The Miseducation of Cameron Post by Emily M. Danforth EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Emily M. Danforth
- Language: English
- Genre: Teen & Young Adult Christian Social Issue Fiction
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
The afternoon my parents died, I was out shoplifting with Irene Klauson.
Mom and Dad had left for their annual summer camping trip to Quake
Lake the day before, and Grandma Post was down from Billings minding
me, so it only took a little convincing to get her to let me have Irene spend
the night. “It’s too hot for shenanigans, Cameron,” Grandma had told me,
right after she said yes. “But we gals can still have us a time.”
Miles City had been cooking in the high nineties for days, and it was only
the end of June, hot even for eastern Montana. It was the kind of heat where
a breeze feels like someone’s venting a dryer out over the town, whipping
dust and making the cottonseeds from the big cottonwoods float across a
wide blue sky and collect in soft tufts on neighborhood lawns. Irene and I
called it summer snow, and sometimes we’d squint into the dry glare and
try to catch cotton on our tongues.
My bedroom was the converted attic of our house on Wibaux Street, with
peaking rafters and weird angles, and it just baked during the summer. I had
a grimy window fan, but all it did was blow in wave after wave of hot air
and dust and, every once in a while, early in the morning, the smell of
fresh-cut grass.
Irene’s parents had a big cattle ranch out toward Broadus, and even all
the way out there—once you turned off MT 59 and it was rutted roads
through clumps of gray sagebrush and pink sandstone hills that sizzled and
crisped in the sun—the Klausons had central air. Mr. Klauson was that big
of a cattle guy. When I stayed at Irene’s house, I woke with the tip of my
nose cold to the touch. And they had an ice maker in the door of their
fridge, so we had crushed ice in our orange juice and ginger ale, a drink we
mixed up all the time and called “cocktail hour.”
My solution to the lack of air conditioning at my own house was to run
our T-shirts under the cold, cold tap water in the bathroom sink. Then wring
them out. Then soak the shirts again before Irene and I shivered into them,
like putting on a new layer of icy, wet skin before we got into bed. Our
sleep shirts crusted over during the night, drying and hardening with the hot
air and dust like they had been lightly starched, the way Grandma did the
collars of my dad’s dress shirts.
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