The Year of Disappearances Read Online Free

to their thoughts.
    Dashay’s words poured out in clusters so fast that they ran into each other, and she spoke with an accent and lilt I’d heard only hints of before.
    “Then I told them, I told them no, how can you be so quick to judge, but they do not listen, they are all against me, they tell me to go, and then I look for Bennett, I go after him, I look all through the trees, but he’s not there, he’s not there.” Her shoulders were shaking.
    I didn’t want to hear any more. Bennett had been Dashay’s true love, or so I’d thought. He was a tall man with broad shoulders and a beautiful smile. I’d watched them dance one moonlit night in our garden, turning and dipping, their hands clasped, and I’d thought, Someday, I want to have what they have.
    I didn’t want to hear any more, but I couldn’t stay away. From the house’s west side, still unfinished and open, I could see Dashay’s face.
    She was crying. I’d read the expression that tears “well,” but I’d never seen it happen before; tears continually reached the lower brims of her eyes and overflowed, streamed down her face. Her white skirt was streaked gray with tears. And she said words I didn’t understand: “Duppy get the blame, but man feel the pain.”
    My mother left her bench and bent over Dashay, wrapped her arms around her, pulled her out of the chair. They stood, holding each other in the ruined garden. The sky turned from indigo to midnight blue to black.
    I turned away, surprised (but not for the first time) that I felt jealous of their friendship.

    The next morning, I awoke with the sense that everything was normal. The blue plastic ceiling seemed to breathe with the wind, the air smelled of sawdust, and the tapping of hammers broke the rhythm of “Iron Man,” a song the radio played at least once every day.
    But when I looked outside, I noticed something new. In the moon garden, all around the chair where Dashay had sat, bloomed tiny white flowers. Her tears had been their seeds.

Chapter Two

    A fter breakfast my mother led me outside, handed me a hammer, and introduced me to Leon, a member of the framing crew, who showed me where to put the nails.
    We were nailing plywood to two-by-fours, don’t ask me why. I’m sure Leon would have told me if I’d asked. My mind wasn’t on what we were building. I wanted to be inside. Dashay would be getting up soon, and she and Mãe would be talking. I wanted to hear the details.
    But no, I had to help rebuild the house. It felt like being outside a movie theater or a playhouse; all the drama was on the inside, and I was left to imagine the plot.
    Leon offered me some of the lemonade in his thermos. He was a muscular man with a deep suntan, dark eyes, and multicolored tattoos of knives and roses along his arms and neck. The rest—I just knew he had more—were covered by his T-shirt and jeans.
    “How old are you?” he asked me abruptly.
    “Fourteen.”
    “Fourteen going on thirty.”
    My father had told me that. Some days (usually when I felt tired), I looked much older than others.
    The lemonade tasted tart yet sweet. I watched blisters on my right palm raise and almost at once fade away, but I quickly closed my hand so that Leon wouldn’t see. I figured he didn’t know we were vampires, and Mãe had taught me not to flaunt the fact.
    The radio played a song called “Love Bites.” Leon said, “Ain’t that the truth.”
    Quitting time was at five. I ran into the house and almost collided with Dashay. She wore a saffron-colored caftan and her long hair was wrapped in a green silk scarf. She looked aloof and regal. But she gave me a hug—not nearly as emphatic as her usual hugs—and a strained smile.
    “I missed you,” I said.
    Tears appeared in her caramel-colored eyes.
    “Enough crying.” Mãe’s voice was brisk. She wore a dark blue dress and a string of lemon-colored beads. “Hurry and change, Ariella. Put on a dress. We girls are going to town.”

    Happy hour at