Read Online Under Rose-Tainted Skies by Louise Gornall - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Louise Gornall
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laughs. Really laughs. Itâs hard not to notice that she enjoys the normal snippets of conversation we share. So few and far between, they really stand out.
I spend the rest of the day trying to finish an English paper.
Yeah, right.
The flashing cursor on my blank page blinks at me with a sense of urgency. Iâm supposed to be dissecting the morals and motives of Lady Macbeth, but my brain is too stewed to translate Shakespeare.
Iâm forever an overachiever . . . unless there is something else to think about. You can chart my bad months by checking out my report cards. Like the semester Momthought we were going to have to move and my grades slipped.
Iâd love to see out my homeschool career with a 4.0. It sounds odd, cruel even to suggest, but shining in one of the recesses of my mind is the idea that being intelligent will force people to see past my crazy parts. Maybe even make them obsolete. I donât know. Thatâs probably dumb, but no one remembers Charles Darwin as the guy who suffered from panic attacks. Ludwig van Beethoven isnât the bipolar composer, heâs the composer who was bipolar. Iâm sure itâs not as simple as all that. I just want to have proof that I can think straight, that I am more than the girl who believes that odd numbers will cause a catastrophe.
Unfortunately, right now studying is about as likely as skipping to the store.
Instead, I hack at my keyboard until my restless mind composes a passable tune before I drag my butt off to bed.
I lie awake worrying about the party all night, like itâs some crazed serial killer terrorizing our small suburban neighbourhood.
Anxiety has anchored itself to my stomach and sits like concrete on top of the cheese sandwich I ate twelve hours ago. From my waist down to my knees, everything has been twisted tight. Itâs all the pain of getting your period without actually getting your period.
My mattress is made of bricks, and my sheets keep snaking up around my body. Iâm almost certain theyâre trying to strangle me.
At six-thirty, I stop trying to sleep and drag my frustrated bones out of bed. I wrap my duvet around my shoulders and head to the front door. Sometimes, seeing beyond the confines of these four walls is a necessary evil. For me, this means spending a lot of time sitting in the hall watching the world wake up through an open front door.
The morning smells like cut grass and honeysuckle. I ball up in a cocoon as the rising sun paints the sky variousshades of pink, yellow, and purple.
The clock is just kissing 7.00 when an olive-green Volkswagen camper turns into Triangle Crescent. It crawls along the kerb, pauses for the briefest of seconds in front of each house on the other side of the road.
My mental camera is quick and candid.
I only have to look at it for a second, and every tiny detail about the foreign vehicle is embedded in my brain. From the license plate number to the burnt-orange rust eating away at the rear-wheel arch. It cruises around the dead-end bend and back up the road, this time surveying the houses on our side.
The man driving has a thick brown beard and a mop of dark curly hair. There are tons of stickers covering one of the side windows. Souvenir stickers. The kind that are shaped like famous landmarks. I recognize the Empire State Building and Disneyâs princess palace.
The guy sees me, stops, and rolls down his window. Heâs all smiles as I slide back on my butt, ready to retreat and slam the door shut, when someone shouts, âDad!â
Itâs Luke.
Heâs standing by the boxwood bush, body on display, waving both arms in the air like heâs trying to park a plane. I look away, bite my bottom lip as the camper parks next door.
I didnât know Luke had a dad. Thatâs dumb. I mean, obviously I knew Luke had a dad, I just didnât realize he was still around.
They collide in the middle of the driveway and wrap each other in
I spend the rest of the day trying to finish an English paper.
Yeah, right.
The flashing cursor on my blank page blinks at me with a sense of urgency. Iâm supposed to be dissecting the morals and motives of Lady Macbeth, but my brain is too stewed to translate Shakespeare.
Iâm forever an overachiever . . . unless there is something else to think about. You can chart my bad months by checking out my report cards. Like the semester Momthought we were going to have to move and my grades slipped.
Iâd love to see out my homeschool career with a 4.0. It sounds odd, cruel even to suggest, but shining in one of the recesses of my mind is the idea that being intelligent will force people to see past my crazy parts. Maybe even make them obsolete. I donât know. Thatâs probably dumb, but no one remembers Charles Darwin as the guy who suffered from panic attacks. Ludwig van Beethoven isnât the bipolar composer, heâs the composer who was bipolar. Iâm sure itâs not as simple as all that. I just want to have proof that I can think straight, that I am more than the girl who believes that odd numbers will cause a catastrophe.
Unfortunately, right now studying is about as likely as skipping to the store.
Instead, I hack at my keyboard until my restless mind composes a passable tune before I drag my butt off to bed.
I lie awake worrying about the party all night, like itâs some crazed serial killer terrorizing our small suburban neighbourhood.
Anxiety has anchored itself to my stomach and sits like concrete on top of the cheese sandwich I ate twelve hours ago. From my waist down to my knees, everything has been twisted tight. Itâs all the pain of getting your period without actually getting your period.
My mattress is made of bricks, and my sheets keep snaking up around my body. Iâm almost certain theyâre trying to strangle me.
At six-thirty, I stop trying to sleep and drag my frustrated bones out of bed. I wrap my duvet around my shoulders and head to the front door. Sometimes, seeing beyond the confines of these four walls is a necessary evil. For me, this means spending a lot of time sitting in the hall watching the world wake up through an open front door.
The morning smells like cut grass and honeysuckle. I ball up in a cocoon as the rising sun paints the sky variousshades of pink, yellow, and purple.
The clock is just kissing 7.00 when an olive-green Volkswagen camper turns into Triangle Crescent. It crawls along the kerb, pauses for the briefest of seconds in front of each house on the other side of the road.
My mental camera is quick and candid.
I only have to look at it for a second, and every tiny detail about the foreign vehicle is embedded in my brain. From the license plate number to the burnt-orange rust eating away at the rear-wheel arch. It cruises around the dead-end bend and back up the road, this time surveying the houses on our side.
The man driving has a thick brown beard and a mop of dark curly hair. There are tons of stickers covering one of the side windows. Souvenir stickers. The kind that are shaped like famous landmarks. I recognize the Empire State Building and Disneyâs princess palace.
The guy sees me, stops, and rolls down his window. Heâs all smiles as I slide back on my butt, ready to retreat and slam the door shut, when someone shouts, âDad!â
Itâs Luke.
Heâs standing by the boxwood bush, body on display, waving both arms in the air like heâs trying to park a plane. I look away, bite my bottom lip as the camper parks next door.
I didnât know Luke had a dad. Thatâs dumb. I mean, obviously I knew Luke had a dad, I just didnât realize he was still around.
They collide in the middle of the driveway and wrap each other in
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