Read Online She Dims the Stars by Amber L. Johnson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Amber L. Johnson
Ads: Link
percent sure she’s about to call the police.
Nags Head beach stretches out to my right, and the long pier extends into the waves on my left. Cline is out somewhere in town getting food, and Audrey sits between a couple of dunes as the sun begins to set in the sky The salt water carries in the wind, and I can feel it start to clump in my hair as I walk the edge of the shoreline, waiting.
I just have no idea what I’m waiting for.
She came tearing out of Ruth’s backyard, screaming for us to drive like she was in some kind of bank heist and had half a million dollars’ worth of jewels in her possession. The pure excitement and fear on her face made my heart slam into my sternum, and Cline started swearing, and then, suddenly, she was in the car and the front door was open, and there was yelling and I was driving. Tires squealing. I slammed my head into the top of the car. Cline went flying across the backseat and almost into the back of the Xterra. But all the while, Audrey just held onto the oh-shit handle, a huge smile on her face, and her other arm gripping onto an old bag full of what I now know is a bunch of journals and pictures of her mom.
She’s been in the dunes for over an hour looking through them, and while she’s calmed down, she hasn’t spoken at all, and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to approach her or not. This is what we came for. We figured the beach was the best place to go, so we headed that way, and I’ve been on the edge of the water ever since, hoping the cops don’t show up. They haven’t yet.
Audrey’s face is downcast, partly hidden behind the tall grasses in the dunes and the shadows that are starting to form as the sun sets. Her skin glows orange from the distant burning of the last rays of the sun, and I take in her posture as she sits cross legged and shoeless in the sand. Her long black skirt is bunched up over her knees and covered in soft white sand, her teal v-neck t-shirt hangs open as she reads over the books scattered around her. I’ve walked closer and am staring, like I do. It’s a thing my mom says I’ve done my entire life: I’m a people watcher.
It’s probably why I’m good at making molds and creatures, characters and profiles for games. I catch the subtle things about people that others might just overlook or discount. I store them away, because the little things are what make up the whole of a person.
This girl pulls at her clothes unconsciously, especially around her stomach, like she’s never exactly comfortable in her own skin. She’s wearing a bracelet made of soda can tops and elastic today, and as she reads, she alternates between tucking her hair behind her ears and fussing with the aluminum against her skin. She’s always moving.
“Hey, girl,” I say as I approach and watch her jump slightly, her head rolling upward to acknowledge me. “Are you from Tennessee?”
She laughs and shakes her head, then closes the journal in her lap and stretches her legs out, letting her skirt fold down a little as she points her toes out. She pats the sand next to her and then wipes her hands off on her knees. “Am I the only ten you see, Elliot?”
“Damnit, you beat me to it.” I sit down next to her and pull my knees to my chest, resting my arms on top of them as I gaze out at the ocean and the last remnants of the sunset.
“There aren’t that many girls on the beach tonight, so I don’t have much competition anyway,” she says with a laugh. Her posture straightens and she holds up the book. “My mom was a badass, Elliot. These first diaries, or whatever, were from when she was super young, like, grade school and middle school. So they’re mostly about friends and stupid shit. A few mentions of Ruth and her being too strict. Nothing really important. But then I got to these …”
I turn to look at the ones she’s pointing to, and she runs her hand over the top of the stack. There are four full journals in the sand and another in
Nags Head beach stretches out to my right, and the long pier extends into the waves on my left. Cline is out somewhere in town getting food, and Audrey sits between a couple of dunes as the sun begins to set in the sky The salt water carries in the wind, and I can feel it start to clump in my hair as I walk the edge of the shoreline, waiting.
I just have no idea what I’m waiting for.
She came tearing out of Ruth’s backyard, screaming for us to drive like she was in some kind of bank heist and had half a million dollars’ worth of jewels in her possession. The pure excitement and fear on her face made my heart slam into my sternum, and Cline started swearing, and then, suddenly, she was in the car and the front door was open, and there was yelling and I was driving. Tires squealing. I slammed my head into the top of the car. Cline went flying across the backseat and almost into the back of the Xterra. But all the while, Audrey just held onto the oh-shit handle, a huge smile on her face, and her other arm gripping onto an old bag full of what I now know is a bunch of journals and pictures of her mom.
She’s been in the dunes for over an hour looking through them, and while she’s calmed down, she hasn’t spoken at all, and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to approach her or not. This is what we came for. We figured the beach was the best place to go, so we headed that way, and I’ve been on the edge of the water ever since, hoping the cops don’t show up. They haven’t yet.
Audrey’s face is downcast, partly hidden behind the tall grasses in the dunes and the shadows that are starting to form as the sun sets. Her skin glows orange from the distant burning of the last rays of the sun, and I take in her posture as she sits cross legged and shoeless in the sand. Her long black skirt is bunched up over her knees and covered in soft white sand, her teal v-neck t-shirt hangs open as she reads over the books scattered around her. I’ve walked closer and am staring, like I do. It’s a thing my mom says I’ve done my entire life: I’m a people watcher.
It’s probably why I’m good at making molds and creatures, characters and profiles for games. I catch the subtle things about people that others might just overlook or discount. I store them away, because the little things are what make up the whole of a person.
This girl pulls at her clothes unconsciously, especially around her stomach, like she’s never exactly comfortable in her own skin. She’s wearing a bracelet made of soda can tops and elastic today, and as she reads, she alternates between tucking her hair behind her ears and fussing with the aluminum against her skin. She’s always moving.
“Hey, girl,” I say as I approach and watch her jump slightly, her head rolling upward to acknowledge me. “Are you from Tennessee?”
She laughs and shakes her head, then closes the journal in her lap and stretches her legs out, letting her skirt fold down a little as she points her toes out. She pats the sand next to her and then wipes her hands off on her knees. “Am I the only ten you see, Elliot?”
“Damnit, you beat me to it.” I sit down next to her and pull my knees to my chest, resting my arms on top of them as I gaze out at the ocean and the last remnants of the sunset.
“There aren’t that many girls on the beach tonight, so I don’t have much competition anyway,” she says with a laugh. Her posture straightens and she holds up the book. “My mom was a badass, Elliot. These first diaries, or whatever, were from when she was super young, like, grade school and middle school. So they’re mostly about friends and stupid shit. A few mentions of Ruth and her being too strict. Nothing really important. But then I got to these …”
I turn to look at the ones she’s pointing to, and she runs her hand over the top of the stack. There are four full journals in the sand and another in
Similar Books
