Hemlock Grove Read Online Free PDF Page A

it, kid.”
    “Yeah,” said Neck. “Beat it, kid.”
    “Yes sir,” said Roman.
    They returned to the cruiser, Neck muttering, “Spooky little fucker.”
    Once they’d gone, Peter rejoined Roman.
    “I bet you save a lot of money on roofies,” said Peter.
    “Potting soil,” said Roman. “That’s what’s in her shoes.”
    Peter’s tongue stood at a crossroads between silent acceptance and trying to understand any of this. He said nothing.
    Roman lay down flat and put his ear to the ground like a movie Apache.
    “Can you feel it?” he said.
    “What?” said Peter.
    “Whatever it is that’s … down there.”
    “Oh,” said Peter. “That.”
    “Good,” said Roman. He stood. “It’s good to know you’re not going crazy.”
    “Or you’re not the only one,” said Peter.
    A cloud drifted over the White Tower. There was probably the sound of a train.
    *   *   *
    From the archives of Dr. Norman Godfrey:
    From: [email protected]
    To: [email protected]
    Subject: Let them eat croutons!
    Dearest Uncle,
    Another week and time again for you to indulge my incorrigible prattle. I would suggest you’ve opened Pandora’s (in)box, were it not so laborious pecking at the keys with the eraser end of a pencil—these fingertips the Almighty (with some assistance from Dr. P.) saw fit to provide too, shall we call it, abundant, to press one key at a time. I suppose it would be simple enough to request Mother order me some variety of keyboard receptive to a less dainty touch, but I’ve grown to appreciate that every word I choose is the product of deliberate effort. It seems to me so many who don’t need to select their words carefully, do not.
    Now what’s happened since our last correspondence worthy of my eraser’s attention? (An irony that somehow escaped me until this moment—how wonderful!) Of course—you will be so proud of me, Uncle, I followed your advice and asserted my independence to Mother. We were having dinner at the club, Mother, Roman, and I, and while orders were being taken I noticed a salad of the most stirring medley of color pass. So just as Mother was telling Jenny I would be having my usual I impetuously took up a menu and pointed with great vigor.
    “Is that what you want, honey?” said Jenny, my most favorite of the club staff.
    “No, no,” corrected Mother, “we’ll be going with her usual, I believe.”
    Which is, of course, a tureen of chopped beef.
    But I shook my head and gesticulated once more to my bold whim.
    “Darling,” said Mother, “you must have your meat.”
    To which Roman made an off-color remark. Jenny, with whom he regularly engages in light flirtation (and perhaps more outside her place of employment—how fatiguing it is trying to keep track of my brother’s extracurricular activities), hid a smirk. Mother was cross.
    “Her usual will be quite satisfactory,” she said in her the-matter-is-settled voice. Which I confess would have withered my determination on the vine were it not for divine Jenny’s intervention.
    Resting her hand on my shoulder with no hint of repugnance, she said, “Oh now, she’s just thinking of her figure. All those cute boys at the high school.”
    I could have kissed each of her fingers one by one but restrained myself to an absurd grin from which Roman dabbed a regrettable strand of spittle.
    “Now, Shelley,” said Mother, the terrifying reason of her tone reflecting her increased annoyance at this alliance, “whatever decision you make you’ll have to live with. I think both of us know you’ll end up wishing you’d made the more appropriate choice.”
    She looked at me, naturally expecting acquiescence. How it startled her when I firmly tapped the menu one final time. And though Mother was, in fact, correct—my stomach was rumbling its second guess before we’d even gotten home—I nursed that hunger all night as proof I was indeed capable of living with my decisions. But without a single instant’s