Read Flowers in the Attic for Free Online Page A

and then we would have all the money, to put the world at our feet. We were stepping into riches beyond belief! I would be just like a princess!
    Yet, why didn’t I feel really happy?
    “Cathy,” said Christopher, beaming on me a broad, happy smile, “you can still be a ballerina. I don’t think money can buy talent, nor can it make a good doctor out of a playboy. But, until the time comes when we have to be dedicated and serious, my, aren’t we gonna have a ball?”
    *  *  *
    I couldn’t take the sterling-silver music box with the pink ballerina inside. The music box was expensive and had been listed as something of value for “them” to claim.
    I couldn’t take down the shadowboxes from the walls, or hide away the miniature dolls. There was hardly anything I could take that Daddy had given me except the small ring on my finger, with a semiprecious gem stone shaped like a heart.
    And, just like Christopher said, after we were rich, our lives would be one big ball, one long, long party. That’s the way rich people lived—happily ever after as they counted their money and made their fun plans.
    *  *  *
    Fun, games, parties, riches beyond belief, a house as big as a palace, with servants who lived over a huge garage that stored away at least nine or ten expensive automobiles. Who would ever have guessed my mother came from a family like that? Why had Daddy argued with her so many times about spendingmoney lavishly, when she could have written letters home before, and done a bit of humiliating begging?
    Slowly I walked down the hall to my room, to stand before the silver music box where the pink ballerina stood in arabesque position when the lid was opened, and she could see herself in the reflecting mirror. And I heard the tinkling music play, “Whirl, ballerina, whirl . . . .”
    I could steal it, if I had a place to hide it.
    Good-bye, pink-and-white room with the peppermint walls. Good-bye, little white bed with the dotted-Swiss canopy that had seen me sick with measles, mumps, chicken pox.
    Good-bye again to you, Daddy, for when I’m gone, I can’t picture you sitting on the side of my bed, and holding my hand, and I won’t see you coming from the bathroom with a glass of water. I really don’t want to go too much, Daddy. I’d rather stay and keep your memory close and near.
    “Cathy”—Momma was at the door—“don’t just stand there and cry. A room is just a room. You’ll live in many rooms before you die, so hurry up, pack your things and the twins’ things, while I do my own packing.”
    Before I died, I was going to live in a thousand rooms or more, a little voice whispered this in my ear . . . and I believed.

The Road to Riches

    W hile Momma packed, Christopher and I threw our clothes into two suitcases, along with a few toys and one game. In the early twilight of evening, a taxi drove us to the train station. We had slipped away furtively, without saying good-bye to even one friend, and this hurt. I didn’t know why it had to be that way, but Momma insisted. Our bicycles were left in the garage along with everything else too large to take.
    The train lumbered through a dark and starry night, heading toward a distant mountain estate in Virginia. We passed many a sleepy town and village, and scattered farmhouses where golden rectangles of light were the only evidence to show they were there at all. My brother and I didn’t want to fall asleep and miss out on anything, and oh, did we have a lot to talk about! Mostly we speculated on that grand rich house where we would live in splendor, and eat from golden plates, and be served by a butler wearing livery. And I supposed I’d have my own maid to lay out my clothes, draw my bath, brush my hair, and jump when I commanded. But I wouldn’t be too stern with her. I would be sweet, understanding, the kind of mistress every servant desired—unless she broke something I really cherished! Then there’d be hell to pay—I’d throw a