Cicada Summer Read Online Free PDF Page A

‘But I’ll share it with you if you like.’
    Eloise made a small movement with her head, meaning that she didn’t mind, the other girl didn’t have to share if she didn’t want to, but the girl seemed to take this as agreement, because she gave Eloise a sudden radiant smile.
    ‘Oh, good!’ she cried. ‘You can help me fix it up. Dad said he’d help me paint it but he’s too busy.’ She jerked her chin up the slope. ‘Busy with the big house.’ She pulled a face.
    Eloise thought of her own dad, and how, very soon, he would be busy with their house— But of course it was the same house . . . Wasn’t it? So that meant this was her summerhouse, too . . .
    The other girl seized Eloise’s arm. ‘There’s lots of stuff lying round, from the builders, wood and paint and everything. Do you like painting?’
    Eloise half-shrugged, half-nodded.
    ‘Good, ’cause I don’t. You can be in charge of painting. Come on, let’s get some.’
    Eloise grabbed her clothes and pulled them on, then the summerhouse girl dragged her through the garden, along twisting little hidden paths between bushes laden with purple flowers and starred with white blossom.
    ‘Come this way,’ she hissed in Eloise’s ear, so close it tickled. ‘So no one’ll see us. There’re always too many people.’ She pulled the same disdainful face as before. Suddenly her grip tightened on Eloise’s arm. ‘Ssh! Listen. Hear that?’
    The summerhouse girl and Eloise froze in the bushes, not far from the house. Above their heads, from an open window, music floated down: the same broken phrase of cello, over and over. Someone swore, and the music stopped abruptly. The summerhouse girl clapped her hand over her mouth to stop a giggle escaping, and Eloise smiled. A laugh was bubbling up inside Eloise, fizzing like lemonade. The feeling surprised her; she realised she hadn’t laughed for a long time. Not since she went quiet - maybe not since Mum . . . Mum was always laughing, always singing to herself. She’d sing silly words to make Eloise laugh too, and then she’d scoop her up and spin her round till they were both breathless with laughing . . .
    Eloise smacked that thought down hard.
    The summerhouse girl tugged her onward, squeezing between the bushes – deadly serious again, as if they were spies and their lives were at stake.
    They emerged from the garden on the far side of the house, the side Eloise hadn’t seen, near a cluster of sheds and garages and outbuildings. The summerhouse girl darted from one building to the next, beckoning Eloise to follow. Once, they heard voices, a slammed door, and had to freeze, pressing themselves desperately against the wall. The girl’s green eyes were wide with almost-real terror, and Eloise remembered something else from long ago that she’d nearly forgotten. She remembered what it was like to play , to believe in your own game so hard it choked you.
    The summerhouse girl grabbed her hand again, and together they darted into a shed fragrant with sawdust and crammed with carpenters’ rubbish, chunks of wood, curled shavings, plans and pencils. The summerhouse girl picked up a big tin dribbled all over with white paint. Eloise could see from the way she carried it that it was almost empty. ‘I’ve got brushes,’ the girl whispered. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
    They crashed back through the bushes, faster and more careless than before, and by the time they reached the safety of the summerhouse, the other girl was giggling out loud. She dropped her tin on the bench and collapsed with a gurgle of laughter. Eloise sat down, feeling much older and more sober. Her undies were still damp and uncomfortable, and whose paint had they taken? What if someone came looking for it?
    After a minute or two the summerhouse girl sat up, wiped her eyes, and tugged up a section of bench to reveal a storage place. She rummaged around and pulled out two big shaggy paintbrushes. Then she took a spoon and tried to pry off the