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Authors: Sarah Maria Griffin
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itself by. White heat curls behind your eyes. Tick, tick, tick .
âCould youââOliver turns to youââdo that a little more quietly? Iâm almost there. Iâm trying to concentrate.â
And just like that, the spark of irritation catches flame.
âDo that a little more quietly?â you snap. You stand up, and your chair clatters to the tiles. âWhat? Exist? Exist more quietly? This is my home, Oliver, and you canât just tell me to exist quietly in my home. Why are you even here? Why are you even allowed to study with me? You should be back in the morgue, poking away at dead people and minding your own business!â You throw your goggles down and you canât even look at your father and youâre out of the room, giving the stupid chair one last good kick as you go. You are a tempest, ticking faster and louder and louder as you storm toward the stairs.
Each step is a protest; you take each one hard, trying to shake the whole damn house. Stupid . . . Oliver . . . Kelly.
The kitchen door clicks closed.
âPenelope.â
Your father stands at the bottom of the stairs, armscrossed sternly over his starchy lab coat, goggles pushing back his wild black hair. You turn to him, trying to make yourself bigger, more fierce.
âWhat?â you ask, but any sass you were trying to muster fizzles out under hot tears of frustration and that ugly weak thing crying does to your throat.
âThat was quite a display.â
You want to say, âYou think?â but know already that itâll come out ugly and warped. You want to tell him youâre not crying because youâre sad but because youâre angry. Really angry. Instead, you just sniff and wipe your face indignantly.
âLook. I know you donât like this. And me telling you itâll get easier as you get older isnât what you want to hear. But itâs one day a week. Iâm asking you to pull up your bootstraps, kiddo.â
His voice is stern, with hard, pleading edges that make the tears come even hotter and even faster. You donât have any choice with him when he talks like this. You want your ma, to put your head on Maâs shoulder. You want the smell of her hair and skin. You have none of that. Just a flight of stairs and your exhausted father and Oliver Kelly sitting in the kitchen.
âBut why? Why is he here?â you sob, stamping your foot.
âI owe his mother a favor. We owe her a favor.â
A favor! What favor is worth this? You have never taken anything off either of the Mrs. Kellys. What is worth letting someone else into your apprenticeship even one day a week? What do the florist and the undertaker even have to give your family?
âPlease try to like him. At least tolerate him. Then see what happens.â
Your fatherâs voice is all soft now, all well done, girl. You canât say no to him like this, when that particular desperation hangs on the edge of his tone; how easily it disappears once he has his way, once you do what youâre told.
âFine,â you manage, defeated.
Itâs not fair. Itâs not fine. But Oliver Kelly isnât going anywhere.
CHAPTER 9
T he undertakerâs son flashed her a wolfish grin. âHowâs it going, Nell? Iâll take one of those, too, Anto, thank you.â
The barkeep nodded and took off, her beauty gracing the other end of the bar. Oliver Kelly sat down on the stool beside Nell. She kept her eyes on the swaying of the dance floor and tried to look as if she were more interested in that than in the spindly young man who had just imposed himself, as usual, on her evening.
Oliver was taller than Nell, and thinner. His skin was a little lighter than Nellâs, and he had a bloom of freckles over his nose. He had teeth that looked too sharp and eyes that were too big in his head, too blue. His hair was black and curly and coiffed in a pompadour. He was all narrow monochrome, black
âCould youââOliver turns to youââdo that a little more quietly? Iâm almost there. Iâm trying to concentrate.â
And just like that, the spark of irritation catches flame.
âDo that a little more quietly?â you snap. You stand up, and your chair clatters to the tiles. âWhat? Exist? Exist more quietly? This is my home, Oliver, and you canât just tell me to exist quietly in my home. Why are you even here? Why are you even allowed to study with me? You should be back in the morgue, poking away at dead people and minding your own business!â You throw your goggles down and you canât even look at your father and youâre out of the room, giving the stupid chair one last good kick as you go. You are a tempest, ticking faster and louder and louder as you storm toward the stairs.
Each step is a protest; you take each one hard, trying to shake the whole damn house. Stupid . . . Oliver . . . Kelly.
The kitchen door clicks closed.
âPenelope.â
Your father stands at the bottom of the stairs, armscrossed sternly over his starchy lab coat, goggles pushing back his wild black hair. You turn to him, trying to make yourself bigger, more fierce.
âWhat?â you ask, but any sass you were trying to muster fizzles out under hot tears of frustration and that ugly weak thing crying does to your throat.
âThat was quite a display.â
You want to say, âYou think?â but know already that itâll come out ugly and warped. You want to tell him youâre not crying because youâre sad but because youâre angry. Really angry. Instead, you just sniff and wipe your face indignantly.
âLook. I know you donât like this. And me telling you itâll get easier as you get older isnât what you want to hear. But itâs one day a week. Iâm asking you to pull up your bootstraps, kiddo.â
His voice is stern, with hard, pleading edges that make the tears come even hotter and even faster. You donât have any choice with him when he talks like this. You want your ma, to put your head on Maâs shoulder. You want the smell of her hair and skin. You have none of that. Just a flight of stairs and your exhausted father and Oliver Kelly sitting in the kitchen.
âBut why? Why is he here?â you sob, stamping your foot.
âI owe his mother a favor. We owe her a favor.â
A favor! What favor is worth this? You have never taken anything off either of the Mrs. Kellys. What is worth letting someone else into your apprenticeship even one day a week? What do the florist and the undertaker even have to give your family?
âPlease try to like him. At least tolerate him. Then see what happens.â
Your fatherâs voice is all soft now, all well done, girl. You canât say no to him like this, when that particular desperation hangs on the edge of his tone; how easily it disappears once he has his way, once you do what youâre told.
âFine,â you manage, defeated.
Itâs not fair. Itâs not fine. But Oliver Kelly isnât going anywhere.
CHAPTER 9
T he undertakerâs son flashed her a wolfish grin. âHowâs it going, Nell? Iâll take one of those, too, Anto, thank you.â
The barkeep nodded and took off, her beauty gracing the other end of the bar. Oliver Kelly sat down on the stool beside Nell. She kept her eyes on the swaying of the dance floor and tried to look as if she were more interested in that than in the spindly young man who had just imposed himself, as usual, on her evening.
Oliver was taller than Nell, and thinner. His skin was a little lighter than Nellâs, and he had a bloom of freckles over his nose. He had teeth that looked too sharp and eyes that were too big in his head, too blue. His hair was black and curly and coiffed in a pompadour. He was all narrow monochrome, black
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