A Fistful of Sky Read Online Free PDF

She patted my cheek. “Just try it. You’ll like it.”
    BUT of course I didn’t like it. For lunch I looked longingly at sliced ham,
    cheddar cheese, sourdough bread, pickles, mayonnaise, Twinkies, potato chips. My hands made me a sprouts-and-olives sandwich, piled carrots on my plate, and added an apple. Dinner was a giant salad. In between lunch and dinner I powerwalked all through the village without stopping to look at anything.
    I had a couple of hours of down time, but every time I picked up a book—which was what I liked to do during the summer, curl up on the porch swing with a cool drink and a hot book and read—I put it down again before I could finish a page, got up, and ran up and down the stairs for fifteen minutes. I was sweaty and exhausted, my stomach churning, after every one of these incidents. I learned not to touch books.
    Mama had left in the afternoon to go to the TV station, where she was a special reporter who covered social events and local arts news—she knew everybody important in town, and they all liked her and told her things they wouldn’t tell anybody else; it was part of her gift, and made her invaluable—so I had dinner alone.
    When Mama got home around eight, I was waiting. “Stop it, Mama. Please. Stop it. This is torture.”
    “It’s hard the first day. It’ll get easier, honey.”
    I wished she wouldn’t call me honey. I couldn’t even look at the honey pot. “The first day? How long is this supposed to last?”
    She smiled, though her eyes looked sad. “Just a week. After that, we’ll see.”
    “Mama.” I rubbed my eyes. I didn’t think I could take another day of this.
    A tear streaked down her cheek. “This hurts me more than it does you.”
    “I doubt it.”
    She brushed past me and went to the kitchen.
    I headed upstairs. I took a shower, contemplating the week ahead, then tried not to think about it. I went to my room, tired enough to sleep at eight-thirty in the evening. I lay down, pulled up the covers, and opened the fantasy novel I was reading.
    I found myself running up and down the stairs. Mama came out of the kitchen, and I yelled at her. No words, just thumping shrieks as I pounded up and down the stairs. She ran away again.
    I tried fighting the compulsions, but nothing stopped them. Mama was the best witch I knew. She could craft seamless, inescapable spells in her
    sleep. I had no hint of power to fight them.
    The second night, while Mama was at work, I called Dad’s hotel in Anaheim. The family was all out. I left voicemail begging him to call me back, then waited all evening for the phone to ring.
    I called every afternoon as soon as Mama left for work. The family was never at the hotel, and they never called back.
    On the sixth day of salads, fruit, fiber, and skim milk, I powerwalked past my friend Claire’s house, a couple blocks from mine. It was the third time I’d circled her block. I couldn’t go up to the front door; on these walks, which lasted until I was almost too tired to crawl home but not quite, I seemed confined to the sidewalk, no dawdling, no going up anybody’s driveway; but at least I could choose my direction. Claire came out of her house. That day her short curly hair was magenta with black streaks. “Hey, Gyp!” she called.
    I walked past. “Hey, Claire,” I yelled over my shoulder.
    “Stop!” she cried.
    “Can’t.” I walked on and turned a corner, then went around her block again, hoping she’d still be in the yard when I passed the next time.
    “What’s the matter?” she asked as I cruised past.
    “I can’t stop.”
    She opened the gate and caught up with me. “Are you on some kind of program?” I reached for her hand. If only I could cling to something and make myself stop!
    We had never held hands before, so for a second she didn’t get it, but finally she put her hand in mine. I tried to stop, but even Claire’s touch didn’t free me. I tugged her forward with me. “Slow down, will you?” she