Read Shooting Stars 01 Cinnamon for Free Online

a nervous
breakdown because of what happened.'"
"Oh. Um sorry," he said. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Yes, call the Mafia and get a hit man over here pronto to save me from my grandmother," I replied.
He laughed, but the sort of short laugh that indicated he knew it really wasn't funny.
"You were all the buzz at school."
"I'm glad the airheads had something to talk about."
"I could see Miss Hamilton was upset for you. You coming to school tomorrow?"
"I'm not staying here, that's for sure," I said.
"What are you going to tell people?" he asked.
"I'll come up with something."
"Let me know so I can be part of it," he said. I knew what he meant.
Ike and I enjoyed making up stories and telling them together, verifying what the other had said, shocking other students whenever we could.
"Meet me at my locker in the morning before homeroom," I told him. He promised he would and hung up.
I fell back spread-eagled on my bed and looked up at the eggshell white ceiling. Sometimes. when I stared into the white void long enough. I'd see the faces of the young women who once lived in this house. It was as if their spirits had been trapped in the walls and I was the only one with whom they could communicate.
My memories of Mommy and me up in the attic returned. They brought tears to my eyes. I wondered if even now, sedated in that hospital room, she was afraid or just sad. Deep inside herself despite her temporary madness, she must know she has had the miscarriage. Can you get so you could really lie to yourself as well as you could lie to others, actually believing your own fabrications? And is that madness or is it the simplest way to escape the turmoil and unhappiness that sometimes storms around you?
I need inspiration. I thought. I would die before telling anyone the truth. There was only one place to go for it. While Daddy sat below m the kitchen, numbly watching Grandmother Beverly weave a web of control around him. I went up to the attic to conspire with my spirits and my own resourceful imagination.
Mommy told me that when I was only four. I had an imaginary friend. I don't remember, but I've learned it is a very common thing for a child to do: create his or her own companion. Maybe it's just as hard to be alone when you're very young as it is to be alone when you're very old. I thought. Old people imagine friends, too.
There's something about growing up, about being in society and mixing with real people that restricts your imaginative powers. If you say something that seems like fantasy, people laugh at you or make you feel self-conscious about it, so you smother your make-believe and drive the creative thoughts down into the grave, bury them in the cemetery of originality, and work harder at being like everyone else, safe, unremarkable, just some more wallpaper. It takes courage to revive your imagination and risk the ridicule. In an ironic sense, it takes a brave soul to contrive exaggerations, fantasies, elaborate and eloquent lies.
I flipped the switch and the dark attic became illuminated, but not so brightly as to drive away the small shadows and brighten the dark corners. Neither Mommy nor I wanted it that well lit anyway. Some darkness is comforting, warm, inviting. Mommy used to say it felt protective.
"Most people are afraid of the dark." she said. "They'll never trespass on our privacy."
There was some old furniture up here, dusty and worn. If Grandmother Beverly ever made the trek up the second set of narrow stairs and opened the attic door, she would gasp and vow instantly to have it immediately cleaned out. None of it had any real value anymore. That was true, but there were other kinds of value than monetary value. For Mommy and me this small, dusty room had always been cozy, inviting, comfortable.
Dust particles spun in the beam of the light, glistening like particles of diamonds. It had been a while since Mommy and I were up here. When we were coming up here more frequently, we did do some cleaning,