Beautiful to the Bone (The Enuis Trilogy #1) Read Online Free PDF

in the corner, and above it inserted into the wall, was a mirror on which the late afternoon sun shined, illuminating dark, silver oxidizing stains —caused by moisture and condensation, research I discovered as I continued my rule of reading one encyclopedia page every day. But I was full of books, what about the real world? What about what I read in Momma’s magazines? What about that real world? What about people and the strange things they did? Like the “Black Widow,” 23-year-old Pamela Ann Wojas in New Hampshire? Momma read everything about her. “Fascinating,” said Momma. She killed her husband. With her 15-year-old student lover. Why would she do something like that?
    Anyway, whether it was the wet Minnesota weather or steam drifting from the tap to the mirror that caused the mirror’s disfiguration, I never found out. But its disfigurement was a reminder , it taunted me, and if I could have I would have removed the damn thing. Instead, over it, I taped a scrap of thin muslin tablecloth dotted with yellow marigold I found stashed in the shed.
    “I’m up to here with my life.” The stone basement chamber absorbed my words. Safe, but useless. Research couldn’t be accomplished simply crouched in the corner surveying my bunker. “I gotta get out.”
    The teenage fantasies I’d sprinkled around the room —the Michael Landon and Andie MacDowell photos, and The Little Mermaid poster— had lost their charm. Out of time. Only the news clipping with its rare photo of Jane Goodall talking in a circle with African teenagers still seemed relevant. She was saving monkeys, sitting and watching, staying out of the limelight.
    At dusk, wind leaked into my bedroom, lesions in the windowpane. The light socket swayed. Upstairs Momma huddled into the mossy couch, wary of the wind, of me, what lived inside both the wind and me. Dread. It was contagious.
    The foreboding was barely audible at first, the wind choir quietly humming. Restless, like me. The chorus rose and fell, filling my room, wailing and warning. The gypsy wind, well traveled, where did it come from, where was it going? Did it start in Minnesota and end up in some exotic place like Hawaii? Comforting trade winds? Or come for us, Moroccan and dry? An Indian monsoon, still whetted by tidal waves? A South American williwaw, fresh from sinking ships?
    I shivered in the corner. “Give me a clue, I gotta get out of here.”
    It lasted all night, only the darkness protecting me. And there was my answer: darkness.
    ***
    The auditorium speakers blared a rap/R&B song:
     
    I sense there’s something strange in your head
    And you can’t get it out
    It’s heartless, aint it
    A poisoned starkness, that’s the thread
     
    Are you schemin’ on me
    Are you dreamin’ on me
    Will I fall for your dark screamin’ charms
     
    The crowd screamed for me to do it again. Swathed in darkness, just the two holes into the light, I raced across the court, rolled, bounced, cartwheeled into a back handspring, and vaulted myself into the air before gliding (like in water) into a split ten feet from the stands. Nuts! They went nuts! Cheered; shrieked; applauded. Coach Westmore smiled and clapped too. Hands on hips watching me. Did he get my note?
    “Go, go Beavers!” The crowd on its feet. The cheerleaders at the far end of the court padded toward me. Would the coach let me use his new gadget? Two in the whole school, the perfect research tool. Was The Beaver enough?
    I jumped to my feet. More shouts of encouragement. “Beaver, Beaver, Beaver!” Stands full all around: watching, cheering, the team, me . All those people with me, almost at my command, but they didn’t see me. Ideal. My whole body alive! Free! They loved me. They loved The Beaver, my oversized tail and head, my eight-inch eyes, my giant bucky teeth. I raised their energy, controlled their flow with my movements. To the right, hands up. Their hands went up. Spread “V” for victory. They mimicked me. Smiles and