Between the Stars and Sky Read Online Free PDF Page A

lake, crawling toward the ice-blue sky higher and higher with each step I take. The closer I get, the more I see, and soon the cave where Jameson’s mystery sleeps is in my view. There, parallel from downtown, the lake becomes brutal and vicious, waves jump up the jagged rocks and throw themselves on the smoothness of the cave’s entrance.
    Nearly a mile away, and I can see what Jameson must have seen so clearly; a secret place, a test for love.  And just as I’m thinking of walking further, making my way to Jameson’s cave to see if I can find myself there, I see a house that towers just beyond the marina before me, so high it cuts the sun in two.
    The Blake house.
    Light reflecting off the wavy lake dances in the windows of the massive house, each window a rainbow in the sun. And I wonder if they designed it that way; so the lake seemed to ripple because of the house. Walking closer, the Blake house looks vacant, though I’m not surprised; it’s too beautiful of a day to be trapped inside.
    I turn to the lake and there is my house, resting easy on the other side of the water. Beyond the thick trees in front of it, the Grant house is nothing compared to the Blake’s. I can see our path, the sign that says Grant carved in a dead stump where the beach hits forest. A plastic chair tipped over behind a mound of sand covered in grass. A hummingbird feeder that, from here, is nothing more than a blaring red dot in a tall tree; the only bright color. From here, my home, my life, looks so small, so dull compared to everything.
    And then-
    there in the rippling blue water between my house and this one sits a rock cut like a triangle, most of it hidden beneath the surface. The beacon of what little childhood I have left. I smile so wide it hurts. Years ago, when I was just beginning, this was my Atlantis, my story.
    My secret.
    I would run down to the water every morning, find this stone that stood so proudly against the rushing water around it, and sit. Watching. Waiting for the Lost City to rise again, to find me. Give me powers. Make me whole, complete, when I felt like I wasn’t.
    Some nights I would dream of it, of Atlantis rising up and out of the lake. Or of me diving deep below. I would find secrets in the Lost City, little pieces of myself no one could ever touch: a knife that stopped time, a book that never stopped telling stories, a rock that granted everlasting life. Every summer, I would escape reality for a place I only saw in my dreams.
    Then Mom died.
    And the Lost City was destroyed, again.
    But I don’t want that to be the end, so I keep walking across the sand, staying close to the place where the water touches my toes. I watch the rock, the Point in the distance, and wonder about my story. About Jameson’s. About which is true and not.
    Lies.
    Secrets.
    Truths.
    I think about this as my feet carry me closer to the Blake house: Does any lie or secret matter if no one knows the truth? Or are we all stories waiting to be found, read, cherished. Maybe we are all something we’re not until we find someone who knows who we are.
    There she is.
    I am so close to the Blake house. I see a girl in the middle window on the second floor. Her back to the beach, golden hair twisted in a knot on her head, she is painting. Colors move around her, bright as what sun can find her.
    Sarah.
    I remember our summers, those few days we spent together over the course of thirteen summers. Never more than two at a time, never more than we should. Always never enough, always too fast too slow too soon. Now, I wonder if she remembers them like I do, or if I’m creating stories based on hopes. If Sarah is like my Lost City, and never will I see everything. Only the surface, only what’s above the water.
    And then suddenly, her painting stops.
    Sarah’s fingers move so quickly, colors blur, and there is paper everywhere. Shards of it flying in the air around her. Pieces of her painting. Dead. Gone. Destroyed.
    Like Atlantis, my