Read Online The Books of Elsewhere, Vol. 1: The Shadows by Jacqueline West - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jacqueline West
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completely forgotten. Olive closed her eyes and tried to picture Morton’s round, pale face, but his frowning features and taunting voice kept bumping into the way. Morton might not be happy to see her. But he might be happier if she brought him a present.
Olive dug through her drawers and boxes and closet. There were lots of things she didn’t want to give away, especially not to someone like Morton, but there were also lots of things that she could live without: gifts that distant relatives had sent her, or consolation prizes she had won at the school carnival after failing to hit a single balloon with a dart.
With her pockets stuffed, Olive went into the hall and looked carefully in all directions. Her parents were downstairs; she could hear the sound of water in the kitchen sink and the soft voices of a radio news program. Olive put on the spectacles. She grabbed the picture frame and pulled herself into the misty field that rolled up to the painted Linden Street.
Inside the frame, Olive waited for her eyes to adjust. Even the gloomy upstairs hall had been bright compared to the twilight of the painting. Then she took off at a run, moving like scissors through the mist that mended itself behind her.
She spotted Morton from a long way off. He was still dressed in his nightshirt, which seemed a little funny to Olive. Somehow she had expected him to change out of his pajamas. But, of course, nothing else had changed. It was still a cloudy, windless evening on Linden Street, and the faces that peeped through the dark windows at Olive disappeared whenever she turned to look.
Morton had noticed her too. As Olive ran up the street, he froze, his head craned intently in her direction. Then, when he was sure Olive was hurrying toward him, Morton turned his back, raising his shoulders in a long, unwelcoming shrug.
Olive slowed to a walk. If Morton was going to act like he wasn’t happy to see her, she would act like she wasn’t happy to see him either. She wasn’t happy to see him. Nope. The little jump she felt in her chest was just relief that he was all right.
By the time Olive shuffled up behind him, Morton was swinging on the gate in front of his house, making it crash as hard as he could. His white nightshirt rippled like a kite’s tail behind him.
Blam , went the gate. Blam .
“Hello, Morton,” Olive said, trying to sound pleasant and nonchalant at the same time. “I came to check on you. Just like I said.”
Morton didn’t look up. He kicked off the ground with one foot and swung forward so the gate slammed again. Blam.
“It’s dull here,” he said, still not looking at Olive. Blam. “Nobody will come outside. Everybody’s afraid. They think he’s watching.” Blam. Morton raised his voice. “But I’m not afraid.”
“Yes you are,” murmured Olive.
Morton finally looked up. “What?”
“Nothing.”
Blam , said the gate.
“I brought you some things,” said Olive. “I thought you might like something to play with.”
Morton swung back and forth on the gate again and didn’t answer. His tufty hair twitched in the air.
“Look.” Olive held out the first present. “These are little pellets that turn into sponges if you put them in warm water.”
Morton glanced at the packet in Olive’s hand. “And then what?”
“I don’t know. Then you have sponges.”
Morton’s head drooped. The gate swung a bit more listlessly. When it shut, it only said tick.
Olive tossed the packet of sponge pellets on the ground. “How about this? I brought some crayons and a coloring book. It’s Grimm’s Fairy Tales. I’ve only done half of the pictures.”
Morton looked up at the book. Then he looked at the fistful of crayons in Olive’s hand. “Crayons?” he said slowly. “In all different colors?”
“Yes,” said Olive, glad that Morton didn’t seem to notice that the crayons were mostly broken ones.
“That’s pretty good, I guess,” said Morton. He put one foot on the ground, and
Olive dug through her drawers and boxes and closet. There were lots of things she didn’t want to give away, especially not to someone like Morton, but there were also lots of things that she could live without: gifts that distant relatives had sent her, or consolation prizes she had won at the school carnival after failing to hit a single balloon with a dart.
With her pockets stuffed, Olive went into the hall and looked carefully in all directions. Her parents were downstairs; she could hear the sound of water in the kitchen sink and the soft voices of a radio news program. Olive put on the spectacles. She grabbed the picture frame and pulled herself into the misty field that rolled up to the painted Linden Street.
Inside the frame, Olive waited for her eyes to adjust. Even the gloomy upstairs hall had been bright compared to the twilight of the painting. Then she took off at a run, moving like scissors through the mist that mended itself behind her.
She spotted Morton from a long way off. He was still dressed in his nightshirt, which seemed a little funny to Olive. Somehow she had expected him to change out of his pajamas. But, of course, nothing else had changed. It was still a cloudy, windless evening on Linden Street, and the faces that peeped through the dark windows at Olive disappeared whenever she turned to look.
Morton had noticed her too. As Olive ran up the street, he froze, his head craned intently in her direction. Then, when he was sure Olive was hurrying toward him, Morton turned his back, raising his shoulders in a long, unwelcoming shrug.
Olive slowed to a walk. If Morton was going to act like he wasn’t happy to see her, she would act like she wasn’t happy to see him either. She wasn’t happy to see him. Nope. The little jump she felt in her chest was just relief that he was all right.
By the time Olive shuffled up behind him, Morton was swinging on the gate in front of his house, making it crash as hard as he could. His white nightshirt rippled like a kite’s tail behind him.
Blam , went the gate. Blam .
“Hello, Morton,” Olive said, trying to sound pleasant and nonchalant at the same time. “I came to check on you. Just like I said.”
Morton didn’t look up. He kicked off the ground with one foot and swung forward so the gate slammed again. Blam.
“It’s dull here,” he said, still not looking at Olive. Blam. “Nobody will come outside. Everybody’s afraid. They think he’s watching.” Blam. Morton raised his voice. “But I’m not afraid.”
“Yes you are,” murmured Olive.
Morton finally looked up. “What?”
“Nothing.”
Blam , said the gate.
“I brought you some things,” said Olive. “I thought you might like something to play with.”
Morton swung back and forth on the gate again and didn’t answer. His tufty hair twitched in the air.
“Look.” Olive held out the first present. “These are little pellets that turn into sponges if you put them in warm water.”
Morton glanced at the packet in Olive’s hand. “And then what?”
“I don’t know. Then you have sponges.”
Morton’s head drooped. The gate swung a bit more listlessly. When it shut, it only said tick.
Olive tossed the packet of sponge pellets on the ground. “How about this? I brought some crayons and a coloring book. It’s Grimm’s Fairy Tales. I’ve only done half of the pictures.”
Morton looked up at the book. Then he looked at the fistful of crayons in Olive’s hand. “Crayons?” he said slowly. “In all different colors?”
“Yes,” said Olive, glad that Morton didn’t seem to notice that the crayons were mostly broken ones.
“That’s pretty good, I guess,” said Morton. He put one foot on the ground, and
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