“Fine. But you have to be quiet. We don’t want to wake anyone up.”
“This place is so huge,” I answer. “No one will hear us out here.”
“There are eyes everywhere,” he tells me. “Don’t doubt it.”
“Ok,” I answer, because he wants me to agree. But I think he’s being paranoid.
We walk along the path toward the grounds, far away from the house, and Castor stays a few feet in front of us. Every once in a while, he lifts his giant nose to the breeze, checking checking checking for something.
“What’s he watching for?” I ask Dare curiously.
“Anything,” Dare guesses. “Everything. Who knows? Newfoundlands are known for their hero instincts. He’d probably die to protect you.”
“And you?” I ask quietly. Dare glances at me.
“Probably. But he’s not mine. He’s yours.”
I’m dying to ask why Dare couldn’t have a dog, because he so obviously loves Castor. But I don’t. Because I have a strange sense that it would offend him, that it would hurt his feelings, and I don’t want to do that. I have a strange fascination with this boy and his dark eyes.
Dare pauses on the path, and he seems to be trying to catch his breath. I suddenly notice that he’s pale, paler than the last time I’d seen him. I touch his elbow.
“Are you ok?” I ask quickly, and he yanks away in annoyance.
“Of course,” he snaps. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Because you can’t breathe.
I don’t say that though because obviously he doesn’t want me to notice. So I wait quietly with him, patiently. Finally, after minutes and minutes, he continues on his way, although his steps are slower this time. Castor slows too, determined to stay near us.
A boy in my class at school has something called asthma. He has to carry an inhaler, and oftentimes during recess, he has to stop playing so that he can breathe. I decide that Dare must have that too, although it’s stupid to me that he wants to hide it. Having asthma is nothing to be embarrassed about.
Dare points to a stone building in the distance.
“There’s the mausoleum. Every Savage has been buried there. You will be too.”
How depressing.
“And will you be?”
The question comes out before I can stop it.
Dare laughs, but there is no humor in it. “Doubtful, and I don’t want to be. My father was French, and I’ll be buried in France. They can’t keep me here.”
There is as much distaste in his voice now as there is in Eleanor’s when she speaks of him. Bad blood , my father would say. But why?
“You don’t like it here?” I ask, hopeful that he’ll tell me something, anything, to help everything make sense.
Dare is silent though, his dark eyes trained on the horizon.
“Please tell me,” I add. “I don’t like it here, either.”
“Why don’t you?” Dare glances at me and he seems almost interested.
“Because I miss my dad. I miss my room. I live in a funeral home. Do you remember that?”
Dare nods.
“I don’t like that part because the kids at school tease me, but I miss home. I miss the ocean. Whitley is too big. It’s scary here because it’s dark and everyone is quiet. It feels like everyone hides things from each other, but I don’t know what.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Dare mutters and I look at him sharply. He looks away.
“Tell me about living in a funeral home,” he says, redirecting my attention.
I smile because he doesn’t sound mean or judgy. He just sounds interested.
“It’s ok. It smells like flowers all of the time. The smell gets into my hair and my clothes.”
“Do dead people look like they’re sleeping?”
I snort. “No. They look dead.”
Dare nods. “I figured.”
We’re quiet now, and we walk, and Castor pants. The tiny pebbles tumble under my shoes and I once again wish I were home, on the cliffs of Oregon. But then again, Dare isn’t there, and he interests me.
The wind blows my hair and I raise my hand to shove it behind my ear, and as I do, something
“This place is so huge,” I answer. “No one will hear us out here.”
“There are eyes everywhere,” he tells me. “Don’t doubt it.”
“Ok,” I answer, because he wants me to agree. But I think he’s being paranoid.
We walk along the path toward the grounds, far away from the house, and Castor stays a few feet in front of us. Every once in a while, he lifts his giant nose to the breeze, checking checking checking for something.
“What’s he watching for?” I ask Dare curiously.
“Anything,” Dare guesses. “Everything. Who knows? Newfoundlands are known for their hero instincts. He’d probably die to protect you.”
“And you?” I ask quietly. Dare glances at me.
“Probably. But he’s not mine. He’s yours.”
I’m dying to ask why Dare couldn’t have a dog, because he so obviously loves Castor. But I don’t. Because I have a strange sense that it would offend him, that it would hurt his feelings, and I don’t want to do that. I have a strange fascination with this boy and his dark eyes.
Dare pauses on the path, and he seems to be trying to catch his breath. I suddenly notice that he’s pale, paler than the last time I’d seen him. I touch his elbow.
“Are you ok?” I ask quickly, and he yanks away in annoyance.
“Of course,” he snaps. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Because you can’t breathe.
I don’t say that though because obviously he doesn’t want me to notice. So I wait quietly with him, patiently. Finally, after minutes and minutes, he continues on his way, although his steps are slower this time. Castor slows too, determined to stay near us.
A boy in my class at school has something called asthma. He has to carry an inhaler, and oftentimes during recess, he has to stop playing so that he can breathe. I decide that Dare must have that too, although it’s stupid to me that he wants to hide it. Having asthma is nothing to be embarrassed about.
Dare points to a stone building in the distance.
“There’s the mausoleum. Every Savage has been buried there. You will be too.”
How depressing.
“And will you be?”
The question comes out before I can stop it.
Dare laughs, but there is no humor in it. “Doubtful, and I don’t want to be. My father was French, and I’ll be buried in France. They can’t keep me here.”
There is as much distaste in his voice now as there is in Eleanor’s when she speaks of him. Bad blood , my father would say. But why?
“You don’t like it here?” I ask, hopeful that he’ll tell me something, anything, to help everything make sense.
Dare is silent though, his dark eyes trained on the horizon.
“Please tell me,” I add. “I don’t like it here, either.”
“Why don’t you?” Dare glances at me and he seems almost interested.
“Because I miss my dad. I miss my room. I live in a funeral home. Do you remember that?”
Dare nods.
“I don’t like that part because the kids at school tease me, but I miss home. I miss the ocean. Whitley is too big. It’s scary here because it’s dark and everyone is quiet. It feels like everyone hides things from each other, but I don’t know what.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Dare mutters and I look at him sharply. He looks away.
“Tell me about living in a funeral home,” he says, redirecting my attention.
I smile because he doesn’t sound mean or judgy. He just sounds interested.
“It’s ok. It smells like flowers all of the time. The smell gets into my hair and my clothes.”
“Do dead people look like they’re sleeping?”
I snort. “No. They look dead.”
Dare nods. “I figured.”
We’re quiet now, and we walk, and Castor pants. The tiny pebbles tumble under my shoes and I once again wish I were home, on the cliffs of Oregon. But then again, Dare isn’t there, and he interests me.
The wind blows my hair and I raise my hand to shove it behind my ear, and as I do, something
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