The Snow by Caroline B. Cooney Read Free Book Online Page B

drafts. “I turned on the electric blanket after the Shevvingtons left,” Anya whispered, “so the mattress would get hot for you.”
    Usually Christina hated the electric blanket. She wanted the layers of wool to weight her down. Now the hot blanket was hope and safety.
    “There,” said Anya, rubbing Christina’s feet, “you’re all right now.” Under the covers, they wrapped their arms around each other until Christina stopped shivering.
    “Anya?” said Christina.
    “Mmmmm?”
    “Are you back?”
    “What do you mean, Chrissie? I’ve never been away. I’ve lived here for a long, long time.”
    “But — you waited up for me.” Be sane again, Anya, pleaded Christina silently, like prayers. Be my friend, I need a friend, I need you on my side. And you’re older than me. Oh, Anya, I want somebody older than me! When I was a little girl on the island, I always wanted to be the oldest. I wanted to be in charge and decide everything and run the show.
    I was wrong, Anya. It’s awful being the oldest.
    Anya, be the oldest! Come back! I need you, Anya.
    “I hardly ever sleep,” Anya said. “I just lie there and listen to the sea. The sea keeps count, you know. It wants one of us. I don’t mind if it’s me. But I don’t want it to be you.”
    She still isn’t back, Christina thought. I can’t tell her about tonight. I still don’t have an ally. It isn’t the sea who is the enemy.
    Christina wanted to weep for Anya or for herself. But she was too tired. She slept.
    Anya lay awake, her black hair draping the pillows. She dreamed no dreams; she thought no thoughts. She was empty.
    In the morning, at breakfast, Christina clung to Anya. She thought that Mr. Shevvington was watching her more than usual and that Mrs. Shevvington bent closer than usual, but perhaps she was wrong. Mr. Shevvington’s soul was hidden by his elegant clothing, and he stayed smooth and gleaming, no matter how dirty his deeds. Mrs. Shevvington’s soul was hidden by a body so thick and solid it had no feminine curves whatsoever. Her little black eyes were holes in her flat face, and when she smiled her little yellow teeth lay in rows like corn on the cob.
    They did not look as if they belonged together. Grown-ups were always startled when they first met Mr. Shevvington’s wife, with her complexion like oatmeal. What does he see in her? they would whisper afterwards, for he was inspiring and she was a pudding.
    Dolly sat, thin as a rag doll, in her chair next to Mrs. Shevvington. “I washed the windows in my bedroom again,” she said, her voice high and trembly.
    Salt spray from the whipping waves below the cliffs constantly turned the windows opaque. Christina loved the feathery scrawls of frost, but Dolly whimpered. “They close me up,” she said fretfully to Christina. “They stitch me inside my room. They turn my room into the inside of a sleeping bag.”
    “Don’t say that out loud,” Christina whispered. “You must not let the Shevvingtons hear you say that.”
    But Dolly thought Christina was just being hard. She turned to Mr. Shevvington and told him, because he cared when a person was afraid of something. “Poor Dolly,” he said. “You’re afraid you might suffocate, aren’t you?” He smiled.
    Then he walked them to the front door, checking that everybody had a book bag and gym shoes.
    “And there’s another thing,” said Dolly, although Christina was signaling her not to talk about it. “I don’t like the balcony or the way the bathroom door opens onto the stairs. I don’t even like the stairs. Please, may I have a bedroom on the second floor instead? Nobody ever stays in the guest rooms. Please, may I have a guest room? So I don’t have to go all the way up to the third floor? I’m afraid I’ll fall. At night I can’t even go to the bathroom because I’m afraid I might trip over the railing.” Dolly shivered with her fear of heights.
    “You must learn to cope with your fears,” said Mr.