Read Online The River by Mary Jane Beaufrand - Free Book Online
Authors: Mary Jane Beaufrand
Ads: Link
enough to strip off their waders or gut their bullhead catfish.
Who could be waiting for me on the sun porch?
I crept up on the threshold and peered inside. I only caught a backpack slung casually over a shoulder, the top of a chestnut-colored head of hair, and I knew.
Oh no , not him . Dread closed in on me quickly, like mold. Good Brad had been warning me about my hair for a reason.
The boy in the sunroom was Keith Spady, my chem partner, who had a very distinctive top of the head. He was the only guy in town with a faux hawk, and he wore it well.
I hung back, peering around the threshold, and took him in. He was examining a sepia picture casually, as though perusing something at a gallery opening. His scratchy army-green Eisenhower jacket was wet, and his Doc Martens were caked with mud.
I had thought, after this morning, that I’d lost my ability to be excited by anything, but seeing Keith Spady on the sun porch sent shivers all over my body, and I liked the feeling. He was braving the smell to see me. As far as I was concerned, that made him a hero.
Once, a while ago, I tried to decide if I was in love with him because he was the only hip guy in town, or if I still would’ve been in love with him in Portland, a city lousy with boys like that, who listened to the Clash and the Ramones and worshipped Kurt Cobain. I decided I would’ve liked him anyway because a) he wasn’t ashamed of being smart—brilliant at science and math; and b) he had this incredibly enticing tuft of chest hair. It always curled over his T-shirts or plaid button-downs which, on him, looked more grunge than yokel. I couldn’t see that tuft without wanting to curl my fingers through it and yank him closer.
He looked up and saw me skulking. “Oh, hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I said, embarrassed to be caught staring. I tried to recover. “Monster cookie?” I offered, still holding the tray.
He shook his head. “I can’t stay. I just heard what happened this morning. I brought you these.”
He handed me a bunch of purple flowers. Lupine. Just like the ones from Karen’s mud pies.
“Oh man,” he said, pointing to my apron, where blooms just like it were poking out.
“It’s all right,” I said. “I can always take more.” I put the tray down and took the bouquet from him. “Thanks. I didn’t think these were in bloom yet.”
Keith shrugged. “You have to know where to look.”
Another explorer. Like Karen.
No. Not like Karen. But still, I wondered if maybe in some weird way, he was here because I deserved him after what I’d been through today. Maybe Keith was my reward for enduring.
I brought the blooms up to my nose.
“They don’t smell like anything,” he said.
But they did. They smelled fresh, like rain and growth and something more subtle—the promise of spring, maybe? I buried my nose deeper. Not promise; hope. They smelled like hope.
And I could tell, even without bringing the other blooms up to my nose, that they smelled different. Those smelled like courage.
I took in his saturated Eisenhower jacket and muddy Doc Martens.
“You didn’t walk all the way here to give me these, did you?” I said. Keith and his mom and stepdad had a hacienda-type house on a hilltop behind the ranger station. They had horses and one picture-perfect golden retriever. So even though Keith’s stepdad owned Phil’s Tiki Hut, the skankiest bar in the Cascade Range, the LaMarrs lived like country squires. Keith’s mom wore bolo ties and expensive belted cardigans made from Navajo blankets, though she definitely wasn’t Navajo.
“Nah, I was up here anyway looking for pinecones,” he said.
“Pinecones,” I repeated.
He peeled off his heavy-looking backpack and unzipped the top. It was full of pinecones, all right. Giant, Ponderosa-sized with lethal-looking points. “Ahhhh…,” I said, understanding. I’d forgotten that Keith’s mom made “found art” that she sold at the Victorian Cottage on Highway 22. She
Who could be waiting for me on the sun porch?
I crept up on the threshold and peered inside. I only caught a backpack slung casually over a shoulder, the top of a chestnut-colored head of hair, and I knew.
Oh no , not him . Dread closed in on me quickly, like mold. Good Brad had been warning me about my hair for a reason.
The boy in the sunroom was Keith Spady, my chem partner, who had a very distinctive top of the head. He was the only guy in town with a faux hawk, and he wore it well.
I hung back, peering around the threshold, and took him in. He was examining a sepia picture casually, as though perusing something at a gallery opening. His scratchy army-green Eisenhower jacket was wet, and his Doc Martens were caked with mud.
I had thought, after this morning, that I’d lost my ability to be excited by anything, but seeing Keith Spady on the sun porch sent shivers all over my body, and I liked the feeling. He was braving the smell to see me. As far as I was concerned, that made him a hero.
Once, a while ago, I tried to decide if I was in love with him because he was the only hip guy in town, or if I still would’ve been in love with him in Portland, a city lousy with boys like that, who listened to the Clash and the Ramones and worshipped Kurt Cobain. I decided I would’ve liked him anyway because a) he wasn’t ashamed of being smart—brilliant at science and math; and b) he had this incredibly enticing tuft of chest hair. It always curled over his T-shirts or plaid button-downs which, on him, looked more grunge than yokel. I couldn’t see that tuft without wanting to curl my fingers through it and yank him closer.
He looked up and saw me skulking. “Oh, hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I said, embarrassed to be caught staring. I tried to recover. “Monster cookie?” I offered, still holding the tray.
He shook his head. “I can’t stay. I just heard what happened this morning. I brought you these.”
He handed me a bunch of purple flowers. Lupine. Just like the ones from Karen’s mud pies.
“Oh man,” he said, pointing to my apron, where blooms just like it were poking out.
“It’s all right,” I said. “I can always take more.” I put the tray down and took the bouquet from him. “Thanks. I didn’t think these were in bloom yet.”
Keith shrugged. “You have to know where to look.”
Another explorer. Like Karen.
No. Not like Karen. But still, I wondered if maybe in some weird way, he was here because I deserved him after what I’d been through today. Maybe Keith was my reward for enduring.
I brought the blooms up to my nose.
“They don’t smell like anything,” he said.
But they did. They smelled fresh, like rain and growth and something more subtle—the promise of spring, maybe? I buried my nose deeper. Not promise; hope. They smelled like hope.
And I could tell, even without bringing the other blooms up to my nose, that they smelled different. Those smelled like courage.
I took in his saturated Eisenhower jacket and muddy Doc Martens.
“You didn’t walk all the way here to give me these, did you?” I said. Keith and his mom and stepdad had a hacienda-type house on a hilltop behind the ranger station. They had horses and one picture-perfect golden retriever. So even though Keith’s stepdad owned Phil’s Tiki Hut, the skankiest bar in the Cascade Range, the LaMarrs lived like country squires. Keith’s mom wore bolo ties and expensive belted cardigans made from Navajo blankets, though she definitely wasn’t Navajo.
“Nah, I was up here anyway looking for pinecones,” he said.
“Pinecones,” I repeated.
He peeled off his heavy-looking backpack and unzipped the top. It was full of pinecones, all right. Giant, Ponderosa-sized with lethal-looking points. “Ahhhh…,” I said, understanding. I’d forgotten that Keith’s mom made “found art” that she sold at the Victorian Cottage on Highway 22. She
Similar Books
