Melt by Selene Castrovilla Read Free Book Online Page A

valve.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â He stood in the doorway for a while, taking in my room—all my belongings, transplanted from Manhattan. Checking out my desk at the window, facing the water. It’s topped with my computer, books, and inspirational quotes in frames, my favorite being Emily Dickinson’s “Dwell in possibility ….” Turning toward my storage hutches lining the right wall, filled with baskets stuffed with stuff, everything from more books to DVDs to magazines to souvenirs from vacations with my parents. Looking up at my vintage iron chandelier with five individual lavender shades covering the bulbs, and strands of beads draped over the arms. Looking down at the chenille rainbow-striped rug. Across at the full-length antique iron mirror, next to my dresser. Finally his gaze landed on my vintage iron bed, white with a weathered finish. It’s surrounded with deep purple silk curtains on a cable system, and covered with fringe tassel bedding and a red, pink and violet calypso floral quilt and sham. It looks like Bohemian meets preppy, which kind of describes me. Joey headed to the bed, picked up my obese stuffed orangutan and gave him a squeeze. “That’s Ollie,” I told him.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Joey plopped Ollie back among the pillows and chuckled. Then he traced his fingers around one of the two throw pillows monogrammed in green with “DJF,” for Dorothy Jane Fields.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â â€œYou got your initials on your pillows?” he asked.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â â€œAnd my bathrobe,” I said.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â He laughed. “Is that is case you forget who you are?”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â That made me laugh. “I guess so. I never thought about why I had them before.”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â He walked back around my curtain, brushing against silk and stirring something inside me. He eyed the white trunk at the foot of the bed. “What’s in here?”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Amazing on how he zeroed in on my most private, embarrassing possession. “That’s my hope chest,” I told him. I smiled at his raised eyebrows. “It’s not like those chests girls put things in for when they get married. I put my hopes, my real hopes, in there. I put in pictures from magazines of things I aspire to and places I’d like to see. I put in poems expressing feelings I hope to feel, books I hope to memorize passages from and carry in my heart, articles from the newspaper about things I’d like to change in the world and ways I can make a difference; and I write down things I hope for—wishes and dreams.”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â â€œWow,” he said. He bent down and batted the chest’s brass handles, banging them on the wood. “Pretty big. Holds a lot of hope, huh.”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â â€œYeah, I guess.” I was guessing a lot, all of a sudden.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â He smiled that little smile of his, with an added twist of wistful. “Maybe you could, like, share some with me sometime.” His eyes were big and bright with that plea again, like in Dunkin’ Donuts. Like something inside was desperate to break through, break free. “I could use some hope.”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â â€œSure,” I told him. “We can open up the chest anytime you want. Or even better, I’ll help you find hope that’s all your own.”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â He studied me for a second, his gaze steadier now. “Good luck,” he said.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â We sat on my bed, staying at the corner and keeping our feet on the rug just in case one of my parents popped in. First we talked about them for a bit—as I said, he totally defended them. Then he asked, was it okay to tell me now? Could he tell me about himself? And to tell you the truth, I would’ve loved to not know because he looked so sad about it all it had to be bad,