Peaches Read Online Free PDF Page B

around.
    Damn.
    Murphy dropped her bag and stuck her hands in the pocketsof her cords, surveying the orchard. The house stood directly behind her. In front, stretching back toward the road and to either side as far as the eye could see, were the peach trees, their tops low and dipped in the middle like cereal bowls, rows of white sandy dirt striping straight paths between them. The branches were dotted in tiny spots of fluorescent green where the leaves were sprouting. To her right were two other houses, about twenty-five yards apart, strange looking because they were both sort of sunk into the ground and more run-down than the main house. To her left was a barn, also worn and sunken, its red paint closer to an ambitious brown.
    It was different than at night. Murphy felt like the one thing that did not belong in the picture.
    “Well, hi,” she heard, and turned. There was Chickie Darlington, cuddling one of her dogs against her chest. The other stood by her heels.
    Murphy just stared at her. Chickie seemed to falter, her hands freezing on the enormous ears of her dog. “I’m Birdie,” she said, trying to sound bright in that fake way Murphy hated. Birdie. Chickie. Whatever. “This is Honey Babe.” Birdie held one dog forward, then nodded down to the other. “And Majestic. Welcome to the farm.”
    Murphy stared coldly at the dogs, then looked up at Birdie—a picture of innocence with huge brown eyes and softly wavy auburn hair. “What kind of name is Birdie?”
    Birdie’s cheeks flushed. “When I was little, I had, uh…these little chicken legs.” She seemed on the verge of saying more but stopped.
    “Uh-huh.” Murphy looked her up and down. Birdie was sort ofplump, definitely not chicken-y. Still Birdie but without the legs.
    “Dad asked me to come and show you where to sleep.”
    Murphy lifted her bag back over her shoulder. “Lead the way.”
    Murphy walked behind Birdie, watching the way she walked, self-consciously, like each step was carefully thought out. Yuck.
    They made their way across the grass up to the smaller of the two houses. Birdie veered toward the one with the sign at the top of the stairs that said Camp A.
    “This is the women’s dorm,” Birdie said, opening the door and leading Murphy into a tiny yellow-walled hallway bordered with a kitchen and then a common room. The whole place smelled delicious and looked like something from an old movie.
    “Everyone just had lunch,” Birdie said, hovering in the archway into the common room, which was filled with three old La-Z-Boys, a table with three legs, a worn plaid couch, and the dark-haired, dark-skinned women who occupied these seats.
    “This is Emma, Alita, Isabel, and Raeka,” Birdie said, smiling shyly at the women and then back at Murphy. “Hola,” she said softly.
    “Hola,” everyone said back absently. Birdie continued down the hallway to the bottom of a set of stairs. “They’ll be picking and packing too. They’re all nice.”
    At the top of the stairs Birdie stood back to let Murphy walk into the first bedroom on the right.
    “This is your room,” she said, standing back so Murphy could go inside. The room was bare, with an old beat-up desk and bed with a blue mattress beside a window that looked out at a row of trees. By the door was a list of rules: No smoking, noloud music, curfew 10 p.m. Murphy immediately knelt on the bed and tried to open the window. It was jammed shut.
    “This is a fire hazard,” she said, flashing her green slitted eyes at Birdie, who hovered by the doorway looking like a deer trapped in headlights. Birdie held her cheek out to be licked by one of the dogs in her arms. Her pink worm of a tongue darted along her skin twice. “I have rights. I want a window that opens. I could sue you guys.”
    “Um. But I don’t know….” Birdie trailed off, looking nervous. “It’s an old house.”
    Murphy rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” She tossed her bag onto the bed and started unpacking. She’d