What Curiosity Kills Read Online Free
Author: Helen Ellis
frilly for my dad. The water is slimy like the inside of a sink pipe when you stick your finger down it to fish out a ring. To placate my mom, I stir the water with the plunger.
Mom calls, "Cool off. I'll come back in a little while with the thermometer." Her footsteps fade, and I wonder why she's not worried that I'll pass out and drown.
Outside the bathroom window, kids are yammering and smoking while waiting for the Crosstown 72. Our apartment is on the second floor above the bus stop. I can hear entire conversations, and while I'm not a smoker myself, I can smell the difference between Marlboros and American Spirits. This is a prewar building from 1917. Even with the windows shut, everything gets in, including a draft.
I rest the side of my head against the blinds. It's less than
30 degrees outside. The icy air seeps through the window. I'm covered in goose bumps. I unhook my dad's terry-cloth robe from the back of the door. The robe is heavy. My knees buckle. I steady myself and then part the blinds and peer out.
The neon lights of the bus stop glow in the dark. The kids, four boys and a girl, are talking about—what else?—how cold January is. The boys are bundled in what never goes out of style in Manhattan: black down jackets that make them look like charred Michelin Men. I'm sure that three of them don't go to my school because their haircuts would never fly. Too cool for wool caps, one kid's hair is spiked with Elmer's Glue, another's is dirtied into blond dreadlocks, and a third's is shaved to reveal a scalp tattoo.
The remaining boy better fits the Purser-Lilley mold, except for the cheap black-and-gray-checked scarf wrapped around his nose and mouth. By the way that he tugs at it, I can tell it itches and ain't Barney's cashmere.
The boys might be my age, might be older. I think everyone in high school looks older than me. Every time I look (or don't look) in the mirror, I feel like I'm twelve. Mom says she forever feels sixteen. I don't know who I feel sorrier for.
The girl wears a white version of the Michelin Man jacket. The hood is trimmed with rabbit fur. The drawstrings end in fuzzy rabbit balls. I've seen it on skinny Purser-Lilley moms; it seems too expensive for this crowd. The girl throws her head back and laughs.
My eyes widen. Hello, Ling Ling Lebowitz.
Ling Ling, a tiny girl who is always cold, is warmed by the group. She slips in and out of their spooning embraces. She's a dodge ball that's not thrown but gently passed from one easy catch to the next. The boys encircle her and take turns getting cozy. If Octavia saw this, she'd call Ling Ling a ho. But Ling Ling doesn't look ho-ish. She looks perfectly at ease. I'm jealous. No boy has ever wrapped his arms around me, let alone four at once.
The bus arrives, and the group piles on. Ling Ling chooses a window seat. The boys elbow each other over who's going to sit beside her because they can't pass her around on the bus. The driver closes the doors, and the bus rocks from the suction. The boys stretch out their arms and pretend to be surfing.
Ling Ling snatches the tail end of that one boy's cheap checked scarf. The boy tips toward her, bats her hand away, frees himself. Fringe comes off in her mitten. Ling Ling grabs another handful, higher up at his throat. The scarf tightens around his nose and mouth. His forehead turns red. Does she want to borrow the scarf or cut off the blood to his brain?
The other boys prod him. Ling Ling has chosen him; he should sit his ass down. He settles in beside her and loosens his scarf but doesn't remove it. He takes his cap off, and out pops a cloud of black curly hair. He turns toward Ling Ling, leans into her, and whispers I don't know what. But I see who he is.
Nick Martin.
The one Purser-Lilley boy who is not too skinny and not at all fat. He's not too tall and not shorter than me. He has dark brown eyes and what looks like a year-round tan. Every
Mom calls, "Cool off. I'll come back in a little while with the thermometer." Her footsteps fade, and I wonder why she's not worried that I'll pass out and drown.
Outside the bathroom window, kids are yammering and smoking while waiting for the Crosstown 72. Our apartment is on the second floor above the bus stop. I can hear entire conversations, and while I'm not a smoker myself, I can smell the difference between Marlboros and American Spirits. This is a prewar building from 1917. Even with the windows shut, everything gets in, including a draft.
I rest the side of my head against the blinds. It's less than
30 degrees outside. The icy air seeps through the window. I'm covered in goose bumps. I unhook my dad's terry-cloth robe from the back of the door. The robe is heavy. My knees buckle. I steady myself and then part the blinds and peer out.
The neon lights of the bus stop glow in the dark. The kids, four boys and a girl, are talking about—what else?—how cold January is. The boys are bundled in what never goes out of style in Manhattan: black down jackets that make them look like charred Michelin Men. I'm sure that three of them don't go to my school because their haircuts would never fly. Too cool for wool caps, one kid's hair is spiked with Elmer's Glue, another's is dirtied into blond dreadlocks, and a third's is shaved to reveal a scalp tattoo.
The remaining boy better fits the Purser-Lilley mold, except for the cheap black-and-gray-checked scarf wrapped around his nose and mouth. By the way that he tugs at it, I can tell it itches and ain't Barney's cashmere.
The boys might be my age, might be older. I think everyone in high school looks older than me. Every time I look (or don't look) in the mirror, I feel like I'm twelve. Mom says she forever feels sixteen. I don't know who I feel sorrier for.
The girl wears a white version of the Michelin Man jacket. The hood is trimmed with rabbit fur. The drawstrings end in fuzzy rabbit balls. I've seen it on skinny Purser-Lilley moms; it seems too expensive for this crowd. The girl throws her head back and laughs.
My eyes widen. Hello, Ling Ling Lebowitz.
Ling Ling, a tiny girl who is always cold, is warmed by the group. She slips in and out of their spooning embraces. She's a dodge ball that's not thrown but gently passed from one easy catch to the next. The boys encircle her and take turns getting cozy. If Octavia saw this, she'd call Ling Ling a ho. But Ling Ling doesn't look ho-ish. She looks perfectly at ease. I'm jealous. No boy has ever wrapped his arms around me, let alone four at once.
The bus arrives, and the group piles on. Ling Ling chooses a window seat. The boys elbow each other over who's going to sit beside her because they can't pass her around on the bus. The driver closes the doors, and the bus rocks from the suction. The boys stretch out their arms and pretend to be surfing.
Ling Ling snatches the tail end of that one boy's cheap checked scarf. The boy tips toward her, bats her hand away, frees himself. Fringe comes off in her mitten. Ling Ling grabs another handful, higher up at his throat. The scarf tightens around his nose and mouth. His forehead turns red. Does she want to borrow the scarf or cut off the blood to his brain?
The other boys prod him. Ling Ling has chosen him; he should sit his ass down. He settles in beside her and loosens his scarf but doesn't remove it. He takes his cap off, and out pops a cloud of black curly hair. He turns toward Ling Ling, leans into her, and whispers I don't know what. But I see who he is.
Nick Martin.
The one Purser-Lilley boy who is not too skinny and not at all fat. He's not too tall and not shorter than me. He has dark brown eyes and what looks like a year-round tan. Every
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