Read Thwonk for Free Online Page A

the apple dead center, and reverberated with a little sound:
    Thwonk.
    A satisfied grin swept across his face; he remained in shoot position for a moment, then he flew to retrieve the arrow, which he put in a leather satchel behind his back.
    “I consult,” he said. “Free of charge. This”—he patted the leather case—“is not a satchel, it is a quiver.”
    “Did I say that?”
    He looked at me. I had thought it. I pulled at my nightgown and shivered.
    “There is nothing,” he assured me, “to fear.”
    Right.
    “I am here merely to assist you,” he continued. “No strings attached.” He floated to the ceiling and hovered there.
    I swallowed hard. “What’s the catch?”
    “There is no catch.”
    “There’s always a catch.”
    “No catch,” he insisted. He was giving my studio a good once-over. “Our relationship can only succeed if we build a relationship of trust.”
    “You want me to trust you?”
    He began to sharpen his arrow furiously like he was chalking a pool cue. “Teenage consultations are endlessly troublesome!”
    “What do you know about teenagers?”
    Sadness flickered in his eyes. “I know a great deal about
you
,” he said finally. “It is my job to know.” The cupid swooped down to my gallery of framed prints. “Your work is very moody. Technically, it is excellent, but if you concentrated on more positive aspects of life, you would see an energy coming from your art.”
    “There’s energy all over my art!”
    “Negative energy,” he said with conviction. “It is a powerful force, but not as strong as positive expression.” He flew over to my east wall and gave my framed prints a once-over. He hovered at my picture of a melting snowman at dusk that spoke volumes about relationships.
    “I would experiment more with early-morning light if I were you,” he said.
    I stepped back. “I know all about light.”
    Stieglitz found his nerve and approached the cupid like he was checking out a squirrel he might want to chase. The cupid, unafraid, stretched out his little hand.
    “Sit,” said the cupid. Stieglitz sat. “Good dog,” said the cupid, rearranging his sash. “You should brush him more,” he continued. “The keeshond breed needs constant attention.”
    “I brush him all the time!”
    The cupid looked right through me. “Lying erodes the fabric of all relationships.”
    “
We don’t have a relationship!
”
    “We could”—the cupid leaned on my purple Persian floor-pillow—“if you let your defenses down. It’s up to you.”
    I ran out of my studio and down two flights of stairs. I had spent years building up my defenses and I liked them just fine. I yanked the phone off the jack and dialed zero.
    “Operator,” said a terse female voice.
    “
Is this Connecticut?
” I demanded. “
Have we all shifted into another dimension?
”
    I heard a click.
    “
Operator?
”
    I sat in the chair holding the receiver in my hand. Iheld it so long that the buzzing noise started. A computer voice said I had to hang up. I gripped it.
    The air hung still and weird. My ears strained for the sound of good old reality. A car drove by blaring rock music and threw a beer can onto the driveway.
    I was still in Connecticut.

    I stood on the safe side of my studio door with Stieglitz. All was quiet but I wasn’t fooled. I snapped my fingers and Stieglitz leapt to attention. “I give you permission, Stieglitz, to do whatever is required. Maiming, destroying, terrorizing. You’re in charge.”
    Stieglitz yelped and crashed down the stairs. I glared at him. I was aching to peer inside my studio.
    Was the cupid still there?
    My studio door opened, the cupid fluttered out, and announced, “Come in, for heaven’s sake, we don’t have much time!”
    The cupid flew straight up, then darted in a zigzag. He hovered by the banister, flew backward, and plopped on my shoulder. My throat closed. My palms went gummy.
    “Who,” I whimpered, “are you?”
    “Ah, now, that is an