A History of Glitter and Blood by Moskowitz Hannah

Author:Moskowitz, Hannah [Moskowitz, Hannah]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Chronicle Books LLC
Published: 2015-08-30T07:00:00+00:00

(Remember to take that out in the final draft, that’s stupid, I’ve got to stop making things that aren’t about Cricket about Cricket. That’s not even where that scene should go. It has nothing to do with anything. Remember to cross that out. Cricket, I miss you. I miss you so much, you stupid bastard.)

10

She came home rather early that evening after Tier first handed her the stacks of books, tottering under the pile. Scrap had told her earlier not to wait up; Cricket was taking the night off, and he was pulling double duty to compensate. It had taken her hours earlier that day of wondering why Scrap wasn’t angry at Cricket before she realized that the night off was not Cricket’s doing.

She wasn’t afraid of walking home alone, though a part of her did wish that Josha cared enough to keep her home, too. She could hear the quick snicks above her of tightropes being stretched and cut and new ones strung at twice the speed.

She heard giggling as soon as she opened the front door. “You’re not alone anymore!” she yelled. She dropped the books on the floor, all except one that was bright yellow and looked the most loved that she’d already decided was her favorite, and she ran into Cricket and Josha’s room.

They were both under the comforter, Josha drowsy with his head on Cricket’s chest, his eyes closed, his mouth in a smile, and Cricket whispering in his ear while he played with his hair. They had a candle lit on the nightstand and Beckan thought they were so pathetic and so lovely.

She pounced on the bed beside them, and they groaned and laughed.

“Miss me?” she said.

“Desperately,” Cricket said. “Right, kid?”

“Desperately,” Josha said.

She gave them her biggest smile. “Tier gave me a book.”

“Tier?” Cricket said. He never paid attention.

“Her gnome.” Josha wasn’t smiling anymore.

Cricket said, “Ew, Beckan, go take a shower.”

“He’s nice. He gave me tons of books, actually. I’m going to make Scrap read them all with me all the time and then he won’t have any time to make me read his horrible stories. Everyone wins.”

“But Scrap,” Cricket pointed out.

“Hmm. Yes. Poor Scrap. But he never wins anyway. Not even in his stupid stories.”

“He’s in the stories?” Josha said.

“No, no. Of course not really. But you can always tell which one is supposed to be him,” Cricket said.

“He doesn’t even write stories anymore,” Beckan said. “He’s a big historian now. You piss him off when you keep mentioning them.”

“That’s why I do it! My little Scrap used to make things up and he’s so embarrassed about it. Where is he?” Cricket said. He climbed out of bed—Beckan was surprised to see that he was dressed, since they weren’t very careful at this point, now that they’d seen each other kissed and touched and stripped down—and pulled on another sweatshirt. They had a wood-burning stove, but it did little to keep the house warm in the middle of winter. And the later in the year it became, the darker and longer the nights and the weaker their candles seemed.

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