A Breath of Eyre (5 page)

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Authors: Eve Marie Mont

BOOK: A Breath of Eyre
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I told them I’d been listening to a lot of British bands lately—Coldplay, Snow Patrol, A Silent Film. “Ahh,” he said. “Emma’s crushing on the Brit boys.”
“Guilty as charged. I have a pretty big soft spot for Chris Martin.”
“Why do girls always fall for the sensitive, brooding guys?” he said.
“Because they think they can fix them,” Michelle said. “Not me. Give me an insensitive asshole any day of the week. I enjoy beating them into submission.”
Owen chuckled. “How about a perpetually nice American boy?” he said. “I don’t stand a chance, do I?”
“I don’t know,” Michelle said. “I’ve never tried one before.” A charged look passed between them, and I wondered how long it would be before Michelle and Owen hooked up.
We decided to leave the stables when it got dark, but the afternoon spent with Owen seemed to have broken some chinks in the wall that stood between Michelle and me. All through dinner, we continued chatting about music and movies and other normal roommate topics.
Later that night, we sat on our beds reading excerpts from James Boswell’s
Life of Samuel Johnson,
which Mr. Gallagher insisted on calling Boswell’s
Johnson,
making the class erupt into fits of immature giggles. Michelle made some crude joke lamenting the length of Boswell’s
Johnson,
and I threw my pillow across the room at her. She responded by tossing her book at me. My hand darted up to shield my face.
“Hey, I don’t want your
Johnson,
” I said.
“Get enough
Johnson
on your own?”
“You’re disgusting,” I said, laughing in spite of myself. I tossed her book back to her and saw my necklace drop onto the bed. “Look, you broke my necklace.”
“Here, give it to me and I’ll fix it,” she said, reaching across our beds. I handed the necklace to her, feeling naked without the weight of it on my chest. “The clasp is loose,” she said. “I’m gonna bend it back in place, but it should hold for a while. This is gorgeous, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
She held the dragonfly up to the light and inspected the markings. “Do you know what this pattern is?”
“I think it might be Celtic or something. It was my mother’s. Her family came from Scotland.”
She passed the necklace back to me. “You never told me what happened to your mom. How she died.”
I refastened the necklace and let the pendant drop onto my chest. “She had a bad heart,” I said. “I was only eight when she died.”
“That must have been hard. Losing your mom so young.”
“Yeah, but in a way, I think it’d be worse to lose her now.” Michelle bristled, like she’d gotten a sudden chill. “I’m sorry,” I said. “We don’t have to talk about this.”
“No, it’s okay. I brought it up.” She picked up the photo of her mom from her dresser and brought it over to my bed. “You’ve probably wondered what’s with all my red clothes,” she said. I tried to pretend the thought had never crossed my mind. “Come on, don’t say you haven’t noticed. It’s weird, I know. It’s just, red was my mom’s favorite color. We buried her in her red riding jacket. So red is sort of like ... my talisman. When I’m wearing red, I feel like no harm can come to me. Like my mom’s protecting me. Does that sound stupid?”
“No,” I said. “It doesn’t sound stupid at all.”
All this time, I’d been thinking Michelle was about science and reason, facts and figures, but there was a side to her that believed her mother was watching over her from beyond the grave. I had spent half my life feeling abnormal and broken, like I was missing some puzzle piece that made everyone else complete. But if someone as cynical as Michelle believed a red sweater could bring her closer to her mom, then maybe I could find my own way of reaching my mother. I tugged on my necklace and uttered a silent prayer to her, hoping I hadn’t waited too long to try and find her.
C
HAPTER
4
T
he stables quickly became our go-to place to do homework or talk or just to get away from the girls in the dorm, since Elise and her twisted little cult had commandeered the lounge. Owen became a frequent visitor, and I began looking forward to seeing his face pop up over the loft ladder. His dimpled smile was so warm and sincere I found myself trying to be funny around him just so I could bear witness to its glamour.
One day we were hanging out, Michelle doing math homework, me writing in my journal, and Owen messing around on his guitar, doing his best to distract us. He never seemed to have any schoolwork.
“Emma?” he said, like he was about to ask me a favor. “Let me read something from your journal.”
“Um, how about no?”
“Come on. I’ve shown you some of the songs I wrote.”
“That’s different.”
“How is it different?”
“It just is.”
He stretched his lanky arms over his head and whined. “It’s such a tease to watch you scribbling away in that thing and not know what you’re writing about.”
“It’s not as fascinating as you think,” I said. “In fact, it’s pretty awful.”
“Don’t feel bad,” Michelle said. “She won’t show me either.”
“I won’t show anyone!” I said.
“Why not?” Owen asked.
“It’s too embarrassing.”
“If you don’t share your writing, what good is it?” Michelle asked. “Come on, show us something. One little poem. One teensy-weensy little rhyme?”
I laughed. “No way,” I said. “You’ll make fun of me.”
“We promise we won’t,” Owen said, putting his pinkie out and making Michelle do a pinkie swear. He gave me an endearing smile and mouthed the word “Please.”
I sighed loudly. Something about Owen’s face made him seem utterly trustworthy. “Okay, I’ll let you read something on one condition.”
“What?” Michelle said.
“You take the written qualification test.”
Michelle shot daggers at me with her eyes.
“Qualification test for what?” Owen asked.
“For the equestrian competition in West Springfield,” I said. Michelle pursed her lips together, trying to squelch her anger.
“You ride?” Owen said.
“Used to,” she said. “Long story.”
“Well?” I said, dangling my journal in front of her. “What’s it going to be?”
After several seconds of consideration, she said, “Fine. But only the qualifying exam. I can still back out after that.”
“Fair enough.”
Reluctantly, I leafed through my journal, looking for anything acceptable to share. I found a poem I’d just started a few days before, called “From the Dark Bower.” The title was an allusion to a Countee Cullen poem I’d read last year called “From the Dark Tower,” a sonnet about the frustration black America felt as they struggled to survive the racism of the 1920s. My poem didn’t come close to Cullen’s in terms of structure or imagery or eloquence of language, but I sort of liked it anyway.
“I’m only sharing this with you guys because you pinkie swore,” I said, smiling at Owen and handing Michelle my journal.
“Aren’t you going to read it to us?” she asked.
“I’d rather die, thanks.”
I closed my eyes and covered my face with my hands, cringing at the prospect of hearing my own words read aloud. Michelle stood up and cleared her throat, then proceeded to read. The first line sounded too loud and dramatic, but once she settled into the poem, she found the right rhythm and tone:
“You laugh at us from your ivory tower
As we sit below in our earthen bower.
You hurl epithets from golden roofs,
Fling arrows from atop golden hooves.
Sticks and stones may break our bones,
But words ... ah, words alone
Can slice through bone.
We try to turn the other cheek—
You know not what you do or speak.
And yet we hate your petty din;
We feel our patience wearing thin.
One day you’ll find our cheeks won’t turn;
The golden rule we soon shall spurn,
Until this lesson you do learn—
Those who burn us soon will burn.”
Michelle and Owen sat silent for a moment. And then we heard clapping coming from below, followed by obnoxious laughter.
Owen was the first to peer down, and Michelle and I followed. Elise, Amber, Jess, and Chelsea were standing at the foot of the loft stairs giggling. The sickly sweet stench of marijuana wafted upward.
“What do you want, princess?” Owen asked.
“Nothing, stable boy,” Elise said. “We were just enjoying Michelle’s enlightening poetry. What ever was she talking about, girls? It sounded like she was threatening us.”
“The poem wasn’t about you,” Michelle said.
“I particularly like the line, ‘Sticks and stones may break our bones.’ Highly original.”
“Shut up, Elise,” Owen said. “Why don’t you go back to killing brain cells?”
“Oh, that’s the pot calling the kettle black. Get it?” she said. “Pot?” The other girls threw their heads back and screamed as if this was hilarious, and Owen rolled his eyes. Elise walked to the stall where Odin stood and gave him a pat. “So, Michelle, I hear that in addition to being a marvelous poet, you’re going to try out for the equestrian competition.”
“Where’d you hear that?” Michelle said.
“I have my spies.”
“So what if I am?” she said.
“It’s just that Odin and I have been riding together for five years. We practically share a brain when we’re in the arena. Do you own a horse?”
“Of course not,” Michelle said.
Elise snorted, and Odin echoed her, stamping his hoof on the ground. “If you’re just starting to work with a horse this fall, it’s going to be tough to get in sync with him by the competition in May.”
“I’ll take that into consideration,” Michelle said. I smiled to myself. Elise’s taunts would only make Michelle more motivated to compete.
“Well,” Elise said, sighing dramatically, “we’ll leave you three to your rhyming couplets. Bye, Owen.” She winked up at him, and Owen looked like he wanted to jump down and throttle her.
How can Gray Newman be dating this girl?
Michelle’s jaw was rigid. “I didn’t think I could hate her any more than I already did.”
“Why didn’t you tell her it was my poem?” I asked.
“What’s the point? Let her think it’s mine if she wants to. She hates me anyway. No need to drag you into it.”
“Now the critical question is, are you going to kick her ass in the competition?” Owen asked.
Michelle frowned. “I don’t have a horse. I don’t have money for training.”
“I might be able to help you there,” Owen said. “Let me talk to my dad.”
“Oh, right. Just run to Daddy.”
“He’s trying to help, Michelle,” I said. “Can you lay off the sarcasm?”
Michelle pouted. “Sorry. Defense mechanism.” In that way, Michelle and I were very much alike.
“My dad likes finding causes,” Owen explained. “It’s good for tax breaks.”
“But he hasn’t met me yet,” Michelle said.
Owen shrugged. “That can be remedied. I’m sure he’ll agree to sponsor you if I offer something in return.”
“Like?”
“Entrepreneurial camp?” I said.
Owen laughed and nodded. “Exactly.”
We promised to meet again next Friday, same time, same place. As Michelle and I walked back to the dorms, I suggested she talk to Loughlin about training with Curry. She nodded distractedly while a smile played at her lips.
“Want to let me in on the joke?” I said.
“Hmm?”
“Are you aware that you’re smiling?” Her mouth peeled into an exaggerated frown. “Come on. Tell me what you were thinking about.”
“Nothing.”
“Fine, whatever,” I said, well aware that I was using the two most lethal words in a girl’s arsenal.
“All right, I was just wondering ... I mean, well ... what do you think about Owen?”
I glanced over at her and smirked. “He’s a sweetheart.”
“I know that, but do you think he’s ... cute?”
“He’s adorable.”
“He’s not really my type.”
“What’s your type?”
“Tall, muscular. A little bit ... smoother.”
“So Owen’s kind of goofy,” I said. “Admit you like him anyway.” If her skin had been any lighter, I’m certain she would have blushed. “And admit that he likes you.”
“He does not.”
“Oh, no, I’m sure he offers to help everyone raise ten thousand dollars.”
“He was just being nice.”
“Michelle, a guy opens a door for you, he’s being nice. A guy asks his dad to sponsor some girl he’s never met before in exchange for spending eight hellish weeks with some tightwad Future Business Leaders of America, that’s a big crush.”
She waved me off like I was talking nonsense, but I could see her turning possibilities over in her mind. A twinge of emotion washed over me, and it wasn’t until we got back to the dorm that I recognized it for what it was: jealousy. Not because I liked Owen, but because I wanted to feel that kind of excitement, that thrill of romantic promise. Mr. Gallagher was smart and sexy and mysterious, everything I wanted in a man. He was my Rochester. But like Rochester, he was irrefutably out of reach.
While Michelle could call Owen if she wanted or ask him out for coffee, I could only be with Gallagher in my dreams. And sometimes dreams weren’t enough.

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