The Cemetery Boys by Heather Brewer Read Free Book Online Page A

some sign that his wisdom was sinking in. The only response I gave him was to pull the small leather book from my back pocket, the one I’d found on the sidewalk last night, and ruffle its pages with my thumb. Finally, he gave up and walked back inside.
    As if he had any right to offer me fatherly advice. After all he was putting me through.
    I turned the book over in my hand, examining it closely. In the dark, I’d thought it might be somebody’s Bible or something. Now I could see the cover was red leather, but so worn that it looked almost brown. The material felt soft in my palm as I peeled back one cover and let the pages flip quickly between my fingers. It turned out it wasn’t a Bible at all, but a crazy sketchbook or somebody’s journal. Somebody who apparently had a thing for birds—there were scratchy drawings of wings on almost every page, as well as words. It occurred to me that this might belong to Devon, since he was the one who’d been standing outside my house last night, and I’d found the journal right where he’d been. As soon as I had the thought, I wanted to see what was in the journal more than ever—but I also felt like I was invading his privacy somehow. I decided I’d give the journal back to Devon the second he asked for it. But if he didn’t ask for it . . . I shoved it in my pocket, emptied my bottle of water, and retrieved my knife from where I’d dropped it in the driveway.
    I’d just made it to my bedroom to grab more boxes and then maybe take a much-needed nap when a voice from behind me stopped me cold.
    â€œThat doesn’t go there, Harold!”
    It was an older woman’s voice, coming from the open front door of the house that I was supposed to be viewingas home. It was weird to hear my dad called Harold, as he had gone by “Rollie” for as long as I could remember. It had to be her, Dad’s mom, my grandmother. Who else would be yelling at him like he was a child? I turned my head to get a look at her.
    The woman standing at the front door wore a pinched expression on her face, and judging from her frown lines I guessed that that was pretty much the only expression she ever wore, no matter what her mood was. Her eyelids were painted in thick blue, her lips lined in a color that was distinctly darker than the rest of her mouth. Her hair was pulled back tightly from her face and carefully wound into a bun that sat atop her head. She was dressed in powder-blue polyester slacks, with a silky top that had more flowers than I’d ever seen in one place before. Her blouse was buttoned all the way to her neck, but the buttons were hidden by a large ruffle. This had probably been stylish fifty years ago.
    The line of her mouth struck me as very familiar. It only took me a moment to identify it as my dad’s mouth—or to realize that my grandmother also had my dad’s nose. I guess it was the other way around, really. He didn’t have her eyes, though. I did.
    As those eyes fell on me, the left corner of her mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not even the hint of one. Just a twitch. Like a bad taste had settled in her mouth or something. Shedidn’t say anything to me, but instead spoke to my dad as she looked at me through a veil of disapproval. “I won’t put up with messes, Harold. The boy looks unkempt. Does he keep his room clean?”
    If I’d ever wanted to know what it felt like to be the Invisible Man, I was getting a good taste of it then. But I wasn’t about to be ignored. You could do whatever you wanted to me, but I was a person. Don’t ignore me. Don’t pretend like I don’t exist, when I’m standing directly in front of you. “Hi. I’m Stephen. You must be my grandmother. Nice to meet you.”
    She looked me up and down with a sour purse of her lips, then went back to pretending I wasn’t there at all. “He looks dirty. Didn’t you and that wife