Page 54 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
With every movement of the tree, another thorn breaks through my skin. A strangled cry escapes me until eventually, I have to open my eyes and return to the real world.
When I do, the boy disappears from behind me. But even in reality, the tree is alive, walking where I order it.
The thorns continue to grow, ripping me open from the inside out. A pit expands in my stomach, tearing through like a black hole, swallowing all it can find until, finally, I release the tree, clutching my torso.
The tree stills, its roots growing back.
But I don’t still.
I weaken.
My legs give out. I crash against the floor. Then I puke.
Words drift from a distance, echoing as though we’re on opposite ends of the same tunnel.“Tap into the life,”the boy says.
I pass out.
Chapter 12
The People with Power
One Year Ago
B
eneath the canopy of trees, Calista and I sit in the woods. She lies on her back, gazing up at the sun. I pluck a blade of grass from the ground and make it grow back, twice as tall.
“Azaire was looking at you again today,” Calista says, smiling as she turns her head toward me.
“He’s always looking.” The grass pushes up, tickling my palm.
Calista flips onto her stomach, meeting my gaze. “My apologies.” She laughs. “I should have saidyouwere looking at him again today.”
A laugh escapes me. If I were a normal person, I think this would be a moment for a playful push. But I’ve long since learned to keep my hands to myself. “Yeah.”
“Quite the vocabulary, Wendy.”
I shrug. “You already know everything.”
What am I supposed to say? That Azaire was my friend before Ma died and I retreated from the world? That he was my friend before I created the boy and lost my mind?
Not that Calista knows about the boy—or that anyone ever will.
Calista rolls her eyes, lying down on her back. “You’re a poor gossiper.”
I’m bad at talking, period.
Bitterly, I think about how I’m not Fleur or Eleanora or any number of her other friends. She’d prefer any of them to me.
“Are we ditching second period, too?” I ask when I find the strength to speak.
“Up to you.”
Calista didn’t want to go to her first class. I didn’t want to go to any class. I never do, truthfully. If I could live in a cave, I might.
“It’s Lilac, right?” I ask.
She picks at the polish on her nails and looks up at me. Her eyes say it all:you already know.Her mouth says something different.
