The Nest by Kenneth Oppel Read Free Book Online Page A

the nest. I was allergic, but they were too busy. They were busy with the baby and would be for the rest of their lives, so I had to do it. I didn’t know if these wasps were really from my dreams, but I wanted them off my house. I wanted them out of my dreams. That nest was coming down.
    I didn’t go all the way to the top. I stayed tworungs down, so I had something to hold on to. With the broom I reached as high as I could, and still it didn’t come anywhere near the nest.
    I mounted another rung. Now I had to reach down to hold on to the very top of the ladder. The broom came closer, the bristles just shy of the nest’s underside. I knew I didn’t have long. More wasps were gyrating around the nest now.
    I was just off to the right of the baby’s window, and there was a stone sill that stuck out a little bit, so I took hold of it in my left hand. I stepped onto the top rung. The ladder swayed and then settled down. My chest leaned against the brick wall, and I felt my jerky heartbeats, but it made me feel safer, something so solid against me. Tilting my face up, I slowly raised the broom, straining for the nest. I didn’t know how strong a swing I could give it without losing my grip—or my balance.
    First swing, and the bristles gently raked the bottom of the nest. The broom kept going. Grunting, I brought it back and tried again. It hit a little harder this time, and I saw some papery bits waft down.
    The wasps came. In a rush they dropped from the bottom of the nest and swarmed around the bristles of the broom. I gripped the very tip of the handle and was preparing to give it a big upward shove, when I was suddenly aware of a single wasp on my left hand, then a second on the knuckles of my right. I froze.
    Another landed on the little exposed circle of my face. I felt its tiny legs, the flex of its solid body. I didn’t yell. I couldn’t. All my instincts—to swat and flail about—had somehow been paralyzed. I was terrified they would sting, but they didn’t. They just stayed put. They were all over the broom now, crawling toward me.
    I let the broom drop. It clattered down the side of the ladder to the ground. The wasps swirled, and more landed on me, my clothing, my hands, my face, just staying very still. I wanted to reach for the EpiPen in my pocket, but I was afraid the wasps on my hand would sting if I moved. The ones on my face were blurry blots in my vision. But I knew they were there, motionless, their antennae pricked attentively, watching me with their compound eyes, smelling me.
    I took a downward step. Some of the wasps left my hands. I took another step. A few launched themselves from my forehead. Step by step more of them left. By the time my feet touched the ground, there wasn’t a single one on me.
    I looked up and saw the last of them disappearing back into the nest.

    A neighbor had seen me up on the ladder and called my parents.
    â€œWho was it?” I asked when Mom and Dad confronted me after dinner. I’d tried to be really careful and make sure no one was around in their backyards.
    â€œTheir English wasn’t good,” Dad said, shrugging. “I don’t know.”
    â€œBut that’s not important,” said Mom with forced patience. We were down in the kitchen. Nicole was already in bed. “What made you do something so dangerous?”
    I felt myself dig in. “I was careful. I wanted the nest down. What’s the big deal?”
    â€œFor starters, you’re allergic!” Mom said.
    â€œI had my EpiPen,” I muttered.
    â€œYou get stung enough times, that’s not going to help,” Dad said.
    â€œWell, maybe if I got some desensitization shots!” I told him.
    â€œWe’re a little busy around here, buddy,” Dad said, and I could tell by the look in his eyes, he was getting angry. Mom put a hand on his arm.
    â€œYeah, well, I’m allergic!” I said. “And no one seems