Running Past Dark by Han Nolan EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Han Nolan
- Language: English
- Genre: Teen & Young Adult Fiction about Siblings
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
Journal: When we were little, Cait and I would swish around in the bathtub
pretending to be mermaids, then one time, out of the blue, Cait reached out and
pinched me.
I splashed water in her face and said, “Ow! What did you do that for?”
She splashed back and said, “To see if it hurt.”
And I’m like, “Course it did. What’d you think?”
“No,” she said. “I mean, to see if it hurt ME.”
“Oh. So did it?”
“Yes.”
I nodded.
That’s about all anybody needs to know about being a twin.
IT’S THE FIRST DAY OF school my senior year, and I’ve got a headache so
bad, it feels like every thought in my head puts a new crack in my skull. I swear I
can hear it splitting. Did Mom get home last night—crack. How can I go back to
school—everybody hates me now—crack. The accident, Caitlyn—a web of cracks
travels over my skull and down my spine, then down along every bone in my
body.
I stumble to the bathroom and pop a couple of Advil, then get dressed and
go check on my mom. She’s lying across her bed like she walked into the room,
fell over, and landed there. Alcohol sours the air. I take the wig out of her hand,
pull the covers around her, and kiss her cheek. It’s like putting my lips on one of
those our-dusted buns you get at the grocery store.
In the kitchen I make a steaming cup of coee then, unable to drink it, pour
it onto my hand. The brown liquid pools, then runs o into the sink. The pain
is immediate, and deep, but something in me releases, my shoulders relax, all the
knots untangle in my stomach. I make a st, holding in the heat, the steam, old
blisters swelling, lling again with pus.
Twenty minutes later I’m driving my mom’s car along a narrow, tree-lined
street till I come to the opening in a brick wall where the school sits, at topped
and squat, but sprawling this way and that, like a game of Scrabble. In front of
the school, just before the student parking lot, stands a cluster of leaning crosses
made from sticks stabbed into the ground. Piled around them lie soaked and
dirty stued animals, and owers, mostly dead, except for the fake ones. Old,
laminated pictures of Coach Jory Wilson’s smarmy pink face are now curled,
hanging loose from wooden slats.
News reporters lie in wait for me. They jump out of their trucks, cameras and
mics ready as soon as I pull into the school parking lot.
“Scotlyn O’Doul! Scotlyn, over here. How does it feel to be back?” Another
one calls to me, “Scotlyn, have you changed your story yet?”
I race past them, backpack covering my face, and hurry inside the building
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