Thwonk by Joan Bauer Read Free Book Online

months—skiing in Aspen? I’ve got massive blisters from trudging around this town trying to find one lousy shot that commemorates teenage love!
”
    I stamped my foot, because I’d started to cry. “
I’m sorry!
” I wailed.
    I buried my head as the cupid sighed impatiently. How was I supposed to express myself as an artist when every time I tried to photograph something about teenage love, I heard this little voice say that I would love Peter Terris until the day I died and he would never even notice me?
    I was crying like a complete dolt, curled up in the fetal position on my purple Persian floor-pillow. The cupid glided over and handed me a tissue. “Blow,” he directed. “You need not fear this photography assignment. Art that reflects the heart and soul will always communicate with others.” He fluttered to the studio door. “You will sleep now, my friend.”
    My heart thumped wildly. “I don’t understand what’s happening!”
    “We can only hope that you will learn before it is too late,” the cupid responded solemnly. “We have been put together for a reason, Allison Jean McCreary. You need what I can teach you, and I”—he looked away sadly—“must right a wrong.”
    My sinuses throbbed.
    “My last Teenage Visitation was not deemed successful,” he continued. “When a cupid errs, he must right the wrong or he will never find peace.”
    I bolted up. “You
erred
?”
    “It was a combination of my failing and the young lady’s, I assure you.”
    “You’re not good at this?”
    “I much prefer visiting persons in their golden years, persons who have a wealth of life experience from which to—”
    “
I got a second-string cupid?
”
    He shot straight up, engulfed by fury. “
You will sleep!
”
    He fluttered his dinky wings.
    My feet started moving against my will; I stumbled downstairs to my bedroom with Stieglitz at my side. I shouted that no one could sleep with this amount of compacted stress in their lives; the teenage mind was not meant to carry such trauma!
    I flopped my head on my pillow and crashed into dreamland; don’t ask me why.

C HAPTER F IVE
    I woke up at 6:33 A.M. , not on my own. The cupid opened my blinds and announced, “Get up, my friend. There is much to accomplish.” He zoomed to the foot of my futon and perched there like a bird.
    “What…,” I stammered, “needs accomplishing?”
    He fluttered his wings, and pulled off my plaid quilt. “Get up,” he ordered. “I can only assist you if you get out of bed.”
    I shivered. “What happened with you and that other teenager?”
    The cupid glowed with irritation. “It is a personal issue that does not concern you.”
    “Everything about you concerns me.”
    “We will not speak of this again!” The cupid blew sky-high like a puny cannonball. “Wash, please!” He pushed me toward the bathroom and pulled the door open.
    I stood fast. “I want to know who you are, where you come from, and what’s going on on!”
    “
Silence!
” The cupid fluttered his tiny wings in irritation.
    I turned on the faucet and started washing my face like a machine that had been plugged in.
    “For some,” the cupid acknowledged, “trusting is a long journey.”
    I washed my face longer than usual, hoping that Neutrogena and water would bring clarity; they didn’t. The cupid handed me a face towel like a butler. “Please be dressed in ten minutes.”
    I clutched the towel.
    “And bring your camera.”
    He fluttered his wings, closed
my
bathroom door, and left me in the blackness of the final frontier.

    It was 7:13, Sunday morning. Stieglitz, the cupid, and I moved down the sun-soaked, frozen streets of Crestport, Connecticut, just as normal as you please. We turned by the police station and its somber, crime-busting hedges.The cupid did a triple back loop and dive-bombed a patrol car. I clung to a lamppost.
    Help!
I wanted to shout.
    “Turn right, please,” said the cupid.
    “Where are you taking me?”
    “To the