Read Online The Anatomy of Wings by Karen Foxlee - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karen Foxlee
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motionless. It was so hot that nothing stirred. All of the birds rested, hidden. The only noise was the sound of cicadas humming. A mirage wobbled over the pink pavement of the crossing.
Freckled Tony had picked his way across the rocks toward us; his whole shape rippled in the heat. Both sides knew what was to happen next. They knew it without words. It was written, already, into the hot still day.
“Go on,” Tony said to Beth. “We know you won't.”
“She won't,” said Miranda. “I know her.”
“Come with me,” said Beth.
I got up off the bank. I started to put my flip-flops on.
“Hurry up,” she said.
Tony laughed. Miranda looked at him with half-closed black eyes.
“Do you want me to come?” she asked.
“No,” said Beth.
Marco was waiting off the sand track. His trail bike was on its side. The scent of eucalyptus rose with each of our footsteps.
“Wait here,” said Beth.
She took me by the shoulders and placed me against a tree.
She walked across the trail, not looking left or right, walked right up to the crow-haired boy and kissed him on the lips. He was taller than her by a head. She had to stand on her toes.
When she stopped kissing him his hand went to her waist to pull her back. The sun beat down on us. The day quivered. The sky was as deep as an ocean. We breathed underwater. I lifted my hand to brush my hair from my eyes and it ached. The cicadas dropped a note. Beth moved backward, away from his hand. She turned toward where I was standing.
“Wait,” he said.
He said it loud, his first word.
Beth kept walking.
“Come on,” she said, taking me by the shoulder.
She held on to my shoulder the whole way down the bank. It was only once we were across the creek and into the shade that the day took a deep breath again.
After the kiss some of it still sparkled in the air around her.
I thought I was the only person who could see it but then Mr. Murray, who was watering his lawn, called out. He was standing in the shade of his yellow cassia tree.
It wasn't the scary Mr. Murray, who sometimes had pee stains down his trouser leg and sat all day on his patio drinking from brown bottles. Mum said we should never go near him. It was the nicer Mr. Murray, with the broken front tooth and the purple nose, who Mum said we could talk to from a distance.
The nicer Mr. Murray always asked questions that had no real answer: Tell me what you know? How long is a piece of string? What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?
“Breaking hearts yet?” he asked Beth from among the yellow bells when we were on his footpath. His face was spotted with light and shade.
Beth stopped and put her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun.
She smiled, one of her best saved-up smiles.
“No,” she said.
She had less than one year to live.
I didn't go to Nanna's flat until after school started. I rode to all four corners of the town but avoided her street. I entered each court in Memorial South, looping round each dead end like a small boat into a bay and out again. Up and down the long straight streets of Memorial East, where the rows of baby-blue houses faced the highway in regimental lines. Into Memorial North, stained, kneeling at the foot of themine beneath the smelter stacks, the workshops, the slag heaps, where the hills rose higher than anywhere else in the town, blackened, birdless, stripped of every tree.
I was looking for something but I didn't know what. I rode up and down the street before Nanna's. I rode past the end of Nanna's street. I saw her Datsun Sunny, which smelled of Craven “A”s and Yardley's lavender. Everywhere on its floor and seats were Butterick patterns and bags of rags for cleaning. Saint Christopher was Blu-Tacked to the dashboard. In her garden all the roses had turned brown. The air conditioner whirred beside the flat.
One half of me didn't want to see her. The day of the wake still burned my cheeks. One half of me longed for her.
I thought if I could be
Freckled Tony had picked his way across the rocks toward us; his whole shape rippled in the heat. Both sides knew what was to happen next. They knew it without words. It was written, already, into the hot still day.
“Go on,” Tony said to Beth. “We know you won't.”
“She won't,” said Miranda. “I know her.”
“Come with me,” said Beth.
I got up off the bank. I started to put my flip-flops on.
“Hurry up,” she said.
Tony laughed. Miranda looked at him with half-closed black eyes.
“Do you want me to come?” she asked.
“No,” said Beth.
Marco was waiting off the sand track. His trail bike was on its side. The scent of eucalyptus rose with each of our footsteps.
“Wait here,” said Beth.
She took me by the shoulders and placed me against a tree.
She walked across the trail, not looking left or right, walked right up to the crow-haired boy and kissed him on the lips. He was taller than her by a head. She had to stand on her toes.
When she stopped kissing him his hand went to her waist to pull her back. The sun beat down on us. The day quivered. The sky was as deep as an ocean. We breathed underwater. I lifted my hand to brush my hair from my eyes and it ached. The cicadas dropped a note. Beth moved backward, away from his hand. She turned toward where I was standing.
“Wait,” he said.
He said it loud, his first word.
Beth kept walking.
“Come on,” she said, taking me by the shoulder.
She held on to my shoulder the whole way down the bank. It was only once we were across the creek and into the shade that the day took a deep breath again.
After the kiss some of it still sparkled in the air around her.
I thought I was the only person who could see it but then Mr. Murray, who was watering his lawn, called out. He was standing in the shade of his yellow cassia tree.
It wasn't the scary Mr. Murray, who sometimes had pee stains down his trouser leg and sat all day on his patio drinking from brown bottles. Mum said we should never go near him. It was the nicer Mr. Murray, with the broken front tooth and the purple nose, who Mum said we could talk to from a distance.
The nicer Mr. Murray always asked questions that had no real answer: Tell me what you know? How long is a piece of string? What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?
“Breaking hearts yet?” he asked Beth from among the yellow bells when we were on his footpath. His face was spotted with light and shade.
Beth stopped and put her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun.
She smiled, one of her best saved-up smiles.
“No,” she said.
She had less than one year to live.
I didn't go to Nanna's flat until after school started. I rode to all four corners of the town but avoided her street. I entered each court in Memorial South, looping round each dead end like a small boat into a bay and out again. Up and down the long straight streets of Memorial East, where the rows of baby-blue houses faced the highway in regimental lines. Into Memorial North, stained, kneeling at the foot of themine beneath the smelter stacks, the workshops, the slag heaps, where the hills rose higher than anywhere else in the town, blackened, birdless, stripped of every tree.
I was looking for something but I didn't know what. I rode up and down the street before Nanna's. I rode past the end of Nanna's street. I saw her Datsun Sunny, which smelled of Craven “A”s and Yardley's lavender. Everywhere on its floor and seats were Butterick patterns and bags of rags for cleaning. Saint Christopher was Blu-Tacked to the dashboard. In her garden all the roses had turned brown. The air conditioner whirred beside the flat.
One half of me didn't want to see her. The day of the wake still burned my cheeks. One half of me longed for her.
I thought if I could be
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