Welcome to the Dark House by Laurie Faria Stolarz Read Free Book Online Page A

the Clapton, I venture to touch a ’70s Black Beauty Les Paul
     Custom—the same model that Peter Frampton made famous with his album Frampton Comes Alive. The thing is an absolute stunner with its sleek black body and mother-of-pearl block
     inlays.
    I reach for a Gretsch, beyond stoked to see that it’s signed by Jack White from the
     White Stripes. Seriously, do I need to pinch myself?
    “What color is your blood?”
    I turn to find Garth there. This is his room too. “Man, you scared the crap out of
     me.”
    “What color is your blood?” he repeats.
    “I’m pretty sure it’s red, the last time I checked. Hey, are these your guitars, or
     do you know where they came from?”
    “ Do you check?” he persists. There’s a screwed-up smile on his face, like he just ate
     his family for lunch. “Do you cut your skin open and watch the blood leak out?”
    “Not lately.”
    “You do know that blood is actually blue, right? When it’s inside the body, running
     through the veins. It isn’t until you cut yourself open and the blood hits the air
     that it turns that red color.”
    “Except I’m pretty sure that’s a myth,” I say, thanks to Ms. Matthews, my science
     teacher back in middle school. This whole conversation feels pretty middle school,
     but I play along, trying to keep the peace. “The blue color you see in your veins,
     under the skin, is really just a darker red,” I tell him.
    “What do you say we put that theory to the test?” He wields his mighty pinky ring;
     there’s an arrow point at the very end—one that could probably do some damage.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I spot what appears to be an animal skeleton of some
     sort on the drafting table by the window.
    “Like it?” he asks, following my gaze. His eerie smile grows wider.
    I look away, unwilling to let his bullshit get the best of me, and resume checking
     out the guitars.
    “It belongs to a squirrel that pissed me off,” he continues. “Now, it’s a source of
     artistic inspiration. My good luck charm. Would you believe that I got stopped in
     the airport for carrying it? Security questioned me for over an hour. They went through
     all my bags and asked me if I’ve ever had thoughts of hurting others. I missed my
     connecting flight because of them. I was supposed to have traveled with Natalie and
     Taylor…both of whom I’ve yet to meet, by the way.”
    “And I should give a shit about any of this, because…” I turn to look at him again.
     He may be super tall, but I can tell that I’m at least twice his size—that beneath
     all those layers of gray, there’s the body of a scrawny seven-year-old kid.
    A second later, there’s a knock at the open door, interruptingus.
    Parker’s there. “Hey, you guys want to come check something out?”
    “Absolutely,” I say, returning the Gretsch to the rack, more than eager to ditch this
     freak.

T HE BOYS HERE ARE SUPER CUTE , and I’m super excited to get to know them more—to get to know everybody more—but my roommate is a buzzkill.
    “I want to go home,” Natalie says, sulking at the edge of her bed, her cell phone
     clenched in her hand.
    “Nonsense,” Midge tells her. “You’re just tired and probably hungry, but that’s nothing
     that some rest and a warm meal wouldn’t cure.”
    “Try clicking your heels together three times,” I joke.
    But Natalie’s not really the joking type. She stares down at her clunky black boots
     (for the record, Dr. Martens originals). I feel kind of sorry for her—and not because
     of her lack of style, though that’s pity rendering too. Having spent the last nine
     years at four different boarding schools, I’ve had my fair share of abrupt transitions
     and seen some nasty cases of homesickness. My best friend Dara’s included.
    “Maybe you could just give us a moment,” I tell Midge.
    “Sure,” she says, but she seems unsure, as if Natalie is a delicate flower that I
     could trample with one wrong step.