Lark by Tracey Porter Read Free Book Online

and taps the ball just over the net so it’s impossible to return. He almost has dreadlocks. Anders’s hair is straight. My dad and I are ahead because he makes the most shots.
    Dad bought them the Ping-Pong table and turned the basement into his office. He has a tiny desk for his computer, a two-drawer file cabinet, and a few shelves of books. He used to work all the time when he lived with us. He stacked books in every room—on the dining table, the floor near his bed, the kitchen counter, and the coffee table. He took a laptop to bed every night. When he moved in with Hallie, he stopped stacking books and gave up his laptop.
    Anders serves me an easy shot, which I return, but of course I miss the next, and the next, and the next. I can’t do anything with a ball, no matter what size it is. The boys pull ahead, and my dad starts missing shots, on purpose, I think. I stop even trying. Anders and Zeke lose interest. They turn on the PlayStation and huddle over the controls. I guess the tournament is over.
    “Can we do something else?” I ask.
    Upstairs in the kitchen, Hallie is making bread. She gives me an apron and shows me how to dust the top of the dough with flour so it doesn’t stick when you knead it. There’s always a project when I come over, like baking, or making jewelry, or sewing tote bags out of old fabric she bought at a flea market. She set up her loom in the guest bedroom, the room where I sleep, and she’s promised to teach me how to weave a blanket.
    “That’s good,” she says as I fold the dough over on itself. She has Zeke’s curly hair—tight blond ringlets that start at her scalp and loosen at the ends. She’s wearing white yoga pants and a white long-sleeve T-shirt. A tiny gold Buddha dangles from a cord around her neck. A bracelet of rose quartz wraps around her wrist. Lark would say she’s too limber from all that yoga.
    “You better strengthen your core,” I tell her.
    “Think so?” she asks.
    Then she jumps into a whole new topic.
    “Your dad says you’re still home from school.”
    I start kneading with more enthusiasm. I sprinkle flour and fold and push and fold. If I do everything right, Hallie might drop the subject.
    She greases two bowls with a stick of butter. “He says you talk to the girl who died.”
    I throw the dough on the breadboard and slap it a few times.
    “Her name was Lark, right?”
    I toss the dough from one hand to the other. It’s smooth and elastic, and I can smell the yeast.
    “I talk to my therapist about Lark,” I tell her.
    “Good,” says Hallie. “It must be awful to know someone who died in such a terrible way.”
    “I try not to think about it,” I lie.
    I watch her divide and smooth the dough into two halves. She puts each one in a buttered bowl and covers them with tea towels.
    “Now what?” I ask.
    “Now we wait. You’ll see. They’ll double in size.”
    I lift the towels for one last look. It’s hard to believe the dough will rise to the towel, but two hours later it has. And then we punch it down and knead it some more, and then it rises again, and then we bake it. I can’t wait for it to cool, so Hallie lets me cut one loaf even though you shouldn’t cut warm bread. The butter melts as soon as I spread it. It runs between my fingers as I take my first bite. The taste is full and rich, a little salty sweet. It’s like I am eating a world of cottages and water mills, wildflowers and deer that come out of the forest to eat from my hand. Hallie watches me and smiles, and for a moment I almost forget where I am.

Chapter 17
Eve
    It’s almost seven fifteen, and I’m rushing through breakfast. My parents have been up for hours, as usual, working in their studios. They’re taking a coffee break, but also hanging out in the kitchen to check in with me before I go to school. It’s their new habit—checking my vitals from a distance. My mom creeps around and stares, then throws in little conversation openers, like
    “The kids