Read Online Where You End by Anna Pellicioli - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anna Pellicioli
Tags: Romance, YA), Young Adult Fiction, Young Adult, teen, ya fiction, ya novel, young adult novel, teen lit, elliott, anna pellicoli, anna pellicholi
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Click. Thereâs my picture. I canât help it. Itâs like breathing. Some people think in words, others in music. We think in stills.
I shave, to buy more time, and notice that my breasts seem bigger, almost swollen. I cup the right one in my hand and it feels sore. I poke the mole on my left one to compare: same. I lather enough jasmine shampoo to smell like an Indian wedding. Three times over. Iâm going to have to make it up to Adam tomorrow. Iâm also going to have to tell him about the Picasso. I can do it. He will understand. Heâll help me out. He said my pictures were beautiful.
I wrap a towel around myself and realize I forgot to take my clean clothes in here. Itâs all right, I tell myself. Itâs only Adam.
Back in my room, heâs gone, and Iâm actually disappointed. I take off my towel and lie face down on the bed. I miss you , he said. The water drips from my hair, down the slope of my hips, to the bed. I think of Adam looking through my pictures. All the feeling in my legs rushes up to the tiny spot where my body touches the sheets, below my belly. I shift my weight onto one hip to ignore it, but the thought insists and I rub my body against the bed until itâs too late and my fingers reach down between my thighs with great, hurried purpose to find a place where Iâm forced to let go. When I lift my hot face from the pillow, I realize Iâm not at all ashamed. Just hungry.
eight
YOU DO HAVE A CAMERA, RIGHT?
yes.
OK.
AND REMEMBER YOU CANâT LET ANYBODY SEE YOU.
i understand.
YOU SOUND ANNOYED.
i donât know what you mean.
YOU SOUND LIKE YOUâRE THE ONE DOING ME A FAVOR.
just tired.
EVERYBODYâS TIRED. YOU AGREED.
i know. iâll let you know. i have a camera.
THIS IS NOT A GAME FOR ME.
me neither.
ITâS TOO IMPORTANT.
i understand.
GOOD. YOU DONâT. BUT GOOD.
nine
I wake up with a pair of headphones stuck to my face. My ears are killing me, and it takes me a minute to remember the music I was listening to. There was screaming and singing and guitar. Thereâs a photograph on my belly, and the light is still on. I mustâve fallen asleep while looking at it. The picture is of Elliot on the Metro, on our way back from a show. Heâs looking down and smiling, as if heâs shy but flattered. Itâs my favorite Elliot face.
Elliot loves music as much as I love photographs, maybe the way Paloma likes poetry and her mother likes the organ. He canât survive three hours without a song. Heâs been to a hundred shows. Wherever they would let in a kid, he was there.
The night of the picture, weâd gone to the 9:30 Club to see an Irish music man who sings like his heart is a boat in the middle of a storm. We were in the front, near the small stage, and I was too embarrassed to tell Elliot this was my first concert. My hair had been ruffled by plenty of painters and photographers, but no rock stars ever came to dinner at our house. I was trying to act cool, like I could hang with the crowd of people whoâd come to see this guy sing. More and more people poured in, and Elliot took my hand and led me through the crowd to a good spot near the stage. He held my hand as we waited for the guy to come out. Thatâs when Elliot put his chin on my shoulder and told me my life was about to change. Those were his words, not mine. Your life is about to change , he said. Because of one man, on stage, holding a guitar with a gaping hole.
So, the singer said a few words, and everybody laughed, and thatâs when he tuned his guitar and started singing, gentle and sad at first. Everybody got real quiet, and Elliot stood behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist and the guy got a little louder, and the room felt like it was rising, until he was actually screaming this song, but it was still a song, except it made so much noise, inside and outside.
Photographs donât make noise. They donât rise
I shave, to buy more time, and notice that my breasts seem bigger, almost swollen. I cup the right one in my hand and it feels sore. I poke the mole on my left one to compare: same. I lather enough jasmine shampoo to smell like an Indian wedding. Three times over. Iâm going to have to make it up to Adam tomorrow. Iâm also going to have to tell him about the Picasso. I can do it. He will understand. Heâll help me out. He said my pictures were beautiful.
I wrap a towel around myself and realize I forgot to take my clean clothes in here. Itâs all right, I tell myself. Itâs only Adam.
Back in my room, heâs gone, and Iâm actually disappointed. I take off my towel and lie face down on the bed. I miss you , he said. The water drips from my hair, down the slope of my hips, to the bed. I think of Adam looking through my pictures. All the feeling in my legs rushes up to the tiny spot where my body touches the sheets, below my belly. I shift my weight onto one hip to ignore it, but the thought insists and I rub my body against the bed until itâs too late and my fingers reach down between my thighs with great, hurried purpose to find a place where Iâm forced to let go. When I lift my hot face from the pillow, I realize Iâm not at all ashamed. Just hungry.
eight
YOU DO HAVE A CAMERA, RIGHT?
yes.
OK.
AND REMEMBER YOU CANâT LET ANYBODY SEE YOU.
i understand.
YOU SOUND ANNOYED.
i donât know what you mean.
YOU SOUND LIKE YOUâRE THE ONE DOING ME A FAVOR.
just tired.
EVERYBODYâS TIRED. YOU AGREED.
i know. iâll let you know. i have a camera.
THIS IS NOT A GAME FOR ME.
me neither.
ITâS TOO IMPORTANT.
i understand.
GOOD. YOU DONâT. BUT GOOD.
nine
I wake up with a pair of headphones stuck to my face. My ears are killing me, and it takes me a minute to remember the music I was listening to. There was screaming and singing and guitar. Thereâs a photograph on my belly, and the light is still on. I mustâve fallen asleep while looking at it. The picture is of Elliot on the Metro, on our way back from a show. Heâs looking down and smiling, as if heâs shy but flattered. Itâs my favorite Elliot face.
Elliot loves music as much as I love photographs, maybe the way Paloma likes poetry and her mother likes the organ. He canât survive three hours without a song. Heâs been to a hundred shows. Wherever they would let in a kid, he was there.
The night of the picture, weâd gone to the 9:30 Club to see an Irish music man who sings like his heart is a boat in the middle of a storm. We were in the front, near the small stage, and I was too embarrassed to tell Elliot this was my first concert. My hair had been ruffled by plenty of painters and photographers, but no rock stars ever came to dinner at our house. I was trying to act cool, like I could hang with the crowd of people whoâd come to see this guy sing. More and more people poured in, and Elliot took my hand and led me through the crowd to a good spot near the stage. He held my hand as we waited for the guy to come out. Thatâs when Elliot put his chin on my shoulder and told me my life was about to change. Those were his words, not mine. Your life is about to change , he said. Because of one man, on stage, holding a guitar with a gaping hole.
So, the singer said a few words, and everybody laughed, and thatâs when he tuned his guitar and started singing, gentle and sad at first. Everybody got real quiet, and Elliot stood behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist and the guy got a little louder, and the room felt like it was rising, until he was actually screaming this song, but it was still a song, except it made so much noise, inside and outside.
Photographs donât make noise. They donât rise
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