Skeleton Man Read Online Free Page A

It’s a glass-topped table with rusty blue metal legs. The two chairs are made of that same rusty blue metal with curlicue designs. The table is set forone. As always, he’s already eaten. At least that’s what he says. I’ve never seen evidence of his breakfast. I see his back as he goes out the sunroom door. I’m never allowed to go out that way toward the big shed in the backyard with heavy-duty hinges on the thick, bolted doors. His toolroom, he says. I wonder again what he was doing out there last night.
    â€œEat your breakfast,” he calls back without turning his head. “You’re looking thin.”
    Then he’s gone, and I take my first real breath of the day. The food on the table looks good. I’m hungry. Grapefruit, cereal, toast with butter and jam. I put my backpack under the table between my knees. I take the lid off the plastic container in the backpack and pretend to eat. But each spoonful of cereal, each slice of toast, each piece of fruit goes into the plastic box. I snap the lid onto it and close the backpack. Then I pretend to wipe my lips with the paper napkin, ball it up, and put it on the now-empty plate.
    I’m just in time because, just as he’s done every other day, he sticks his head out of the door of the shed to see if I’ve eaten my food.
    â€œDone,” I call out in a cheery voice. Then I stand up and walk to the front door, trying tobe as calm as possible, hoping that it will not be locked. It isn’t, and I escape down the walk to the corner where the school bus will arrive within five minutes. Time enough to dump the food down the storm drain at the curb edge. Let the rats deal with it.
    Super paranoid, that is what you are saying now. Melodramatic. But I’m determined not to eat the food he gives me. I think he puts something into it. When I first got here I ate what he put in front of me automatically. I started having a headache and my heart was racing, and I felt like some kind of zombie. When I went to bed that night I just conked out. I didn’t even dream. The next day I started my Tupperware routine. If I’d kept eating that food I’d probably be walking with my arms held out in front of me saying, “Yes, Master!” in a hollow voice whenever he spoke to me.
    When the bus comes I take the first seat. Other kids are sitting with friends, but I stay by myself. This isn’t the bus I used to take. No one in my class is on it, and people are still checking me out. I haven’t been in a hurry to be all bright and cheery with my new busmates, either.
    When the bus stops in front of the school,though, I have to start smiling. This is my place of refuge. I’m safe here. Other kids might groan when they walk through the big front doors, but I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s all so routine and boring here. I love it. Although when Laura Loh, who is my second-best friend, waves to me from her locker, I pretend not to see her and just go straight into class. I know she wants to talk to me about Greg Iverson and how cute he is and do I think he likes her…and I can’t bear it. For some reason I just can’t think of anything to say to other kids right now, and all the stuff that used to interest me seems kind of unreal.
    In our class it is Don Quixote Day. At least it is for Ms. Showbiz. We are all groaning by the time she finishes belting out her medley from Man of La Mancha . I’m groaning the loudest of all because it just makes me feel so safe, so…normal. I feel so great that when Ms. Shabbas tells us to open our workbooks, I burst out in laughter that is so loud and inappropriate that everyone, including Ms. Shabbas, looks at me. Maureen Viola, who is my best friend and who sits two seats away, looks at me and mouths the words: “What is wrong with you?”
    All of a sudden I feel as if I am about toburst into tears. I have to put my head down on my desk. What is wrong with me?