Free The Cemetery Boys by Heather Brewer Page A

detail. There were no words on this page. The picture was enough. The next page, however, contained only words—a few linesDevon had credited to someone named Lynn Samsel. I wondered how deeply they had spoken to him:
    No one I know talks to crows the way I do.
Probably no one listens to them either.
    â€œProbably not, my friend,” I muttered.
    I turned the pages, past more drawings and more poetry and song lyrics. I stopped on a sketch that grabbed my attention and refused to release its grip. It was of a building on fire. Perched on top of the building was another large, winged creature. In its beak was a lit match.
    I closed the journal and dropped it back into the drawer of my nightstand before stretching with a good yawn. All in all, it was a cool piece of fiction, and even though it might be wrong to do so, I was planning on keeping it.
    I drifted off with images of giant black wings in my mind, but I didn’t sleep for long. A tapping sound woke me. Knuckles on glass. When I pulled back my newly hung curtains, it was to find Devon himself, beckoning me with a crooked finger. I smiled and nodded, but inside, my stomach twisted in a knot. Surely he didn’t know about the journal. He couldn’t. I released the fabric, letting it fall back into place, and debated my options.
    After slipping into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, Igrabbed my sneakers and headed down the hall. I stepped into my shoes and tied the laces, then moved outside, amazed that night could be so warm. I joined Devon on the sidewalk, and he immediately started walking. He didn’t have to ask me whether or not I was going with him. I’d already proven I’d follow him. Glancing at him out of the corner of my eye, I said, “So where are we going exactly?”
    â€œThe Playground, of course.”
    â€œWhy now?”
    He kept moving forward, his steps confident, even cocky. “Because night’s better.”
    I didn’t ask what night was better for, mostly because I already knew. Everything.
    â€œNo, I mean . . . we haven’t hung out all week. I haven’t even seen you. Why now?”
    Devon’s smirk spread across his mouth into a smile. “We have revelry to attend to.”
    â€œRevelry?” I raised an eyebrow, wondering on what planet a teenage guy said things like that. “And just how often do you guys attend to revelry in the Playground?”
    â€œEvery night.” He glanced over at me, the low light of the street lamps reflecting briefly in his eyes. “But I thought tonight you might wanna join us.”
    â€œWhy?” Not that I was complaining. Just curious. And okay, maybe a little insecure after last time.
    Devon’s shoulders tensed with what seemed like annoyance at all my questions. “Because the boys were asking about you. Because you looked pretty pathetic out there painting that shed today. Because I think you could use some revelry.”
    Not long after, I was sitting around a bonfire at the back of the Playground with him and his friends. Who needed sleep? I was making memories.
    The nameless guys from the other night turned out to have names after all. “Scot, Nick, Cameron—we call him Cam—Thorne, and Markus. Everyone, this is Stephen.”
    As he spoke their names, I exchanged nods with each of them, making an effort to remember who was who. I remembered Markus from his lock-picking skills, but the others had pretty much been shadows in the dark—something I hoped would change tonight. Already, this time the guys were looking me in the eye and acknowledging my existence, which was a major step in the right direction.
    A big paper grocery sack was sitting on the ground by Markus’s feet. He reached inside and retrieved a brown bottle with a drawing of a peach on the label. The top of the label read Dekuyper . At the bottom were words that sent a nervous tingle through my core: Original Peachtree Schnapps . Nervous only