Creeps Read Online Free

that?”
    â€œOn account I don’t like the Twilight movies or Justin Bieber or iPhones or especially Facebook.”
    â€œWhy especially Facebook?”
    â€œUm … no reason. Just some girl who pretended to like me and then posted how gross I was when I started to like her back.”
    Mr. Rollie lays his glasses down and slides back in his chair and folds his arms. After a long time he says, “What do you write in those notebooks of yours?”
    â€œHmm?”
    â€œI’ve seen you … in the cafeteria, the library, outside when the weather’s nice, which isn’t very often. Are they plays?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œShort stories?”
    â€œLetters.”
    â€œLetters?”
    â€œYeah, but they’re mostly for me.”
    â€œFor you?”
    â€œThat’s right. I don’t send them or anything.”
    â€œBut aren’t letters meant to be sent?”
    â€œNot mine.”
    Mr. Rollie goes to say more but is interrupted by the opening door and Julie’s poking-in head. “Sorry for barging in,” she says.
    â€œWhat is it, Miss Snow?”
    â€œIt’s just that … well, are you almost ready for me? Mom’s waiting to take me to the shopping centre to get a skirt and we’d like to get there before it closes.” Julie looks at Wayne and says, “There’s others out here, you know.”
    â€œMiss Snow.”
    â€œSorry, Mr. Rollie.”
    â€œIf your skirt is more important than this term’s production then maybe you should just go.”
    â€œNo, sir, it isn’t. I really want to be in the play (did I just hear you say the provincials were in St. John’s this year?), it’s just that I was planning on wearing the outfit to school tomorrow.”
    â€œI don’t appreciate you listening by the door, Miss Snow, and I’m with someone right now, so wait your turn.”
    Julie shoots Wayne a glare. Squeezes her lips so tight they turn white. Slams the door.
    â€œSorry about that, Mr. Pumphrey.”
    â€œIt’s okay.”
    â€œKeeps the shopping centre in business, Miss Snow does.”
    â€œShe is a snappy dresser.”
    Mr. Rollie glances up at the wall clock. “We should finish, Mr. Pumphrey. Anything else you’d like to add?”
    â€œNot really, only that I’d like to be in the show because I think it might be nice to be a part of something.”
    Mr. Rollie sits there for a moment, then he puts his glasses back on and uncrosses his legs and gets to his feet. Holds out his hand.
    Wayne shakes it.
    â€œThanks for coming in, Mr. Pumphrey.”
    â€œYou’re welcome.”
    Wayne makes his way to the door.
    â€œMr. Pumphrey?”
    Wayne stops. “Yes, sir.”
    â€œYou’re far from gross.”
    â€œThank you, sir, I appreciate it.”
    Wayne leaves.

SIX
    Supper’s on the table when Wayne walks in: pea soup and dumplings, sliced homemade bread on a flower-patterned plate, cups of tea with swirling steam. A light above the stove illuminates the still-simmering pot, beside which rests the blackened wooden ladle that’s always used for soups and sauces and macaroni and cheese and— for when his mother can’t take much more of his father—throwing.
    His mother is blowing on her loaded spoon, while his sister, Wanda, listens to her iPod. There’s a place set for his father, but his father’s not in it.
    His mom slurps, then looks at Wayne and says, “Eat before it gets cold.”
    He goes over and sits down. His mother pours him a glass of milk. Lays a slice of bread beside his bowl.
    Nickelback’s wafting from his sister’s side of the table, some song about a photograph and red eyes and a guy named Joey with something on his head.
    His mother reaches over and yanks Wanda’s earphones out.
    â€œHey!”
    â€œNot at the table.”
    â€œDidn’t have to tear my ears off—”
    â€œHow