The Golden Thread Read Online Free PDF

something else; something like an atomic tank.
    She was square, with broad shoulders and hips, and blond hair chopped off shoulder-length like Prince Valiant’s. She stood firmly on both feet, as immovable as a double-parked delivery truck in a narrow street, looking slowly around the room while Mrs. Corelli reminded us all of the trials of the formerly communist countries of Eastern Europe, where dictatorship had disintegrated into civil wars and ethnic cleansing (a truly disgusting phrase, when you think about it, for a horrible idea).
    Bosanka’s eyes were pale as the Hudson in midwinter and not very big, in a moon face with high, rounded cheekbones. She had a mouth like a pinched-in flower bud, and she carried her wide chin high and thrust forward like the edge of a shield. No makeup, which seemed appropriate: might as well put lipstick on Mount Rushmore!
    She wore a pleated skirt, zip-up boots, and a baggy gray sweater with a high collar that didn’t quite hide her neck. And that was some neck. Solid is a kindly word for it.
    â€œBosanka,” Mrs. Corelli said, “would you like to say a few words to your new classmates?” I’m sure she hoped for a stirring political statement about how wonderful it was to be in the good old USA.
    Bosanka opened her pink lips and uttered two words: “Good morning.” She had an accent that was actually about 75% attitude.
    â€œJeez.” Megan groaned softly. “Where’s her tractor? Nobody could look like that and not be a Worker-Hero of the Socialist Republic of Thing-a-ma-stan!”
    Bosanka didn’t look like any kind of worker to me, though “heroic” was not so farfetched, as in “the statue was built on a heroic scale.”
    More words, four of them, followed: “Who is—Balentena March?”
    Everybody looked at me, some grinning, some making sympathetic or horrified faces.
    â€œI’m Valentine Marsh,” I said. Why was I nervous? Because this strange person had gotten hold of my name, for some reason.
    What reason?
    Bosanka’s mouth smiled. Her eyes did not sparkle with good humor, however. They bored into me like twin ice picks.
    She said, “The assistant says you are my student host.” She turned to Mrs. Corelli. “I sit with Balentena March.”
    I had completely forgotten about signing up for the Foreign Guest program (something I’d done in a moment of lunacy after Gran’s stroke).
    â€œOf course you’ll sit with Valentine, Bosanka,” Mrs. Corelli said. “Megan, you come up here and take this empty chair.”
    â€œOh, no,” Megan said under her breath. Out loud she said, “Couldn’t we all move down one, starting with Jennifer?”
    Jennifer Tieck, who sat on my other side and was one of the world’s laziest living human beings, drawled, “Why? You move. I like it where I am.”
    Bosanka walked toward us. For a human tank, she was quick on her feet. She was also menacing, a ridiculous idea, but Megan felt it, too. Seeing Bosanka bearing down on us, she scooped up her stuff and vacated the chair.
    The new girl plunked herself down next to me. She had no books, none of the load of paper and junk we all lugged around; no purse or book bag, even. No wonder she looked—well, entirely different from every other girl in the class.
    She didn’t say anything and she didn’t look at me again. She surveyed the room as if from a distance while the usual morning stuff went by: Ruth Wasserman announced a planned demonstration against nuclear power; Margie Acton made a plea for articles for the next issue of the school paper. Margie had beat me out as editor this term, and she had no time for being friends anymore. Not with me, anyway.
    The bell rang and we all got up to go to first period classes. Standing, Bosanka was actually an inch or two shorter than I was, like most of the kids in my grade. I wasn’t sure that this made any