Flat-Out Celeste Read Online Free PDF Page B

uncomfortable temperature, she would simply think about cold things, and those thoughts would trick her body into believing that her skin may not, in fact, dissolve at any moment. Air conditioning, shade, the Bering Sea, industrial freezers, snowmen, salted-caramel ice cream, the nose on the neighbor’s ever-snorting bulldog, the wind atop Mt. Everest… Celeste would give anything to be clinging to the side of a Himalayan mountain right now, frostbite and potentially lost limbs be damned. And since her ambitions of becoming a yoga devotee were quickly evaporating, extreme mountain climber was a more likely new goal.
    Celeste rolled onto her side, unable to tolerate hanging her head upside down for one minute longer. Total collapse was the only option right now.
    “There’s nothing wrong with taking a break,” Erin whispered from her mat. “It’s very smart to listen to your body. And this is only your first class.”
    And her last. Celeste let her eyes close as she lay incapacitated. When the lights dimmed for the last section of the class, she sighed with both relief and discouragement. Yoga was a failure. She was a failure.
    No, she scolded herself. No. I will not be defeated by an inability to perform acrobatics in a room that simulates a South American jungle experience. I will not give up on reinventing myself, because reinvention is my out. Or my way in.
    Facing this hot misery head-on was the only option. So she did just that.

    After dropping her mother at their house, Celeste backed seamlessly into a parallel-parking spot on Mass Ave. in Somerville. “Spatial relations skills aren’t for the meek,” she stated assuredly. “And I am not meek.”
    Granted, she felt a tad meek after that rather demanding yoga class; but this was her new life and she would simply view the more difficult parts as divine challenges. The sweat had dried—mostly—from her skin, and she had to admit that although she had perhaps completed only a small fraction of the actual yoga poses, she had at least not up and died during class. That had to be considered an achievement. Part one of her yogini day was over. Now to find her new people.
    A quick internet search had helped her locate the perfect post-yoga spot, a natural-foods cafe ten minutes outside of Harvard Square. Deciding it was a good move to present her new self properly, she carried her rolled-up yoga mat via the shoulder strap as well as her canvas tote bag. The yoga mat/tube caught on the doorjamb as she stepped inside the cafe, and while it may have taken two attempts before she was able to cross the threshold without ricocheting off the tube, she did make it in. Celeste was a bit taken aback at the shop’s interior, given that she was not familiar with sitting on bean bags or inhaling musky incense in nearly unlit rooms. But this cafe, from what she ascertained online, was an appropriate place for upcoming yogini like her to socialize. And there were, she saw with delight, girls around her age, all wearing loose-fitting pants and tops and lolling about on floor cushions while awful music drifted through the room.
    It was rather dark, so it took a few minutes for Celeste to locate a free bean bag, but she did and dropped clumsily into it, trying to control the grunt that erupted when she landed with a thud.
    A woman in a long, patterned skirt approached her with a menu. Celeste was sure that the waitress’ skirt was actually a wall tapestry that had been tied around her waist, and she made a mental note to locate and purchase such a tapestry skirt for herself. Also, long necklaces made with wood beads. “Welcome to The Harvester. Let me know when you’re ready to order.”
    “The Harvester,” Celeste felt, sounded a tad too much like the title of a horror movie that was set on a farm and less like a sexy yoga cafe, but that was okay. “Thank you so much. I’m delighted to be here, as I feel compelled to replenish both my body and soul after the draining hot