Read Online Vivian Divine Is Dead by Lauren Sabel - Free Book Online
Authors: Lauren Sabel
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the terror out of my voice.
“Feral dogs,” Nick says. “They’re everywhere, and a pack of them will rip you to shreds. When my dad was still around, he’d take me on walks after he got off work. He didn’t want me to be afraid of them when it came my time to cross the border. He taught me how to scare them away by getting as big as I could, like this.” Nick stands up on his tiptoes and stretches his arms over his head. He does look pretty scary. “Never run; you don’t want them to chase you.”
“You won’t let them eat me?” I ask. I’m half kidding, but the other half is very, very serious.
“You wouldn’t taste good anyway,” he says. “Not enough fat. You’re all gristle.”
“Gristle?” I ask. I’m all gristle. It makes me feel a little tougher, like I’m pulled together out of weeds and spiny thorns.
“Yep, gristle,” Nick says, his arm bumping gently into mine. I notice that Nick and I are walking side by side now, and strangely, it feels normal, and kind of comforting.
“Did you ever try to cross the border?” I ask.
“Many times,” Nick says. “I learned English at school so I had an easier time than most, but it still didn’t work out,” he adds. “Besides, I have responsibilities here now.”
“Like what?”
“My godfather wants me to run his shipping business. I’m the closest thing he’s got to a son, and he wants to keep the business in the family. Besides, since my dad left, my godfather’s the closest thing I’ve got to a father, too.”
I scratch at the dirt caked onto my ankles, wondering why Nick sounds like someone dropped a weight on his chest and ordered him to carry it. “Do you want to run his business?”
“Do I want to? I don’t know. But it’s what I have to do.” Nick shrugs. “Don’t you ever do anything you don’t want to do?”
I think about the million things I have to do to be part of the perfect Divine family. How every day is scripted for me, from Mary being glued to my side, to constantly dieting to please Pierre, to Dad choosing the movies I star in. Only Mom ever told me my future wasn’t written yet—that I got to write it.
“All the time,” I admit. “Sometimes I wish I could just do what I want, be who I want. I feel kind of stuck, like everyone’s making my decisions for me.” I stop talking, suddenly embarrassed. “Do you ever feel that way?”
“Yeah, I do,” Nick says grudgingly, but he looks at me with new respect. “I guess that means we have something in common.”
“I guess so.” I don’t want to admit it, but I feel better. Nick must feel some of the weight lift off him too, because his eyes don’t leave my face for a long time after that.
The moon is a glistening half circle in the sky by the time we reach his cousin’s house. It’s nothing special, just a small ranch home like on the studio’s “Downtrodden American Suburb” set. There’s a rickety garage beside the house, with a small speedboat rusting inside of it that looks like it hasn’t been used in years. Still, the house seems like a mansion compared to the handful of deserted lean-tos we’ve passed on the way here.
Nick’s cousin isn’t home yet, but the door is unlocked, so Nick lets us into the house. There’s not much furniture, just an orange couch in the bedroom and a wooden table with four mismatched chairs in the kitchen.
“Take a seat,” he says, pulling a pot out from under the sink and filling it with water.
I drop into a chair and lay my head down on the kitchen table while Nick takes two tortillas and a hunk of white cheese out of the refrigerator. He tosses them in a pan on the stove, and the smell of burning cheese twists my stomach in knots. I’ve never been this hungry before (except for all-night shoots for Zombie Killer , but then I had a nutritional regimen and a personal dietician), and I don’t like it.
“Local specialty, no crickets,” Nick says as he places a tortilla stuffed with cheese in
“Feral dogs,” Nick says. “They’re everywhere, and a pack of them will rip you to shreds. When my dad was still around, he’d take me on walks after he got off work. He didn’t want me to be afraid of them when it came my time to cross the border. He taught me how to scare them away by getting as big as I could, like this.” Nick stands up on his tiptoes and stretches his arms over his head. He does look pretty scary. “Never run; you don’t want them to chase you.”
“You won’t let them eat me?” I ask. I’m half kidding, but the other half is very, very serious.
“You wouldn’t taste good anyway,” he says. “Not enough fat. You’re all gristle.”
“Gristle?” I ask. I’m all gristle. It makes me feel a little tougher, like I’m pulled together out of weeds and spiny thorns.
“Yep, gristle,” Nick says, his arm bumping gently into mine. I notice that Nick and I are walking side by side now, and strangely, it feels normal, and kind of comforting.
“Did you ever try to cross the border?” I ask.
“Many times,” Nick says. “I learned English at school so I had an easier time than most, but it still didn’t work out,” he adds. “Besides, I have responsibilities here now.”
“Like what?”
“My godfather wants me to run his shipping business. I’m the closest thing he’s got to a son, and he wants to keep the business in the family. Besides, since my dad left, my godfather’s the closest thing I’ve got to a father, too.”
I scratch at the dirt caked onto my ankles, wondering why Nick sounds like someone dropped a weight on his chest and ordered him to carry it. “Do you want to run his business?”
“Do I want to? I don’t know. But it’s what I have to do.” Nick shrugs. “Don’t you ever do anything you don’t want to do?”
I think about the million things I have to do to be part of the perfect Divine family. How every day is scripted for me, from Mary being glued to my side, to constantly dieting to please Pierre, to Dad choosing the movies I star in. Only Mom ever told me my future wasn’t written yet—that I got to write it.
“All the time,” I admit. “Sometimes I wish I could just do what I want, be who I want. I feel kind of stuck, like everyone’s making my decisions for me.” I stop talking, suddenly embarrassed. “Do you ever feel that way?”
“Yeah, I do,” Nick says grudgingly, but he looks at me with new respect. “I guess that means we have something in common.”
“I guess so.” I don’t want to admit it, but I feel better. Nick must feel some of the weight lift off him too, because his eyes don’t leave my face for a long time after that.
The moon is a glistening half circle in the sky by the time we reach his cousin’s house. It’s nothing special, just a small ranch home like on the studio’s “Downtrodden American Suburb” set. There’s a rickety garage beside the house, with a small speedboat rusting inside of it that looks like it hasn’t been used in years. Still, the house seems like a mansion compared to the handful of deserted lean-tos we’ve passed on the way here.
Nick’s cousin isn’t home yet, but the door is unlocked, so Nick lets us into the house. There’s not much furniture, just an orange couch in the bedroom and a wooden table with four mismatched chairs in the kitchen.
“Take a seat,” he says, pulling a pot out from under the sink and filling it with water.
I drop into a chair and lay my head down on the kitchen table while Nick takes two tortillas and a hunk of white cheese out of the refrigerator. He tosses them in a pan on the stove, and the smell of burning cheese twists my stomach in knots. I’ve never been this hungry before (except for all-night shoots for Zombie Killer , but then I had a nutritional regimen and a personal dietician), and I don’t like it.
“Local specialty, no crickets,” Nick says as he places a tortilla stuffed with cheese in
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