Read Online The Girl Who Threw Butterflies by Mick Cochrane - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mick Cochrane
Ads: Link
the real thing, Grimm, not Disney. And some of them
were
grim. Her mother disapproved: “Such stuff! You'll give the poor girl nightmares.” But Molly loved them, the stranger the better. There was darkness and death and plenty of wickedness, sure, but it was no worse than the nightly news. And there was magic, too—spells and powers, transformations and wishes granted. That was what Molly loved, what she remembered best about those stories. When Cinderella planted a branch on her mother's grave and watered it with her tears, a magic tree grew.
9. SECRET SOCIETY
here's a boy at the door,” Molly's mother shouted up the stairs at her. It was Saturday morning, almost eleven. Molly had been lying on her bed, paging through a thick biography of Abraham Lincoln, the book her dad had been reading back in October, the book he'd never finished. She'd rescued it from a box on the back porch. She'd been studying pictures of Lincoln but thinking about her dad.
“Molly,” her mother said again. “There's a boy at the door.” She stressed the word “boy,” and her voice had such a weird intonation, it sounded like some kind of crazy coded message. Those were the first words spoken to her that day. It was such an odd thing to say—a boy at the door? For amoment Molly couldn't understand what it meant or how she was supposed to respond. What exactly are you sup-posed to do about a boy at the door?
She took a quick glance in the mirror and didn't much like what she saw there. She hardly ever did. She gave her hair a couple of quick brushes and tied it back in a tight ponytail, the way she fixed her hair under a baseball cap. But it didn't make much difference, one way or another. In the mirror there was still a plain-faced, apprehensive-looking girl. Molly stuck her tongue out at her and headed downstairs.
Turned out “a boy at the door” meant Lonnie House, who was sitting on her front steps. An old, blue, fat-tired bicycle was kick-standed behind him in the driveway. At first Molly thought that Lonnie must have been riding by and got a flat, that he needed some roadside assistance. He looked slumped and stranded. But it was hard to tell: He always looked a little bit stranded.
“Lonnie,” Molly said.
She looked and saw that his tires were fully inflated. So this wasn't an accident after all—it was a social call.
Lonnie was wearing jeans, a big T-shirt, high-tops, his usual getup, but today he looked better put together than usual somehow. Molly couldn't put her finger on it exactly.
“So did Niedermeyer torture you?” Molly asked Lonnie. She hadn't had a chance to talk to him since the locker thing. “Did he give you detention?”
“Nah,” Lonnie said. “I got a warning.”
“Just a warning?”
“A
stern
warning,” Lonnie said, and smiled. “I had to promise never to draw on lockers again. Or else.”
Molly had been a little disappointed when she'd discovered that while she was in class, someone on the maintenance staff had cleaned off Lonnie's mural. There were a few black smudges remaining, a couple of stray lines, which cheered her up while she dialed the numbers of her combination. She could imagine the rest. “It was a great picture,” Molly said.
“Kind of a rush job,” Lonnie said. “I could've done better with more time.”
There was a pause. Then Lonnie pointed to his baseball glove, which he'd looped over the handlebars of his bike.
“I thought maybe we could practice a little,” he said. “Not that you need it or anything.”
“Oh, I need it,” Molly said. “Practice is just what I need.”
Molly led Lonnie around the side of the house into the backyard. She opened the garage door and grabbed her glove and a ball. Molly went to her usual place, and Lonnie gravitated unknowingly to her dad's old spot, positioning himself the right distance from her, the distance between the pitcher's mound and home plate, right where her dad used to stand.
At that point Molly realized why
were
grim. Her mother disapproved: “Such stuff! You'll give the poor girl nightmares.” But Molly loved them, the stranger the better. There was darkness and death and plenty of wickedness, sure, but it was no worse than the nightly news. And there was magic, too—spells and powers, transformations and wishes granted. That was what Molly loved, what she remembered best about those stories. When Cinderella planted a branch on her mother's grave and watered it with her tears, a magic tree grew.
9. SECRET SOCIETY
here's a boy at the door,” Molly's mother shouted up the stairs at her. It was Saturday morning, almost eleven. Molly had been lying on her bed, paging through a thick biography of Abraham Lincoln, the book her dad had been reading back in October, the book he'd never finished. She'd rescued it from a box on the back porch. She'd been studying pictures of Lincoln but thinking about her dad.
“Molly,” her mother said again. “There's a boy at the door.” She stressed the word “boy,” and her voice had such a weird intonation, it sounded like some kind of crazy coded message. Those were the first words spoken to her that day. It was such an odd thing to say—a boy at the door? For amoment Molly couldn't understand what it meant or how she was supposed to respond. What exactly are you sup-posed to do about a boy at the door?
She took a quick glance in the mirror and didn't much like what she saw there. She hardly ever did. She gave her hair a couple of quick brushes and tied it back in a tight ponytail, the way she fixed her hair under a baseball cap. But it didn't make much difference, one way or another. In the mirror there was still a plain-faced, apprehensive-looking girl. Molly stuck her tongue out at her and headed downstairs.
Turned out “a boy at the door” meant Lonnie House, who was sitting on her front steps. An old, blue, fat-tired bicycle was kick-standed behind him in the driveway. At first Molly thought that Lonnie must have been riding by and got a flat, that he needed some roadside assistance. He looked slumped and stranded. But it was hard to tell: He always looked a little bit stranded.
“Lonnie,” Molly said.
She looked and saw that his tires were fully inflated. So this wasn't an accident after all—it was a social call.
Lonnie was wearing jeans, a big T-shirt, high-tops, his usual getup, but today he looked better put together than usual somehow. Molly couldn't put her finger on it exactly.
“So did Niedermeyer torture you?” Molly asked Lonnie. She hadn't had a chance to talk to him since the locker thing. “Did he give you detention?”
“Nah,” Lonnie said. “I got a warning.”
“Just a warning?”
“A
stern
warning,” Lonnie said, and smiled. “I had to promise never to draw on lockers again. Or else.”
Molly had been a little disappointed when she'd discovered that while she was in class, someone on the maintenance staff had cleaned off Lonnie's mural. There were a few black smudges remaining, a couple of stray lines, which cheered her up while she dialed the numbers of her combination. She could imagine the rest. “It was a great picture,” Molly said.
“Kind of a rush job,” Lonnie said. “I could've done better with more time.”
There was a pause. Then Lonnie pointed to his baseball glove, which he'd looped over the handlebars of his bike.
“I thought maybe we could practice a little,” he said. “Not that you need it or anything.”
“Oh, I need it,” Molly said. “Practice is just what I need.”
Molly led Lonnie around the side of the house into the backyard. She opened the garage door and grabbed her glove and a ball. Molly went to her usual place, and Lonnie gravitated unknowingly to her dad's old spot, positioning himself the right distance from her, the distance between the pitcher's mound and home plate, right where her dad used to stand.
At that point Molly realized why
Similar Books
