Mud Girl Read Online Free PDF

has felt like a stranger these few days since school finished. Will he begin to talk with her again now?
    â€œI’m going to the paint store,” she says, and waits for a response, but there’s none. She shouldn’t expect one.
    She leaves for the dusty road to the paint store.
    Cyan
. The word pulls her through the door.
Got any…
    â€œHi!” He’s grinning at her.
My Boy
. His voice is everything she’s imagined – even just with one word, she knows.
    â€œYou work here.” She feels as if her lungs are collapsing. And there it is: a stupid thing to say.
    â€œI work here.” His chuckle is something to curl up in. He never seemed that tall sitting out in the field with his lunch.
    â€œThere’s a HELP WANTED sign out front,” she says, rescuing a bit of bravery.
    â€œYeah,” he says. His eyes are almost black. “That’s been filled.” He goes to the window, takes down the sign. “You don’t want to work here, do you?” That grin’s back, behind his words. He’s not taking her seriously.
    â€œI do…” she begins.
    â€œNo,” he says smoothly. “You don’t. I know you don’t. I’ve seen you,” he says.
    Abi feels embarrassed when he says this.
    â€œYou have better things to do,” he goes on.
    How can he say that?
    â€œWhat was it you really came for today?”
    For a half moment she can’t think what.
    â€œCyan,” she says then. “The colour. What is it?”
    He studies her for a moment, then pulls a paintbrush – an artist’s brush – from the side pocket of his cargo pants and brushes it lightly across her cheekbone. “You know the colour; it’s in your eyes.”
    It’s like one of those old movies that Dad leaves on early in the morning: she’s the weak-kneed heroine and she has to reach out for the edge of the counter. Into her head flashes an image of Mary Rhodes. She’d appreciate this. She probably stays up late to see those old things, or maybe she has her own shelf-full to watch over and over, says the lines with the actors. But who’s mush-kneed-Abi to laugh at her?
    He studies the soft hair of the brush for a moment before putting it away. “Same eye colour as Dyl,” he says, reaching into another pocket for his wallet. He flips it open, pulls out a photograph, soft at the edges and missing a corner. “This is Dyl,” he says. Abi feels his eyes on her as she takes the picture: a very young child. “My son,” he adds.
    I still don’t know your name.
    â€œHe lives with me and my mother.” He plucks the photo from her fingers, slips it back into place, wallet away. “His mother left.” He gazes out the window momentarily, then looks at her squarely.
    I know how that feels.
But she says nothing, just looks back at him and feels miserable. Is this what he knows about her? Is this what he’s observed at her house? God-Rest-Her-Feet leaving, and her dad never leaving, and Abi wanting to?
    â€œMaybe someday you’ll come out of that house of yours and meet with me in the blackberry patch for lunch.” The laughter has returned to his voice.
    She nods dumbly.
    A man – a Hood, no doubt – calls from a back room. “Jude! If you have a minute!”
    â€œComing!”
My Boy
answers. He whispers to Abi. “That’s my boss. Thinks I’m going to take over here someday, and manage the place.” He reaches for the artist’s brush again, holds it in front of her. “But I’ve got dreams.” He turns and disappears into the back room.
    Abi leaves quickly and wishes there was somewhere she could go and shout the name jude. “Jude,” she whispers as she waits between trucks to cross the road. “Jude.” Deep inside her there’s a feeling, fuzzier and pinker than she’s ever felt.
    And a son. A son he takes care of.