Candy Colored Sky, стр. 28

“A beautiful girl is a beautiful girl, pretty when she’s laughing and just as pretty when she’s not. There is never anything wrong with admiring God’s work, my grandson. Never a thing at all wrong with that. You just remember to respect it too.”

He reaches for his paper and shakes it out straight again, shifting in his seat to lean back comfortably. My grandma died about ten years ago. I have vague memories of a funeral, and I have heard stories about her from my mom, mostly about how she was a saint of woman who kept Hank in check with his smoking and gambling and swearing and all other baggage that comes along with an army veteran who also spent years working with the same group of guys for the Chicago Metra downtown.

I rap my knuckles against the table twice then stand, my strength a little renewed. I pause right before I round the corner toward the stairs and look at the top of my grandpa’s head as it peeks over the edge of his newspaper. He refuses to adapt to digital news. He likes the feel and the smell of the ink, he says.

“Thanks, Grandpa,” I say.

“Don’t mention it,” he coughs out. “Oh, and Jonah?”

I rock back a step and meet his eyes, the paper bent on one side in his hand.

“If you do see a bug in front of that young lady, smash it with a shoe. Don’t be a chicken shit like that friend of yours.”

I grin.

“I won’t, Grandpa. Size elevens right here,” I say, lifting my leg and tapping on the toe of my sneaker.

I smile my way back up the stairs, ideas running through my mind of things Eleanor and I can do to pass the time while we wait for Jake to show up and my mom to get back home. We could rent that old movie of the Bradbury book, or maybe surf the Internet for camping sites in the Blue Ridges, or she could try to teach me one of her dances. I’m horrible, so it should make her laugh. I love to see her laugh.

All of my brainstorming gets put on hold when I reenter my room. Eleanor lay just where I left her, only now she’s curled up on her side, knees drawn in to her chest. Half of my blanket is pulled around her body as she clutches the edge in a fist against her chest to keep herself wrapped like a taco. Her lips hang open, the bottom one making it look like she’s pouting as she takes long, hypnotic breaths.

I tiptoe into my room and close my door until it’s only open a crack. I move to my window and draw my shutters closed one section at a time, pausing before completely closing the last set to peer over at the Trombley place. Another car is parked in the driveway next to Morgan’s. It’s a Mercedes, an expensive-looking one. Lawyer maybe? I close off my view and glance at the sleeping beauty over my shoulder. I wonder when she last slept peacefully. I wonder if she’s sleeping peacefully now.

Scanning my room, I search for something to occupy my time, landing on my copy of Something Wicked This Way Comes. It’s askew from where Eleanor left it on the shelf. Taking it in my hand, I sink down to the carpet and crawl in slow motion toward the bed, hating that my knees pop when I move. Eleanor doesn’t seem to wake, so I lean my back against the side of my bed and cross my legs out in front of me. Her soft breath sighs just to the right of me, and before I crack open my book, I allow myself the privilege of staring at her this close. Her lashes are gold, like her hair, and there’s a trail of freckles that spans from one cheek to the other, crossing over her nose. It’s like God sprinkled her with cinnamon, my one and only pancake ingredient. I wish I could cover her better, or give her another pillow. But any movement might pull her out of whatever dream she’s managed to find, and in her sleep, she seems to be smiling.

I let her be and pull my phone from my pocket, switching on the flashlight so it’s just bright enough for me to read. I balance it against my chest and bring my knees up to lay the book flat and open against my thighs. And while sweet dreams hopefully carry on behind me, I dive into one of my favorite fictional nightmares.