Read Baby Be-Bop for Free Online Page A
Authors: Francesca Lia Block
through Dirk’s body like an ambulance. His blood shivered.
Help me; tell me a story, Dirk thought, knowing that somewhere in the room the lamp was waiting. Tell me a story that will make me want to live, because right now I don’t want to live. Help me.
He shut his eyes.
The wind was tapping the peach tree’s long thin leaf fingers against the window. The moon cast shadows of the branches across the floor. Dirk sat up in bed and Kit jumped off of him, yowling. It felt as if Dirk’s heart leaped out of his body with her. In the corner of the room beside the golden lamp the figure of a woman was seated on achair. She was wearing a long dress of creamy satin covered with satin roses and beads that shone like crystals under rushing water, raindrops in the moonlight. There was a veil over her face but Dirk could see her pallor, the sadness in her eyes. Eyes like his own. He clutched his wild-duck-printed flannel pajama shirt closer around his chest impulsively but he was no longer cold. And the pain was far away now—a fading red light, a retreating siren.
Am I alive? Dirk wondered.
He wished that the woman would go away. But she looked so sad; she looked as though she needed to talk to him.
“Who are you?” Dirk said softly into the darkness.
“My name is Gazelle Sunday. You want me to go.”
“No I don’t.”
Was she about to cry? Dirk didn’t want her to. He tried to think of something.
“Do you have a story?” Dirk asked.
“A story?”
“Yeah. I don’t have one.”
“I can’t remember,” she said.
“I bet you can. I bet you are full of stories. I can see in your eyes.”
“No, no, not really.”
“Try to think.” He really wanted her to tell him something now. “Maybe something about that dress. Where did you get that dress?”
The woman reached her almost-transparent hand out to him.
“Please,” he said.
“If you will dance with me.”
“Okay,” said Dirk, and then wondered if that was such a good idea. She looked like death. He wondered if she would dance away with him. Dance him to his grave. Maybe that was the best thing. Maybe that was what he wanted. Or it had happened already. And besides he had promised, and she, this white ghost lady, had begun to tell.
“I never knew my mother but I knew she had given me my name and I loved her for that. I imagined that my mother and father were from France, very young, very in love. In my mind they looked like children in the book of fairy tales—the only thing besides my name that my mother had left me. The book was big and full of intricate, jewel-colored pictures of castles with turrets, enchanted mossy forests, goblins, banshees, trolls, brownies, pixies, fairies with huge butterfly wings and djinns on magic carpets. I pretended that the two children in one story were my parents. I saw them walking into the woods, their faces as pale as the snow they trudged through, their eyes big, dark mirrors like the frozen lakes they had to cross, their mouths like petals ripped from the red roses that they waited for all winter but never sawagain, dying in each other’s arms when I was born. At least that is the story I told myself, walking in circles, twisting my hair around one finger, sucking my lower lip, holding the book open in my arms.
“I lived with my aunt in a dark and musty building. The kitchen smelled of boiled cabbage and potatoes; the claw-foot bathtub behind the screen in the kitchen corner smelled of mildew no matter how hard I scrubbed it clean. I was always leaning my head out the window to smell the bay, the baking bread, to hear the trolley car ringing its bell as it crested the steep hill. In the parlor was a dressmaker’s mannequin. I was afraid that if I misbehaved the mannequin would attack me with the needles and scissors my aunt used to make dresses.
“My aunt was a cold woman with raw hands and a mouth that looked as if it was always full of pins. She hated me. I knew that the only reason she let me live
Help me; tell me a story, Dirk thought, knowing that somewhere in the room the lamp was waiting. Tell me a story that will make me want to live, because right now I don’t want to live. Help me.
He shut his eyes.
The wind was tapping the peach tree’s long thin leaf fingers against the window. The moon cast shadows of the branches across the floor. Dirk sat up in bed and Kit jumped off of him, yowling. It felt as if Dirk’s heart leaped out of his body with her. In the corner of the room beside the golden lamp the figure of a woman was seated on achair. She was wearing a long dress of creamy satin covered with satin roses and beads that shone like crystals under rushing water, raindrops in the moonlight. There was a veil over her face but Dirk could see her pallor, the sadness in her eyes. Eyes like his own. He clutched his wild-duck-printed flannel pajama shirt closer around his chest impulsively but he was no longer cold. And the pain was far away now—a fading red light, a retreating siren.
Am I alive? Dirk wondered.
He wished that the woman would go away. But she looked so sad; she looked as though she needed to talk to him.
“Who are you?” Dirk said softly into the darkness.
“My name is Gazelle Sunday. You want me to go.”
“No I don’t.”
Was she about to cry? Dirk didn’t want her to. He tried to think of something.
“Do you have a story?” Dirk asked.
“A story?”
“Yeah. I don’t have one.”
“I can’t remember,” she said.
“I bet you can. I bet you are full of stories. I can see in your eyes.”
“No, no, not really.”
“Try to think.” He really wanted her to tell him something now. “Maybe something about that dress. Where did you get that dress?”
The woman reached her almost-transparent hand out to him.
“Please,” he said.
“If you will dance with me.”
“Okay,” said Dirk, and then wondered if that was such a good idea. She looked like death. He wondered if she would dance away with him. Dance him to his grave. Maybe that was the best thing. Maybe that was what he wanted. Or it had happened already. And besides he had promised, and she, this white ghost lady, had begun to tell.
“I never knew my mother but I knew she had given me my name and I loved her for that. I imagined that my mother and father were from France, very young, very in love. In my mind they looked like children in the book of fairy tales—the only thing besides my name that my mother had left me. The book was big and full of intricate, jewel-colored pictures of castles with turrets, enchanted mossy forests, goblins, banshees, trolls, brownies, pixies, fairies with huge butterfly wings and djinns on magic carpets. I pretended that the two children in one story were my parents. I saw them walking into the woods, their faces as pale as the snow they trudged through, their eyes big, dark mirrors like the frozen lakes they had to cross, their mouths like petals ripped from the red roses that they waited for all winter but never sawagain, dying in each other’s arms when I was born. At least that is the story I told myself, walking in circles, twisting my hair around one finger, sucking my lower lip, holding the book open in my arms.
“I lived with my aunt in a dark and musty building. The kitchen smelled of boiled cabbage and potatoes; the claw-foot bathtub behind the screen in the kitchen corner smelled of mildew no matter how hard I scrubbed it clean. I was always leaning my head out the window to smell the bay, the baking bread, to hear the trolley car ringing its bell as it crested the steep hill. In the parlor was a dressmaker’s mannequin. I was afraid that if I misbehaved the mannequin would attack me with the needles and scissors my aunt used to make dresses.
“My aunt was a cold woman with raw hands and a mouth that looked as if it was always full of pins. She hated me. I knew that the only reason she let me live