Read Online Illyria by Elizabeth Hand - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Hand
Tags: Fiction, Juvenile Fiction, Children's Books - Young Adult Fiction, Cousins, Children: Young Adult (Gr. 10-12), Social Issues, Interpersonal relations, Theater, Performing Arts, Love & Romance, incest, Adolescence, Social Issues - Adolescence, Performing Arts - Theater
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dies! It's depressing."
Mr. Sullivan tipped his head. "Good point. But you still have to read them."
"Why?" Rogan stared at him challengingly, almost belligerently. "Can you give me one good goddamn reason why?"
"Enough" snapped Mr. Sullivan. "Everyone, get out your copies of The Diary of Anne Frank!'
Rogan's defiance bled into our trips to the city as well. We were with Aunt Kate on the train back home after seeing The Country Wife. Aunt Kate was seated, reading The New Yorker. Rogan and I were goofing around, swinging on the poles by the train doors. As the train approached the 125th Street Station, a small group of people gathered around us, waiting to get out.
The train stopped. The little crowd stepped out onto the platform.
So did Rogan.
I gaped in disbelief. He took a step backward, grinning broadly, and as the doors closed gave me a little wave and mouthed Bye-bye. "Holy shit," I said.
61
The train pulled out of the station. Aunt Kate looked up, eyebrows raised. "What?"
"Rogan." I pointed uselessly at the platform disappearing behind us. He--
I collapsed, laughing hysterically, onto the floor of the train.
Aunt Kate was not amused. "That brainless idiot," she fumed, nostrils white with rage. "Getting off in Harlem in the middle of the night?
"It's only eleven," I protested. She looked daggers at me. "Don't you say a word. Did you put him up to it?"
"No!"
At the next stop she dragged me from the train onto the platform. We waited, hardly speaking, for the next southbound train. It was a short distance between Melrose and 125th Street, but there were few trains that late at night. I began to grow anxious.
"Should we call the police?" I asked.
"And say what? That there's a white boy wandering around Harlem?"
By the time we got a train and it stopped at 125th Street, nearly an hour had passed. Aunt Kate grabbed me again and yanked me onto the platform.
There, sitting sheepishly on a bench, was Rogan. Beside him sat a tall black woman, dressed as elegantly as my aunt, her hands crossed resolutely on one knee as she stared straight ahead. I couldn't tell if she was a young woman whose hair had turned prematurely white, or an old woman who had drunk from the same Fountain of Youth as Aunt Kate.
62
As my aunt approached her, the woman stood. "I take it this is your young man?" Aunt Kate nodded. "I found him roaming the street like a chicken with its head cut off."
The woman gave Rogan a severe look, then lightly cuffed his long red hair. "Better for him if that was cut off. He said he was interested in the night life."
She and Aunt Kate regarded each other measuringly. I felt the same jaw-dropping disbelief as when Rogan had stepped from the carriage: this woman and my aunt knew each other.
But then a voice boomed across the platform, announcing the arrival of the next northbound train.
"Thank you very much," said Aunt Kate. She nodded respectfully.
"I'm just glad I happened by," the woman said. She waited until the train stopped at the platform, smiled, and left.
Aunt Kate pointed at Rogan. "You. Stand up and get on that train. No more nonsense."
"Did you see anything?" I whispered to Rogan as the train pulled away.
"Not really. A little." He turned to stare longingly at the streets below us, desolate and windswept, a few solitary figures hurrying along the sidewalk. "It was cool. Next time I'm staying."
The announcement for the school play went up the following Monday. Rogan and I were walking down the hall, when we saw a few people gathered in front of the bulletin board outside the English Department.
"Bad news, bro," someone said to Rogan. "It's not a musical." I glanced at Rogan. His jaw tightened, his face froze into a mask
63
of resignation and suppressed anger so intense that, without thinking, I touched his arm. He shrugged me off and pushed through the group to look at the audition sheet.
St. Brendan's Sock & Buskin Club
Annual Play Tryouts for TWELFTH NIGHT, or What You Will by
Mr. Sullivan tipped his head. "Good point. But you still have to read them."
"Why?" Rogan stared at him challengingly, almost belligerently. "Can you give me one good goddamn reason why?"
"Enough" snapped Mr. Sullivan. "Everyone, get out your copies of The Diary of Anne Frank!'
Rogan's defiance bled into our trips to the city as well. We were with Aunt Kate on the train back home after seeing The Country Wife. Aunt Kate was seated, reading The New Yorker. Rogan and I were goofing around, swinging on the poles by the train doors. As the train approached the 125th Street Station, a small group of people gathered around us, waiting to get out.
The train stopped. The little crowd stepped out onto the platform.
So did Rogan.
I gaped in disbelief. He took a step backward, grinning broadly, and as the doors closed gave me a little wave and mouthed Bye-bye. "Holy shit," I said.
61
The train pulled out of the station. Aunt Kate looked up, eyebrows raised. "What?"
"Rogan." I pointed uselessly at the platform disappearing behind us. He--
I collapsed, laughing hysterically, onto the floor of the train.
Aunt Kate was not amused. "That brainless idiot," she fumed, nostrils white with rage. "Getting off in Harlem in the middle of the night?
"It's only eleven," I protested. She looked daggers at me. "Don't you say a word. Did you put him up to it?"
"No!"
At the next stop she dragged me from the train onto the platform. We waited, hardly speaking, for the next southbound train. It was a short distance between Melrose and 125th Street, but there were few trains that late at night. I began to grow anxious.
"Should we call the police?" I asked.
"And say what? That there's a white boy wandering around Harlem?"
By the time we got a train and it stopped at 125th Street, nearly an hour had passed. Aunt Kate grabbed me again and yanked me onto the platform.
There, sitting sheepishly on a bench, was Rogan. Beside him sat a tall black woman, dressed as elegantly as my aunt, her hands crossed resolutely on one knee as she stared straight ahead. I couldn't tell if she was a young woman whose hair had turned prematurely white, or an old woman who had drunk from the same Fountain of Youth as Aunt Kate.
62
As my aunt approached her, the woman stood. "I take it this is your young man?" Aunt Kate nodded. "I found him roaming the street like a chicken with its head cut off."
The woman gave Rogan a severe look, then lightly cuffed his long red hair. "Better for him if that was cut off. He said he was interested in the night life."
She and Aunt Kate regarded each other measuringly. I felt the same jaw-dropping disbelief as when Rogan had stepped from the carriage: this woman and my aunt knew each other.
But then a voice boomed across the platform, announcing the arrival of the next northbound train.
"Thank you very much," said Aunt Kate. She nodded respectfully.
"I'm just glad I happened by," the woman said. She waited until the train stopped at the platform, smiled, and left.
Aunt Kate pointed at Rogan. "You. Stand up and get on that train. No more nonsense."
"Did you see anything?" I whispered to Rogan as the train pulled away.
"Not really. A little." He turned to stare longingly at the streets below us, desolate and windswept, a few solitary figures hurrying along the sidewalk. "It was cool. Next time I'm staying."
The announcement for the school play went up the following Monday. Rogan and I were walking down the hall, when we saw a few people gathered in front of the bulletin board outside the English Department.
"Bad news, bro," someone said to Rogan. "It's not a musical." I glanced at Rogan. His jaw tightened, his face froze into a mask
63
of resignation and suppressed anger so intense that, without thinking, I touched his arm. He shrugged me off and pushed through the group to look at the audition sheet.
St. Brendan's Sock & Buskin Club
Annual Play Tryouts for TWELFTH NIGHT, or What You Will by
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