River's Edge by Marie Bostwick Read Free Book Online Page A

after she became too ill to sit at the bench beside me, when I had played to ease her pain and my own because it was the only remedy I knew, then or now. I played furiously, giving myself up to the music, pouring all my frustrations into the keyboard.
    The Mullers listened patiently, never urging me to finish up, never looking at their watches. They just sat in the front pew and listened.
    By the time I’d finished and we left the church, the trees were making lacy shadows on the ground. I was exhausted. I must have fallen asleep in the truck because I didn’t remember the drive to the Mullers’ house or getting into the small bed with the strange coverlet decorated with multicolored stars that I later learned was called a quilt.
    In the morning I woke to the sound of cutlery clinking against plates and the murmur of conversation. I heard many different voices downstairs and supposed I must be the only one who was still in bed. I got up, rebraided my hair as quickly as I could, and put on the blouse and skirt that were laid out for me at the end of my bed.
    Mrs. Muller was the first to spot me standing tentatively at the foot of the stairs. “Good morning, Elise. Did you sleep well?” she asked cheerily. I nodded. “Good. You were so tired last night that we didn’t bother to wake you for supper. You must be hungry. I’ll get you an egg and some toast.”
    I looked around for a maid or cook, but apparently Mrs. Muller intended to make my breakfast herself. She reached for an apron that hung on a hook near the stove and started pulling bowls and plates off a shelf. “Carl, why don’t you make the introductions.”
    Reverend Muller drained the last of his coffee in one gulp and held out the empty cup for his wife to refill. “All right. Let’s start with the oldest,” he said, gesturing to the boy on his right, who was, like his father, tall and well-muscled, but the resemblance ended there. In fact, he looked almost nothing like his father or any of his siblings. In place of their unruly, reddish to auburn curls and blue eyes, this boy had serious dark eyes and a head of thick, straight hair in a shade of brown that was close to my own. The other Mullers were light-skinned and, except for the girl, freckled. Spring had only just begun, yet this boy was already bronzed by the sun. I thought he must be at least seventeen, but I later learned he’d only turned fifteen a few weeks before. “This is Carl Muller the third, but everyone just calls him Junior. It’s less confusing that way.” Junior nodded his head in greeting, but his eyes darted away when they met mine. He seemed shy.
    â€œNext is Coral, our only daughter. You two are just about the same age.”
    Coral’s hair was done in two long braids down her back, but that was the only girl-like thing about her appearance. She wore blue denim coveralls, just like her brothers and, like them, had her father’s red hair and her mother’s heart-shaped face and blue eyes. In spite of her red hair, she didn’t have a single freckle. Her complexion was china-doll pink.
    She smiled at me easily, “Nobody calls me Coral except Papa. Just call me Cookie. You’re fourteen, too?” she inquired. Then, without waiting for an answer, said, “We’ll be in the same class at school in the fall. We’ll have Miss Gleason as our teacher next year. She is the nicest in the school. You’ll like her.” The girl was so friendly and outgoing that I couldn’t help but smile back at her even while I wondered at her strange clothes and even stranger name. What in the world did “Cookie” mean?
    Reverend Muller continued with his introductions. “Those two troublemakers sitting near the stove are the twins, Charles and Chester, but everyone calls them Chuck and Chip.” The two boys looked as much alike as two bookends. It would not take me long to realize that