Skylark Read Online Free

wounded.
    â€œI was tired,” he begs.
    â€œI’m sorry—”
    â€œMy legs were stiff.”
    We go silent. Mom looks ten years older than she did a minute ago. Her mouth is tight, and she clenches the steering wheel. Even her skin looks dull. It’s the wear of worry—and guilt.
    Because, of course, Clem is tired and stiff. What kind of champion sleeps with his knees bent and the soles of his feet pressed against the cold vinyl of a car door? Clem’s height is the saddest thing about living in the Skylark. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he’ll get out of the car just to stretch. Mom wouldn’t let him for the longest time, saying it would draw too much attention. But finally she relented after Clem practically cried, his legs hurt so much. His whole body was hurting, even his underarms, he said. Sometimes, as we’re falling asleep, he rolls his window down and sticks his legs out and wiggles his pale toes in the inky night.
    When we pull up to the Spiral Café, Mom reaches into her purse and hands us a five.
    â€œSee you in two hours,” she says. She has a cleaning job to get to. I hate it when she cleans. I’m afraid she’ll hurt herself again.
    We’ve learned to open and close the car doors quickly, so people don’t see all the stuff inside. “Going camping?” people have asked. Or, “Moving day?” I’m worried that if people figure it out, they’ll call social services and Clem and I will be put in a foster home. Mom says this won’t happen—“The police left us alone, remember?” But I’ve heard stories about kids being taken from their parents just because there isn’t a table in the house and the kids eat sitting on the floor. Anyway, it’s cozy in the Skylark. The heater works fine. Mostly, we shut the door fast because we don’t want the cold getting in.
    The sidewalk is dark and empty. But the café is bright, thrumming with the people inside talking and laughing. On any other night, it would be comforting, but tonight my heart drops. It drops and drops, like a penny falling from the top of the Empire State Building, burning against the air. Like a bird, wings tucked in, bombing the surface of the water for a fish. A fish that it will miss.
    â€œI’m nervous,” I tell Clem.
    â€œWhat about?”
    I haven’t told him about my poem. I didn’t tell Mom either. I don’t want to be cheered on. I just want to do it.
    â€œI’m nervous too,” Clem says.
    â€œWhat are you nervous about?”
    A clump of girls with pink hair and lip rings push past, laughing over an umbrella that won’t close.
    â€œNot really my crowd,” Clem says, offering a quick, apologetic quarter-smile that I’ve seen cross Dad’s face lots of times. “I don’t belong in artsy-fartsy places.”
    I check him over. He’s wearing skater gear from head to toe.
    â€œYou should have won that bike race,” I say. “You’re a phenom on the track.”
    â€œWhatever.” He shrugs, then mumbles, “I need a coach.”
    â€œWhen we get that swimming pool.”
    It’s our joke. It’s as close as we come to saying, Where the hell are we? Why are we living in a car ? Without Dad? The unspoken theory is this, if we can afford to see our lives inside a joke, then we’ll be okay. We’ll have a future.
    A big guy wearing a bandanna and eyeliner, his sideburns trimmed into spirals, is collecting the entry fee. His T-shirt has a picture of a banana inside a circle. Bananarchy , it says.
    â€œThree dollars,” the guy tells us.
    My mouth goes dry. Clem shoots me a troubled look.
    â€œEach of us?” I ask.
    â€œUnless you’re performing.”
    â€œI’m performing,” I say.
    â€œThen it’s free.”
    Clem elbows me. He’s smirking, but his eyes are wide. How are you going to get out of this lie?
    I