet. I have a sudden sad feeling for him. How much of his paycheck does that hundred dollars represent?
    “I’m surprised you’d want it, Mr.—”
    “Joe, please.”
    “Why, your people aren’t even from here, yet you care so much about our history.”
    “History’s my one true love, Bette. Or maybe just my longest successful relationship.”
    Bette clucks with pity. “I know how you feel, but don’t sell yourself short. You could meet a lovely girl right here in Summer F—” She gasps, and I see why. Right in front of her, the man started rolling up the poster, calmly and deliberately, a smile on his face. The antique poster he hasn’t yet paid for. “Mr. English. Oh dear.”
    He reaches over and pats her sloped shoulder. “Bette Hinklebeck, you’re the ugliest woman I’ve ever seen, and you talk too much. That’s why Floyd Johnston dropped you for Myrtle Kessler in 1946.”
    WTF? Talk about cruel, telling a sweet old lady she’s ugly and talks too much? Worse, did he just throw an ancient breakup—one she must have told him about in confidence—in her face?
    “Oh dear, oh dear.” Poor Bette’s hand flies to her heart, and her eyes flutter. Her mouth opens, and she clatters to the ground behind the counter, shaking every hundred-year-old plate and glass on her shelves. Another heatnap?
    He’s just finished stuffing the poster in his briefcase when she groans and stands up again. “Oh, hello, Mr. English—”
    “Joe,” he says again, with perfect patience. “Please, keep the change.”
    “Change?” She glances over at the cash register, confused. “So sorry, I must have had a moment. Thank you.”
    “Pleasure’s mine.”
    Whoa. This guy has some nerve. On top of insulting her, not that she seems to remember—just like the Bishops after their heatnap—he just shoplifted a poster from her by pretending he’d already paid.
    And it worked too.
    When did he first figure out he could do that? Does he pay for anything in this town?
    I hustle out the door, but he catches up with me on the street.
    “Hey, where were you yesterday?”
    Yesterday. This guy knew me yesterday. I turn to face him, not wanting to waste this opportunity to learn more. But at the same time, I don’t want to let on how helpless I am. Especially not to this sadist. “Sorry.” I stall. “I wasn’t feeling well?” I say, hoping it’ll work as a catchall excuse.
    “Please, I’m not talking about your missing the history test.” He snorts. “Like I’d ever fail you. Do me a favor and don’t start giving a damn about school all of a sudden—it’s unnerving.” Whoa, he’s my teacher? A teacher who doesn’t want me to care about school? Why won’t he fail me . . . are we friends?
    “You know, you can tell me if you’ve changed your mind,” he says, leaning in. Behind his Coke-bottle glasses, his owl eyes sparkle with concern. “I’d understand.”
    I can’t fake my way through this. “Understand about what?”
    “What do you mean about what?” He lowers his voice. “Your mother’s work, what else? Her notes.”
    “Right.” Mentally I’m taking down his every word, because all of it’s new information. New and intriguing too.
    “Do you have them?”
    “Not . . . not with me.” Technically not a lie.
    “Meet me tomorrow after school at Mollie’s,” Joe