Murder at Barclay Meadow by Wendy Sand Eckel Read Free Book Online

the time the two-hour class ended, I felt completely inadequate. Glenn was a beautiful writer, his words as crisp as his starched shirt. Sue’s writing was flowery and descriptive and touching. I could picture her mother and father huddled on a small boat, Sue swaddled in her mother’s arms as they fled North Korea. Even Tony had a few compelling pages. He was framing his story around a love for baseball—the successes and failures in his life paralleling those of the Boston Red Sox.
    When it came to me, I explained my dilemma. How does one write about a life lived for others? Who would be interested in my experiences as a PTA president or volunteer in a school library? I had joked that I could write about my driving finesse on the beltway or how I could rock a Sudoku puzzle, but the only person who smiled was Tony, and I think he was trying to look down my blouse at the time.
    Everyone asked questions trying to steer me in some sort of direction. But the crux of it was this: How do I write about a life I thought was ideal—the envy of others—when in fact it was all a lie? It was as if a tsunami had rolled over my world, washing away everything I assumed was solid and constant and true.
    Jillian frowned. “Surely there is something interesting. I mean, did your daughter have any sort of medical problem—like allergies or a learning disability?”
    The only thing I could come up with was that Annie had been slow to potty train and wore a pullup until she was three.
    I left the class feeling completely humiliated. I flinched when I felt Jillian’s hand on my shoulder. “Look, Rosalie, you’ll come up with something. Don’t go jump off a bridge or anything.”

 
    F IVE
    Annie Hart
    Can’t wait for parents’ weekend. Mom promised retail therapy after the rugby match!
    You and four others like this.
    Annie was on the ground, arms over her head, while a mass of much taller and broader young women pushed and shoved and kicked above her. I watched in terror as she crawled out of the melee.
    â€œKill her,” a voice shouted behind me. I looked over my shoulder. A group of very drunk college boys were lined up against a chain-link fence, each with one hand hooked in his jeans pocket and the other holding a plastic cup full of foamy beer.
    I turned back to the match. Annie had gotten up. Dirt dotted her knees and strands of her silky brown hair were coming loose from the ponytail perched high on her head. A teammate tossed her the ball and she broke into a run. Get rid of it, I thought. Pass it! But another girl had already wrapped her arms around Annie’s waist and slammed her to the ground. And there she was again, arms covering her head while the scrum continued.
    The air was autumn crisp, just cool enough to invite wool sweaters and light jackets. Dried leaves dropped lazily from the trees and cirrus clouds streaked the turquoise sky. I was glad to see the sun. Last night’s rain had been unending—the kind of night made for snuggling. But I was in my king-size hotel bed, feeling dwarfed and very alone. I had listened to heavy drops batter the window for hours, until they at last drummed me to sleep.
    That morning, after three cups of weak hotel coffee, I had put some effort into my appearance. I wanted Annie to be proud when she introduced me to her friends. Although I was in a pair of jeans Annie had left behind, they were cut right and faded in places the designer intended. My hair was styled, my lips glossed, and I had looped a scarf around my neck. My only compromise was a pair of sensible shoes. I had wanted to wear a pair of high-heeled boots, not only to accent the outfit but to give me a little boost of height. But the rain-soaked grass was already turning to muck, so I settled on a pair of plain black flats.
    I looked around at the crowd. Duke students and their parents dotted the sidelines. I thought of Megan’s parents who probably never