The Girl in the Well Is Me Read Online Free PDF Page A

Amanda’s dad had built it just for them, in their yard, right out front so everyone could see it. Her house was on the small hill behind the school, so no one could miss it, perched up there like it was special, the most special house in town.
    Inside the clubhouse, there was real furniture and curtains and a white shag rug and even an Internet connection so they could watch movies in there on the Xbox. Out front, there were three chairs painted in different colors, one for each of them, and a pot of geraniums the color of fireworks. It had everything. I wanted to live in that clubhouse. I wanted to put my posters of Rory on the walls. I wanted to lie on the bed in there and read Harry Potter books over and over again and never ever have to leave.
    â€œMaybe you can be the one with short hair,” Sandra said. “Like, um, we’ve already got a normal blonde, brunette, and redhead. I mean, I
guess
you can. If you have to join.” She looked at Kandy. “What?” Sandy said. “She could pull it off! She’s, you know.” Sandy smirked. “Boyish.” She shrugged. “I’m just saying.”
    â€œI can do that,” I said.
    I don’t know why I said that. My hair was the only thing in my life that was any good. It came down to my shoulders and I could make it do loose curls without even really trying. I could make it look like I’d spent the day at the beach. I could straighten it and make it shine like a crow’s feathers. I could do any kind of braid you can even make up. I was good at braiding. Maybe even better than they were.
    â€œReally?” Sandy said. “OK. Good! Great. It will be, like, your test.
Part
of it. We’ll have other tests. But the first one is cutting your hair. Mandy will do it. She’s awesome at hair cutting and stuff like that.”
    I should have known that their stupid club was going to land me exactly where I am, about to die in a well with a terrible haircut that Amanda did with her mom’s kitchen scissors, the blades all sticky from who-­knows-­what, little patches of rust changing the usual
snip-­snip
scissor noise to something more like Styrofoam rubbing against itself. Amanda, who had
never
had a haircut herself, not ever, like that made her a better person than everyone else. Why did I think
she
could do it? When she started cutting, I wasn’t scared. Not really. It felt OK, the weight of my hair falling in clumps onto her kitchen floor. The other girls were oohing and aahing. “You are soooooo talented,” Kandy said. “You could be a hairdresser when you grow up! You totally should do that.”
    â€œMaybe even for movie stars,” said Sandy.
    â€œMaybe even for Talia,” said Mandy.
    The girls sighed. They loved Talia. She was their favorite singer, but I didn’t like her. She was too big. Not big, like fat or tall, but
big
, like
in your face
. I like people who stay gently where they are, a little bit behind what they are doing. They just
sing
. You think of the song first, because it’s so good, before you think of the person doing the singing. And then you find yourself looking at them because they are so good at the thing they are doing, not because they are flapping their tongue in your face and screaming and all half-­naked and stuff. Too much.
    When I grow up, I’m going to be one of the
gently present
people. (Grandma used to say that it was better to be gently present than to announce yourself, and I know exactly what she meant by that. Talia could have used a few lessons from Grandma, that’s for sure.) I’m going to be someone who makes you look, slowly, over to where I am. I mean, if I ever turn out to be good at anything.
    I felt pretty, the way they were staring at me when they cut my hair. But now that I think of it, it was like I was showing off, sitting there letting them hack off all my hair.
I
was Talia.
I
was being bigger than I am, all