What Curiosity Kills by Helen Ellis Read Free Book Online

above their heads, and toss it backward so it will plunge to land at their heels. As the parachute descends upon me, I spy Nick spy me. My panic registers on his face. Before everything goes black (or mustard yellow, to be exact), he falls forward into a pushup position and rolls toward me, under the seam, before the parachute hits the floor.
      We're covered. Trapped. Nick clutches my wrist.
      I turn my head but don't see him. The deflated parachute has filled in the space between us. There is not a lot of air. I won't waste my breath. I wriggle my wrist to signal him that I'm okay.
      The coach blows her whistle: three short tweets, then three long, then three short. Maybe she thinks all Purser-Lilley kids spend weekends watching Turner Classic Movies and learned Morse code for SOS from Inspector Poirot in Death on the Nile. It doesn't take the coach long to figure out that i n case of emergency, her students only know how to respond by whipping out their cell phones. If I suffocate, I bet Ling Ling will use my death to spearhead a movement to get cell phones reinstated.
    Coach shouts, "Help them!"
      You'd think the girls would return to their spots along the seam and lift the parachute off of us like a manhole cover. Nope. Some decide to take hold and drag it off. Others get the same brilliant idea but take hold of the other side. They have themselves a tug-of-war. Pulled taut, the parachute is close to the floor. It slides back and forth. Girls' feet slip under the surface. The material is abrasive. My hair, full of static, clings to it. Nick and I rock and roll from the friction beneath the parachute until I am rolled completely on top of him.
      My back aligns with his chest. His muscular thighs rub the backs of mine. His breath raises me up. I am bound, but I'm floating. Oh, my God, to be this close to Nick Martin! This isn't the way I imagined it would be, but I'll take it. I pray we never get out from under this. Sure, it will be a strange compromised life, but I can live with it.
      Nick spits out a chunk of my hair.
      Coach shouts, "Boy!"
      Obviously, since Purser-Lilley doesn't let us have coed gym, there is no way our double lump under the parachute is allowed.
      Nick fidgets.
      My socks start to inch their way down. My orange fur itches to get out. If Nick sees what I'm hiding, I'll never stand a chance with him. If Ling Ling sees, I'll never hear the end of it. I can't let my socks come off.
      I throw my body into Pilates teaser pose, which is me sending legs and arms up, as straight as rigor mortis, so I look like a V. All my weight sinks into Nick's gut. He squirms. I flail and claw to escape my yellow hell. I flip to my hands and knees, bellycrawl to the light. Gasping for breath, I rise to meet the rest of the girls' slack-jawed stares. From the outside of the parachute, Nick and I must have looked like two Mexican jumping beans in a pea pod. Kinky.
      "Yum, yum, gimme some!" a voice howls in delight.
      You can guess whose sister said that. I don't even bother looking toward Octavia, who is doubled over laughing and pretending to try to get a grip on herself.
      The twins' porcelain-doll complexions burn the palest of pinks.
      Ben and the coach grapple to peel the crumpled parachute off Nick. His eyes are squeezed shut. I've knocked the wind out of him. Does he feel the weight of the girls' collective scrutiny upon him like another parachute? His breath slows. His chest rattles. His face slackens. He snorts. Or is that a snore?
      "Asleep like Mary was yesterday!" cries Ling Ling. "Mary's so contagious, she's a walking canker sore!"
      "Watch your mouth, Lebowitz," Coach says. "This is your one warning."
      Ben kicks the toe bumper of Nick's untied sneaker. That jars him. He springs to his feet.
      "Sorry, Coach," he says calmly—as if he wasn't laid out under me under a deflated parachute nor snuck in a ten-second nap afterward.
      Coach says, "There is a