Read Online Kiss the Morning Star by Elissa Janine Hoole - Free Book Online
Authors: Elissa Janine Hoole
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my hands with straightening out an invisible wrinkle. “You don’t have to be sorry. I mean, I cry all the time.” There’s more I want to say—the words rise up in my mouth but remain trapped there, sticky with shame and shyness.
Kat flops onto the bed, sliding down right on top of the newly smoothed surface and staring blankly at the ceiling. “That’s not what I meant, not really.”
She waits, and I know what I should do, what a normal person would do. I try to reach for her, but my face burns, my arms are stiff and heavy at my sides. I look at Katy lying there, and I’m lost, utterly lost.
“I guess it’s complicated,” she says. “It always has been.”
What is she talking about? Irrational anger—a flash fire of something bewildering and stupid—ignites in the pit of my stomach and travels up my spine like the mercury in a thermometer.
“Get off the bed! You’re messing it all up.” I grab her arms to pull her up, off the bed, but Kat fights back, wrestling to free her wrists from my grip.
The anger of a moment ago twists within me, transforming into panic.
“Get up! I want…I want to leave, okay?” I can feel her trying to trap me here.
We’re almost really fighting now; I try to drag her up off the bed, and Kat struggles to escape me. We push and pull, equals in strength, grappling like children on the playground.
She lands a kick, a sharp pain in my right shin, and then she sweeps my feet right out from under me. I fall in an awkward snarl on the bed, flailing around like a cat dropped into the bathtub. Damn it, I’m not going to Mexico. She can’t make me. I push her, crowding her toward the edge of the bed. Katy rolls and pins me, a knee on my chest.
I’m trapped. I try to stuff this strange panic down. “Let’s get out of this place!” I can hardly breathe. “Let’s just get the hell away from this creepy family!” My voice has that hysterical lilt to it, and it shames me almost instantly.
“Uh-m.” An awkward throat-clearing sound comes from behind us, and I turn to see Pastor Shepherd standing in the doorway. “Pardon me, ladies, I just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget this.” He holds up the atlas that we were looking at over breakfast. “In your haste to leave.” He smiles.
We’re frozen in a scandalous tangle of arms and legs, sprawled across the ruined bed. Neither of us can move, and likewise, Pastor Shepherd seems similarly stuck, holding out the atlas with a sort of half-horrified, half-rueful look on his face. I want to disappear, or worse than that. I want to be vaporized , like in some goofy science fiction movie—every bit of who I am blasted irrevocably into subatomic particles.
“Can I pack you girls a lunch?” Angela Shepherd’s sweet face peers around the door frame. She takes the atlas from her husband’s hand and bustles over to the edge of the bed, where Kat has placed her satchel. “Wouldn’t want you to leave us with an empty stomach,” she says, oblivious to the tension in the room, which dissolves in her presence like a sugar cube stirred into a steaming cup of tea.
The anger—the shame, the fear— it vaporizes instead of me, and I giggle, helplessly, tears streaming down my face. Hysteria squared. Of course it’s contagious. Before long, Kat and I are rolling with peals of laughter.
“Lunch. Awesome,” says Kat at last, when she can breathe. “And then we’re off!”
I look around, but Pastor Shepherd has disappeared, and even though it might be ungrateful to think this way, I’m not sorry to see him gone.
We spend the next few nights at a campground in the Black Hills, where Kat discovers she is a pretty kickass cook on a campfire. I discover that the pine trees smell like vanilla and the squirrels are vicious.
My father sends me two texts in a row, unprecedented communication skills. The first one is sort of cryptic: Returning to church is a journey. The second message encourages us to visit Mount
Kat flops onto the bed, sliding down right on top of the newly smoothed surface and staring blankly at the ceiling. “That’s not what I meant, not really.”
She waits, and I know what I should do, what a normal person would do. I try to reach for her, but my face burns, my arms are stiff and heavy at my sides. I look at Katy lying there, and I’m lost, utterly lost.
“I guess it’s complicated,” she says. “It always has been.”
What is she talking about? Irrational anger—a flash fire of something bewildering and stupid—ignites in the pit of my stomach and travels up my spine like the mercury in a thermometer.
“Get off the bed! You’re messing it all up.” I grab her arms to pull her up, off the bed, but Kat fights back, wrestling to free her wrists from my grip.
The anger of a moment ago twists within me, transforming into panic.
“Get up! I want…I want to leave, okay?” I can feel her trying to trap me here.
We’re almost really fighting now; I try to drag her up off the bed, and Kat struggles to escape me. We push and pull, equals in strength, grappling like children on the playground.
She lands a kick, a sharp pain in my right shin, and then she sweeps my feet right out from under me. I fall in an awkward snarl on the bed, flailing around like a cat dropped into the bathtub. Damn it, I’m not going to Mexico. She can’t make me. I push her, crowding her toward the edge of the bed. Katy rolls and pins me, a knee on my chest.
I’m trapped. I try to stuff this strange panic down. “Let’s get out of this place!” I can hardly breathe. “Let’s just get the hell away from this creepy family!” My voice has that hysterical lilt to it, and it shames me almost instantly.
“Uh-m.” An awkward throat-clearing sound comes from behind us, and I turn to see Pastor Shepherd standing in the doorway. “Pardon me, ladies, I just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget this.” He holds up the atlas that we were looking at over breakfast. “In your haste to leave.” He smiles.
We’re frozen in a scandalous tangle of arms and legs, sprawled across the ruined bed. Neither of us can move, and likewise, Pastor Shepherd seems similarly stuck, holding out the atlas with a sort of half-horrified, half-rueful look on his face. I want to disappear, or worse than that. I want to be vaporized , like in some goofy science fiction movie—every bit of who I am blasted irrevocably into subatomic particles.
“Can I pack you girls a lunch?” Angela Shepherd’s sweet face peers around the door frame. She takes the atlas from her husband’s hand and bustles over to the edge of the bed, where Kat has placed her satchel. “Wouldn’t want you to leave us with an empty stomach,” she says, oblivious to the tension in the room, which dissolves in her presence like a sugar cube stirred into a steaming cup of tea.
The anger—the shame, the fear— it vaporizes instead of me, and I giggle, helplessly, tears streaming down my face. Hysteria squared. Of course it’s contagious. Before long, Kat and I are rolling with peals of laughter.
“Lunch. Awesome,” says Kat at last, when she can breathe. “And then we’re off!”
I look around, but Pastor Shepherd has disappeared, and even though it might be ungrateful to think this way, I’m not sorry to see him gone.
We spend the next few nights at a campground in the Black Hills, where Kat discovers she is a pretty kickass cook on a campfire. I discover that the pine trees smell like vanilla and the squirrels are vicious.
My father sends me two texts in a row, unprecedented communication skills. The first one is sort of cryptic: Returning to church is a journey. The second message encourages us to visit Mount
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