CATHEDRAL - Patrick Sean Lee (best books for 8th graders txt) 📗

must have once been on is at least a hundred feet above the ledge. Had he fallen from that spot he’d probably be floating on the surface of the water with a broken neck instead of sitting here moaning over a painful bruise.

“I don’t know, I don’t know. What does it matter? I fell.”

His answer rankles me because of the short, snippy tone of his voice. That’s gratitude for you. I stand up, having done my Florence Nightingale bit.

“Do you think you can walk?”

“Yes, I just need to catch my breath. Is it broken?”

His attitude has lightened a little, but I don’t hear a ‘thank you’ yet. He will not look at me for some reason, either.

I chuckle at his question. “You were able to walk all the way up here, weren’t you? No, it’s not broken. You’ll live. Now, stand up if you can. I’ll help you walk out of here.”

“That’s quite alright. I can manage. You can leave.” He is inspecting the knee as he speaks, bending it a little, gritting his teeth so that the words sound almost angry. I don’t think he is, but I don’t care to listen to him express his gratitude any longer.

“It’s starting to rain. Are you certain you don’t want me to help you?”

“Yes. No. I mean, I’ll be fine. Please go away. Don’t worry about me.” He still hasn’t looked at me or shown any appreciation, and I am weary of him already. I look up at the sky. I hope he can find an empty cave.

As I walk back along the shore I turn and ask him. “What’s your name, anyway?”

He answers after a long silence. “Klutz.”

That’s appropriate. Most likely his first name is Dick. I don’t bother to inquire.

I return to the rock, gather up the book of poetry and my pack, and then retrace my steps along the shore until I reach the pair of Volkswagen rocks. I turn and look back to the spot where Mr. Klutz lay in his gushing, thank-you-mood. He is hobbling away, so I push my hair over my shoulder and begin the journey back to the lodge.

The sky is opening, but the letters are gone.

 

Oh Shut Up!

 Matthew

Well, I made it down. It took me an hour. It would have taken three had I not found a broken branch that I could use as a crutch. Jesus that mountain is ten times steeper coming down than it is going up.

No, I took the easier, softer trail. She was long gone by the time I reached the two boulders. I kick myself now—with my uninjured leg, anyway. I should have taken her up on her offer to help me, but God, the embarrassment. She had to have known I was up there on that goddam cliff leering down at her. Well, not exactly leering, just admiring her.

It has been nearly two hours since I hobbled back into the lodge and crawled up the stairs, and I am still frozen. It feels, too, like my leg might have to be amputated, it hurts so bad. I’m trying to get dressed. I wish I could leave the battered leg out of my trousers and crawl back down the stairs to dinner.

That’s out. I’ll manage to get the leg in, make certain my hair is brushed back to its beautiful normal, and somehow negotiate the wicked stairs. Once I get that far, I’ll walk elegantly into the dining room. I am starving as well as severely injured.

Her room is directly across from mine. There are several other unoccupied rooms along the hall, and I know without thinking too hard that the owners of this place put me where they did for a reason.

“Matthew Ash, world-renowned author, meet…” What the hell is her name, I wonder? I’ll find out in a few minutes.

All right, the first fleeting image of her when she ran past the porch kind of stunned me, and seeing her sitting on that rock up at that blasted lake confirmed that whoever she is, she’s beautiful, but lying on my back on the shore! Christ, I wanted to kiss her.

I know, that’s perverse. Somehow, though, I’m going to redeem myself and capture her heart.

I have to get out of this coffin of a room. I know she’s down there waiting for me.

A Tiny Bit Strange

 Isabella

I run from the trail’s end toward the long, covered front porch of the lodge. The Alpine-design building stands a little to my left, dumping buckets of water in a waterfall onto the deck’s roof, and then onto the wild, low-cut grass bordering it. Pines and scattered stands of aspen end abruptly at the back of the building where the builders long ago slashed the forest away when they constructed the retreat. My room on the second floor at this end is at the rear, easily accessible, closer, via the long stairway leading up to the postage stamp of a landing. I switch plans and turn toward it. The shed roof protrudes out over the doorway, but gusts of wind rip at the rippling, steady curtain of rain, sending it splattering back onto the thick deck boards outside the door. I pray this entrance is unlocked. I’m drenched and starting to shiver.

I slipped three times and fell into the muddy trail on my way down the mountain. My legs and arms are covered with oozing, gray-brown muck, dark against my California-girl tan. I can only imagine the mess my hair is. Tangled strands dangle over my forehead and eyes with droplets of muddy water dripping from the ends onto my cheeks and down my nose. My pack hangs bouncing from my shoulder. I just want to be out of this cloudburst and climb into a tub filled clear to the top with steaming hot water. I think it’s about 5:00 p.m., but I can’t be certain for all the crud smeared on the dial of my watch. It doesn’t matter. I take the weathered steps two at a time and in a flash I’m at the door. It’s unlocked, thank God. I push it open then leap into the carpeted interior, yanking the handle behind me with my muddy hand.

I drop my pack, and it takes a moment to fish through it to find the key, but I locate it, and finally I’m in my room. The rain seems to increase suddenly and pelts the panes of the windows as if somebody were standing outside throwing handfuls of gravel against them. The room is sullenly dim under the cover of storm clouds crawling eastward, but it’s so much warmer in here without the wind. I’m free of my hiking boots, stripped down to my underwear before I even reach the bathroom door and hit the light switch on the wall to the left. The old ball and claw tub is beautiful, tucked into the corner, waiting to be filled with clean, hot water. I disregard the cold faucet handle entirely and open the hot all the way with a squeak. A few minutes more and I’ll step into liquid paradise.

As I begin to peel off my panties I notice a long scratch and a line of smeared blood on my calf. Fall number two, or three? It stings a little, but I don’t think it’s deep. Nothing to worry about, I hope.

Then I turn my head and see her. Oh my God! The person in the oval, carved-frame mirror over the sink is straight out of a macabre version of Sleeping Beauty. Yes, it’s me. No way the fairest of them all; not even of some of them. I push my fingers through the tangle of weeds that used to be my great head of hair, and wonder if any shampoo made can bring it to life again. I have to laugh at the image in the mirror. I’m frightening.

A few moments pass and I test the steamy water with my fingertips. It’s too hot, and that’s fine. I climb in and ease myself down, feeling the luscious heat against the chill of my calves, my thighs, then my hips and stomach. I’m fine, now. I think I’ll stay in the tub for a week. It’s wonderful. I lay back, close my eyes, and let the water think for me. I zone out.

 

It’s like déjà vu. So strange…someone keeps saying, “Listen, my heart…believe this!” I hear it, I taste it, I even smell it—saltwater notes, wind whistling an enigmatic melody, again and again. Where is this coming from? Why? Pondering this, I begin to drift away.

I awaken in a strange and beautiful forest, far, far away, in a land that seems familiar, although I know I’ve never been here before. I know that the author of the words—the voice—is waiting nearby…

And then suddenly I’m soaring on a kite, a very large one with a tail that wanders this way and that, reaching down, down, down, far below my seat in the billowing satin covering of the cross framework. The tail of my tethered magic carpet whisks and flits against the white peaks of waves—teasing them, if I didn’t know better. Then I see him. His head pops out of the green fluorescent curl below me, and then his shoulders and upper chest. He looks up and sees me, and then smiles. His teeth are brilliant white, straight, and they sparkle against the sun. His lips, opening around the smile, begin to form those words again: “Listen, my heart… believe this! ” So strange. I can taste his mouth. He disappears before finishing, and I crane my body forward to find him, to ask him who he is, what he is trying to say to me, over and over and over. But he doesn’t resurface. He’s gone. I lean forward farther to look for him but lose my grip on the slick cloth. I begin to slide—and then I’m falling…

 

I awaken, blink, a little frightened by the daydream, wondering if it meant anything. But, why would it? I glance around me. There is no steam on the mirror over the sink. The rain has stopped and my fingertips are shriveled from the water. I’m done; time to get out. Reluctantly I push myself up into a sitting position, reach over to the caddy and pull the fluffy white towel that I placed there from it. I stand up, relishing the sound of the water splashing from my body back into the tepid water below, and then I remember. My hair! The