Stork Read Online Free PDF Page B

alienate both the monarchy and the peasantry. We stopped at the intersection of the school’s north and south wings. Penny waved and headed in the opposite direction. I watched her walk away, wondering what she thought of me. Acquaintances for only two hours, and the only concrete things she knew about me were that the school king was blowing me random kisses and that I was in favor of leveling their town. I just hoped I hadn’t scared her off; I really needed a friend, and should topiary hair and woolly vests be part of the package, so be it.
    I leaned against my locker, hugging my arms to my body — being the new kid was stressful. No wonder I was imagining Stork ladies.

I headed to Afi’s store straight from school. As soon as I got there, he went to the back to take inventory, which I knew was code for nap. He’d been running the store alone since my
amma
died three years ago, so had earned himself a power nap or two. It wasn’t like the place got the foot traffic of the Whole Foods in Westwood, but still, he worked hard for an old guy.
    I sat on a stool behind the front counter with my Rocket Dog clogs propped up. I pulled a Mary Jane out of one of the glass canisters lined up along the antique mirror and thought I saw the reflection of movement across the street. Relief flooded my system when I realized it was just a car pulling out of the alley next to Hulda’s store. I was really starting to lose it. I snuck another peek. Nothing. Activity would mean Hulda was around, and that my memories — which I’d fairly successfully convinced myself to be nothing more than an anxiety-induced delirium — were real. I busied myself with a chemistry worksheet and then turned my attention to Design. I was certain that everyone would submit something traditional: period Scandinavian costumes and quaint village settings for the term project. I was hoping to talk Penny into something hip and futuristic and edgy.
The Snow Queen
meets
Blade Runner
. I sketched a few quick commando-chic costumes.
    Afi woke up from his nap and was hungry for dinner. “Wednesday’s beef stew at the restaurant,” he said. “You fly. I buy.”
    Walking down Main Street, I passed the used bookstore. A woman waved to me from where she was setting gourds and pumpkins among the stacks of paperbacks in the front window display. I knew she’d introduced herself in the summer and asked about my mom, but I couldn’t remember her name. A few doors down, a man wished me a pleasant evening as he swept the sidewalk in front of the hardware store. I had no clue what is name was either.
    Two doors past the antique store was the Kountry Kettle, my favorite hangout, mostly because Jaelle waitressed there. Jaelle was from Minneapolis and had more sass and presence than the whole town huddled on the green. I hip-checked the door open and stopped to savor something pumpkin. Idabelle, the café’s owner, had no eye for interiors — as evidenced by the ruffled curtains and milk-can decor — but the woman sure could pipe out some delicious aromas. Jaelle looked up from the counter and instantly her mouth stretched into a wide grin. She had a great smile, but one she didn’t spread thin the way so many of the adults around here did. Minnesota-nice, or whatever you want to call it, was like Michael Kors at Macy’s: the more you offer it to just anybody, the more it loses its appeal.
    “Hey, Ice.” The first day we met, back in the summer, Jaelle had taken one look at my blond hair and proclaimed it ice-white. And as far as I could tell, Jaelle didn’t give out nicknames easily. Kind of ironic that she called me Ice, given my dislike of the cold. Jaelle leaned against the counter. Idabelle made the waitresses wear yellow button-front dresses, but Jaelle had a way of making it her own. A black lace-trimmed undershirt pushed through the V created by unfastened buttons, and black bicycle shorts and long brown legs pedaled under the shortened skirt.
    “So