Lark by Tracey Porter Read Free Book Online Page A

at school must be really upset.” (Not really.)
    Or
    “Do you ever get frightened because of what happened to Lark?” (Yes.)
    Or
    “This must be very sad for you.” (It is.)
    “I talked with Lark’s parents last night,” says Dad. He’s sitting at the breakfast table with the paper spread out in front of him. My mother sips her coffee. Her apron is stained with clay fingerprints. “They’ve put the house on the market.”
    “Are you kidding?” I ask.
    “Seems like a good idea,” says my mom.
    “Maybe no one will buy it,” I say. “Who would want to buy the house where a dead girl lived?”
    “We live in a very good neighborhood,” says my father. “Even in this economy, I think it will sell quickly.”
    “I hope not,” I say. “I hope they decide to board it up for a while, then move back.” I can imagine all the furniture covered in white sheets and the shutters closed.
    My mom has something to say, but she’s unsure about how to bring it up. I can feel her trying to take my pulse from her vantage point at the stove. I hurriedly scoop up the last bits of cereal at the bottom of the bowl, hoping she’ll think I’m in too much of a rush to bother. It doesn’t work.
    “Eve, have you thought about taking that women’s self-defense class?”
    “No.”
    “I think it would be good for you.”
    “I think it would freak me out more.”
    She starts to say how the class might “empower” me, but I shush her before she gets it out.
    Last night it dropped below freezing. The last bits of snow froze over again. Tiny icebergs at the corners of driveways glint in the sun. Up ahead, some boys are packing them into hard snowballs and throwing them full force at one another. They’d sting like hell if they hit the neck or the face, but the boys don’t care. They’re aiming and throwing, running and dodging like they’re playing war. One of them isn’t wearing gloves, and his hands are pink with cold. He laughs and takes aim at his friend, who crouches behind a car. The wind has picked up. I tuck in my chin and brace against it.
    Throughout the day, my mind wanders between Lark’s house and my new book on Van Gogh. I don’t think about how Lark died anymore, more about little things, like what it’s going to be like to see a For Sale sign in her front yard and then how weird it will be if another family actually moves in. Mr. Haus goes on and on about the Persian wars and why the Greeks finally won. I’m copying his notes from the chalkboard and trying to finish the sketch of the fountain in the courtyard of Van Gogh’s asylum at the same time. Poor guy. He wore himself out looking for God and arguing with Gauguin. I’m drawing from memory, trying to capture the ellipse of the fountain and the sharp angles of the trees. My right hand is flying. My left is holding up my glasses so they don’t fall into my notebook. The bell rings, but I don’t move. My drawing is almost finished.
    “Eve,” Mr. Haus says softly. “You’re going to be late.”
    In Debate, Ms. Curren has mercifully decided it’s our group’s turn to research in the library. Scott and Darren give each other high fives. Judith takes the pass for the four of us, and off we trot. The boys take a side trip to shoot some hoops, while Judith and I dutifully hit the books.
    “Look for a quote from some expert or official,” Judith orders, passionless. “I’ll get some statistics about the high cost of research.”
    Between the two of us, we could finish all the research we need in about three hours. Darren and Scott are mostly a hindrance. We don’t even bother to think of something for them to do.
    I type in “opposition to stem cell research” and am flooded with hits. Senators, ministers, scientists, and right-to-life advocates all have something to say. There’s massive concern for the unborn. I scroll down until I find the speech of a molecular biologist who reminds us that Congress declared life begins at conception.