Lark by Tracey Porter Read Free Book Online Page B

Therefore, harvesting stem cells is tantamount to murder. It’s irritating to take notes on why the government shouldn’t help scientists find cures for diabetes and multiple sclerosis, but I’m happy to be here and not in the classroom. My pen glides across paper.
    Behind me there’s a rustle of backpacks and chimes from a cell phone. A mob of juniors pulls in. They descend on the computers, and the guy sitting down on my right is Ian, the writer for the paper, the guy whose eyes met mine at the end of the pep rally.
    “Hey,” he says.
    “Hey,” I say back.
    “You knew Lark Austin, right?”
    My face gets warm. My answer is muffled, like I’m speaking through a scarf. “Yes.”
    “I did, too.”
    “How?” I ask. His eyes are the blue in Starry Night , expansive and cobalt, surrounded by black lashes. My heart stirs a little, like it’s swimming inside me. If I ever wanted to draw him, I’d have to use colored ink—maybe Bombay blue.
    “Lark took journalism last year.”
    “She gave it up for gymnastics,” I say.
    “Yeah, I remember. Too bad. She was a good writer. I drove her home once. I think I saw you. You live next door, right?”
    He reaches over the keyboard to shake my hand.
    “I’m Ian.”
    “I’m Eve.”
    His hand touches mine. There are muscles where the fingers meet the palm, and the hollow is deep, like it could cup water.
    “How are her parents?” he asks.
    “Not very good. They want to move.”
    “I don’t blame them,” he said.
    He logs on while I print out the speech of the molecular biologist. Scott and Darren tumble by to see if there’s anything to do. They’re red faced from shooting hoops in the cold. Their hats are on backward. All they need are little propellers and they could be Tweedledee and Tweedledum. They’re making a ruckus, dropping books and dissing each other. The librarian threatens to send them back to class. I get the speech from the printer and hand it to them.
    “Read this,” I say. “Look for a quote we can use in our opening remarks.”
    When I get back to the computer, Ian is looking at my sketchbook.
    “Hey!” I say, grabbing it back.
    “Sorry,” he says, “but you left it open. I didn’t touch it. You’re so good!”
    “No,” I say. The sharp corner stabs the pad of my thumb.
    “Yes! I like that old lady, and the windmill along the canal. Have you been to the Netherlands?”
    “No,” I say, “but I’d like to. . . . I’m into Van Gogh. I’m studying his art. I copy a lot of his drawings.”
    “That’s cool. I thought Van Gogh was famous for his paintings.”
    “He is, but I like his drawings better.”
    “That’s cool,” he said. “There are lots of great abandoned buildings in the Netherlands. You into that—ruined buildings taken over by nature?”
    “Sounds interesting.”
    “It is,” he says. He’s focused and lit up, like all sorts of ideas are firing inside his brain. “I know a bunch of cool websites to check out.”
    I’m dying to hear more, but his friend calls out from the magazine rack. “Hey, Ian,” he says. “Here’s that interview you were talking about.”
    “Gotta go,” he tells me. “Talk to you later.”
    He bounds over to his crowd of juniors, not bothering to log off the computer.
    Days later, he’s in the hall with the other journalism students passing out the new issue of the paper. He points to the story about Lark on the front page. There’s a photo of a grief counselor talking to a class, and another one of students huddling at a table in the library drawing pictures and writing poems.
    “Why isn’t there a picture of Lark?” I ask.
    “Look at the back.”
    The entire back page is a blowup of Lark’s school portrait. Underneath, in wispy font, it says,
    Lark Austin
Forever in our hearts
Finally, you can fly. . . .
    “It’s disgusting,” I say.
    “I know.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean, ‘Finally, you can fly’?”
    “It’s supposed to ‘honor her love for