The Fifty-Seven Lives of Alex Wayfare Read Online Free PDF Page A

from the ignition. He turned around and rested an arm on the back of the passenger seat. His eyes were kind and gray, like always, but his lips were curved in a frown. His dusky blond hair looked like he’d raked his hands through it a dozen times. Probably during his talk with Mrs Gafferty.
    â€œDo you want to tell your mom, or should I?” he said.
    My gut tightened. I could already see the disappointment on Mom’s face. Hear it in her voice – a shadow behind her ever calm, ever even words.
    Dad let go of his frown and a faint sympathetic smile showed itself. He knew all about my struggles with Mr Lipscomb. And Tabitha, for that matter. He was on my side when it came to both of them, though that didn’t mean he was OK with what I did. It just meant he understood. Which, honestly, pretty much made him the best dad in the world.
    He was the peace-keeper of our household, always trying to shield Mom from school-related problems and take care of them himself. Not that she wouldn’t want to know about them, but Dad figured they would distract her from her work. This time, however, he needed to “inform her of the escalated situation.” That faint smile meant he was sorry, but it had to be done.
    He dropped his arm and jostled his keys in his palm. “What are we going to do with you, Allie Bean?” He clamped the keys in his fist and heaved open the driver-side door.
    Time to face the judge.
    Inside, I smelled nutmeg and cinnamon, which meant there was one of Gran’s pumpkin pies cooling on the butcher block island in the kitchen. The tinny sound of Pops’ radio floated in on a cool breeze from the back porch, and I knew he was out there, sitting in his rocker, listening to his favorite sports program. Any other day I would’ve gone out to join him. Gran would’ve brought us hot cider, and we would’ve nagged her every five minutes, asking when the pie would be ready. Pops might have gotten a swat on the shoulder with a wooden spoon. I would’ve laughed. And Gran would’ve broken down and given us a slice. Still warm. With fresh whipped cream melting on top.
    Then I would’ve helped Dad with dinner, helped my youngest sister, Claire, with her homework, then read some of TS Eliot to Audrey until she fell asleep. For the past two months, she’d been falling asleep before dark. Every part of her body was tired. Even her fingernails, she said.
    But this time I went straight upstairs to my bedroom to await my trial. I had a good hour before Mom got home to work my stomach into several twisted knots of guilt.
    I hated letting her down. Even more than I hated Mr Lipscomb. And I’d been letting her down an awful lot lately.
    I hefted myself up each squeaky step to the attic, my feet feeling heavier than usual. The staircase on the second floor led right up into the middle of my room, which spanned the entire top floor of the house. It was more of a workshop than a bedroom really, though I did have a small twin bed in the far corner, a dresser, and a wardrobe. The ceiling was A-framed, sloping down almost to the floor, but each side had a bank of windows extending out from the slanted roof so you didn’t have to crouch like you did in other attics. The ceiling and walls were covered in old architectural drawings and machining schematics, as well as a few watercolors Audrey painted for me, and a poster of a 1963 Corvette Sting Ray.
    Silver, with a red v-stripe on the hood.
    I totally planned to own one someday.
    Three drafting tables Dad salvaged from an old factory stood strategically placed around the room, each covered in a heap of random parts, wire spools, and trays of tools. If I had it my way, my room would be in a constant state of organized chaos, but Gran insisted on tidying while I was at school. I could tell she’d been there that day because a path was paved through my boxes of spare electronics, and the faint scent of her lemon verbena