Amity by Micol Ostow Read Free Book Online Page A

felt so distant in my head, you know … but I didn’t care.
    “Or maybe you have something here,” I went on. “I’m looking for a latch, you know, like for a shed. To keep the front doors closed. Even a set of chains and padlock would be good, if you had hooks for the chains. I’ve got a drill at home to get the hardware onto the doors.”
    Hell, maybe a padlock would be better . Maybe I could find a way to make that boathouse my own little hideout, or something. There had to be a way to make that happen, no matter what dear old Dad’s plans were for the place.
    When I wanted something, I usually found a way to make it happen. And now the static in my head was swarming, like a nest of wasps, buzzing, all eager, like really into the thought of making the boathouse my own. Right now that felt like a pretty terrific idea.
    “I guess the wood might be pretty old, so I’m not sure how solid it is. But I’m pretty handy with a drill, so I think I could make do.” I’d always been good with power tools, even before I started working part-time at the dealership, before I had any good reason to be handling drills.
    The man behind the counter pulled the toothpick out of his mouth. He tossed it under the counter, where there might have been a trash can. He slapped one hand down on the Formica and leaned forward, the paunch of his midsection flopping over the edge of the counter.
    “Yeah, I guess that wood’s pretty old,” he said, squinting until his eyes were mean, narrow little slits that were probably supposed to intimidate me. “Rotten. You’re not going to get a drill through that crap.”
    I stepped a little bit closer. “You don’t even—”
    “—’Course I do. Amity, right?”
    My face got hot and my throat felt tight. I must’ve given myself away. That didn’t happen too often.
    His friend, the one who’d been so determined not to look me in the eye, finally pivoted, swiveled on one scuffed-up work boot. “You can’t come to a place small as Concord and expect people aren’t going to notice.”
    Well, that was bad news for my dad, who had been hoping just that—that we’d come here and lie low for a while. That he’d outrun or just plain wait out his debts. But it made sense. A place as small as Concord? It was anonymous, yeah. But also—
    “—you can’t expect people aren’t going to notice newcomers, not around here,” the friend went on, rubbing a grease-stained thumb against his forefinger. “And you can’t expect nothing to go into the wood at Amity. That place is rotted to the bone.”
    “To the bone,” the man behind the counter agreed in a nasty singsong, sniggering. Wet little flecks of snot and dust floated in the air in front of his face, catching in those sour yellow overhead lights.
    I nodded, those wasps in my brain flapping their wings real insistent now. “Are you …?” Are you trying to tell me something?
    The shop worker waved a hand. “Couldn’t if we wanted to.” As if he could hear what I was thinking out loud.
    “Amity’s different for everyone.” His friend hitched up his pants with a squeaking little groan. Finally, he faced me direct, and nodded, sharp, right at me. “You just let us know how itgoes for you.” His tone said he meant just the opposite, that neither of them thought I’d be back to tell tales.
    That I probably wouldn’t get out, get away from the house again.
    Are they right?
    But more than that—did I care?
    The wasps rushed forward, so determined it was all I could do to keep myself from moving forward with them, from grabbing both of these guys right around their pudgy necks and wringing until their faces were the same bright red that flashed in my eyes, on my tongue, under my fingertips.
    I thought: Never mind .
    I thought: Things would be just fine for me, with Amity. I wasn’t like most people.
    I wasn’t the one who had anything to worry about.
    “Thanks anyway,” I said, short.
    I decided to go straight back to Amity.