The Girls of No Return Read Online Free PDF

cabin, Margaret would rap once on the door and everything would go silent. The ground sloped down from the path for about sixty feet until it met a thin strip of sand and grass, and then the water. There was a fire circle next to the water, halfway between the Mess Hall and the first small cabin, and rough wood benches were placed neatly around it. From where we stood, I could see more mountains rearing up across the water to the north, all stone and granite and jagged corners.
    Margaret stopped in front of one of the cabins, about three-fourths of the way down the line. “Good timing. It’s Toes-Up.”
    â€œToes-Up?”
    â€œHeads down, toes up,” said Margaret. “A period of rest and relaxation. You’ll be able to meet your cabinmates all at once.”
    Lucky me , I thought. Lucky, lucky, lucky me.
    Here’s what the cabin looked like on the outside: rickety. Kind of weathered. Built from knotty pine logs that came together at the corners like the Lincoln Logs I used to play with. It didn’t look big enough to fit any more than one or two people. It certainly didn’t look like any place I would have ever chosen to live.
    â€œLida?”
    â€œRight.”
    Margaret sighed. “Gets pretty cold here at night. You’ll at least want your sleeping bag unrolled.” She opened the door.
    A word here about my hair. No, three words: stringy pulled pork. That’s what it looked like to me, at least. Something you might find inside a rather unappealing sandwich that you bought at a greasy BBQ joint next to a rest stop along the highway. My hair was the end result of concentrated not-washing and a dedication to the art of fingercombing. It wasn’t a masterpiece, not yet, but it had potential. What I’m trying to say is, it was my choice. I wanted it that way. Stringy pulled pork.
    That’s why, when Margaret pushed open the cabin door, my hand was stuck in my hair. I’d been twirling the strands with my right index finger (a nervous habit since sixth grade), and I guess I became overzealous, because I kind of twisted a knot around my finger and couldn’t pull it out. So when that door opened and the faces of my new cabinmates turned toward me — not eagerly, exactly, but almost as if they had all recognized a disconcerting smell at the same time — I was jerking my hand around in my hair.
    I’m not certain — I didn’t have a stopwatch or anything — but I’m pretty sure nobody said a word for six or seven years.
    â€œOh,” said Margaret, finally catching on to my predicament. “Here, let me.”
    As she reached over and started lifting strands of hair away from my hand, a low voice came from the back of the cabin like a slow-motion slap.
    â€œAnother genius joins the ranks.”
    There was laughter then, but I couldn’t say if it was one person’s laughter or four. My eyes were trained on the tops of my black Chuck Taylors, which were kind of shuffling back and forth of their own accord.
    Margaret ignored the comment. Having freed me from my hair in less time than it took me to get stuck in the first place, and also having managed to usher both me and my bag inside, shutting the door behind us, she straightened and addressed the cabin.
    â€œFolks, this is Lida Wallace. Please welcome her kindly .”
    I looked up.
    Here is what the cabin looked like from the inside: pretty much as inspiring as it had from the outside. There was a set of bunk beds along each of the two sides and one along the back wall, with dressers at the foot of each one. From where I stood, I could see no chairs, no desks, and no pictures on the walls. Well, that’s not exactly true. A calendar hung off the foot of the bunk bed on the right side of the room. The picture for the month of June, all neon blue and orange, was the outline of a man with a tail, playing some sort of flute. The days of the month that had already passed had