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“I’ll carry you back down, it’s not a big deal,” I rush out, desperate to stop the only thing I hate more than living in Cain’s Weeping—a crying girl.
Her hands fall from her face and her formerly trembling lip is now spread wide and curved upward at the ends as she beams happily at me.
“Oh, good! Another piggyback,” she shouts, and without any warning, she hops back onto my back.
“You gotta hold still, though. I’ve got to go slow. It’s steep,” I warn her and then turn to walk back down the hill.
She props her cheek onto the back of my shoulder and wraps her legs around my waist, locking them at the ankles as a symbol of her agreement.
“Okay, well how about you watch where we’re going, and I’ll tell you all about the book I’m reading.”
“You like to read?” I ask, and I have to stop myself from turning my head backward to see if she’s serious.
But I’m trying to focus on stepping over a pile of leaves that are also the perfect place for a snake to take a nap.
“Oh, yeah. It’s one of my favorite things to do, and my dad and I used to read together all the time,” she says happily, and I stop.
“Well, it's mine, too,” I say slowly because a part of me is expecting her to burst out laughing or call me a sinning sissy.
But, she doesn’t do anything but keep on talking.
“Really? I just finished a book on Greek gods, and then I’m finishing one on Egypt and all the Pharaohs and their tombs and all the things they believed back then.” She’s practically bouncing on my back. I don’t know what either of those two things is, but I can’t tell her that.
I want to read about them, too.
“What are you reading?” she asks, sounding even more excited.
“The Hobbit. I’ve read it lots of times already.” I don’t tell her it’s the only book I have. And that I come here to read because it’s the only place no one would come looking for me.
I would be beaten within an inch of my life if my stepfather found out what I was doing every day.
The only book allowed in Cain's Weeping is the Bible and a cookbook my Mama brought with her when we moved here. She also brought The Hobbit and gave it to me for my seventh birthday.
“What is that about?” she asks, and I start to tell her all about mythical, magical beings that don’t really exist. She hugs my neck and says, “You sound so excited about it. Can I read it when you’re done?”
“I may not be done for a while,” I say even though the thought of parting with my book makes my stomach hurt.
“That’s okay. I’ve got other books to read while I wait,” she says.
“I dunno, you’re maybe too little,” I say slowly.
“My brain’s not,” she singsongs. Oh, yeah. That’s obvious.
“I’ll let you read some of mine. I have a bunch, and then we can talk about them,” she adds.
I perk up at that. The idea of talking about it with someone makes my stomach hurt a little less.
“I guess that’ll be okay,”
“You wanna come to my house? Or should I come to yours?” My stomach sinks. Neither of those things is possible.
“I can’t do that. My parents don’t let me …” I start and try to find an excuse that doesn’t sound as awful as the truth.
“That’s okay.” Her legs swing a little. “Let’s meet by the lake again. I’ll bring you the books I’ve finished, and you can bring me yours.”
Inside, a bubbling of happiness tickles my throat and makes me want to laugh out loud. I can’t remember the last time I felt that.
“Yeah, sure. I can only come here from two to four. And you have t
