Free The Short Life of Sparrows by Emm Cole

budding from the dirt. He squints at me. “Do you want to remember it?” he asks, closing his eyes as he rolls onto his back. He tips his head back into his locked hands, and the glow of the sun covers his tanned neck.
    I pull my hand back. “Yes.” Running my fingers over the thick grass again, I angle my face to catch the toasty warmth of daylight. “It’s a perfect summer afternoon—even if you’re here too.”
    He chuckles. “Yes. It's perfect. Even if I’m here too.”
    My arm is kinked behind my head when my eyes open to the morning. Lying on my pillow, I stare at the ceiling.  What an opportunistic, slimy little snake , I think.  I’d never associate him with anything so nice . I’d rather dream about glue than the likes of Rowe. I throw my blanket around me, muttering.
    My feet pad their way down the hall. Walking into the kitchen, I wait for Lil and Mildred to look up from their needlework. “How was the tea? Did it help you to feel a little more rested?” Lil asks.
    “The tea was helpful,” I say, digging my fingers into my palm. “Thank you Lil. But if Rowe shows up here for anything, I’m not home, okay? And I hate pink flowers. Not hate. Loathe . You tell him that if he comes. That pink is frilly, and wishy-washy—and yellow is much prettier. Those Nightbloods think they’re so crafty with their chants.”
    Mildred and Lil exchange uncomfortable glances, but return to their sewing without a word.  I’ll take his game and throw it right back at him.  If he supposes he can steal his way into my good graces, sabotaging my dreams is not the way to do it.
     

10
    ISAIAH
     
    T he late afternoon could use a breeze to take the soupy heat out of it, but only the buzzing of grasshoppers disturbs the air. Beads of sweat form on the back of my sunburnt neck. I make a mental note to repair the chair I’m sitting in when it groans under me. My hands are uneasy and stiff as I hold the indigo yarn taut around my hands. “I don’t think this is what Lil meant by keeping busy.”
    “Oh nonsense,” Mildred chirps, rocking her chair as she rolls the string. “It’s too hot for anyone to stand out in that sun. When we’re done winding the yarn, I’ll have Daphne bring us lemonade. Besides, I don’t like being the messenger all by myself. You just sit here and look stern while I do the talking.”
    I’d ask what she means by look stern , but Mildred’s face blushes as she readjusts her ample weight in her seat. “Rowe,” she says, her greeting too high in her throat. She grins, rubbing her fingers together in nervous quick motions. “I take it those are for Calli?”
    Rowe mocks me with one eyebrow as he waves the bunch at the fence. “So you’ve found some use for the Ordinary. That’s good. One step up from owning a kitten. And I bet he doesn’t even bat at it or knot it up in his paws.”
    “Now Rowe,” she says, sounding even less assertive as she fumbles for the yarn rolling off her lap. “Let’s try to play nice, shall we?”
    He shrugs, already bored with talking to either of us. “Is she here?”
    “Oh, she’s here,” Mildred clucks, raising her voice to the windowpane behind us. Her pudgy cheeks puffed up, she lets a long breath whistle from her lips. “Now, remember I’m just delivering a message young man. I don’t know what’s gotten into Calli lately. But she says—”
    “She says,” Mildred starts again.
    His chin juts out under his mouth. “Yes,” Rowe says, tapping the long stems against his palm.
    “She said that if you were going to bother to call at all, you should’ve settled on yellow flowers. Something about pink being a frilly, wishy-washy color.”
    A sharp tension builds between where he stands and where Mildred and I sit. No man wants to be chastised for bringing a gift—but the way Rowe glares at the windowpane makes me think there’s more to his walloped pride than just Calli disliking pink flowers. Mildred clambers up out of the rocking