Eruption (Yellowblown™ Book 1) by Hughey J

Author:Hughey, J. [Hughey, J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2014-09-12T16:00:00+00:00

Text to Mia:

The whoosh of Sara starting the shower in the upstairs bathroom woke me. I stared at the sloping ceiling of my room, where the shadows of leaves and branches decorated the butter-yellow in the lacy network of sunlight piercing the forest before entering my window. I never closed the simple muslin curtains ’cuz someone would have to be fifteen feet up in a tree to look into my room.

I did a much better job of primping for the day than I usually would and found Boone at the kitchen table with a syrup coated plate and a mug of coffee in front of him. His damp hair lay forward and spiked in all the right places, and I resisted the urge to poke my fingers in it to mess it up.

My heart clenched. He planned to leave today. The eruption continued on Day 29, according to the morning show blaring from the living room, further removing hopes we’d be returning to our budding romance any time soon. I turned toward the coffeepot to hide my grimace.

Sara moped and whined about going to school while the rest of us got to stay home. “They even cancelled the football game tonight.”

After walking Sara down the driveway to make sure she got on her bus, Dad pulled a cluster of metal “U”s out of the garage to signal the commencement of the garden operation. I cradled a second cup of coffee as I picked my way across dewy grass.

Tiny markers punctuated the rows of tilled earth. The wee signs announced Mom and Dad’s hopes for broccoli, kale, cabbage, cauliflower, carrots, spinach, lettuce, and chard. (Chard sounded even less promising than kale.) Some of the rows flaunted bright green sprouts already, though. Mom directed Dad and Boone to the lettuce and spinach row first, where they sunk the “U”s, comprised of two half-circles separated by a three or four inch cross brace for stability. Clear plastic draped across these made a tiny tubular greenhouse over the row. Boone and Dad unearthed some old bricks behind the garage to weigh down the edges at intervals.

“That’s a good toe-stubber right there,” Dad said.

The sound of a heavy engine echoed up the driveway. My jaw dropped as I saw my grandfather maneuver a small gray tractor steadily up the rise of the driveway. A collective thought caused the four of us to freeze. We each wondered if he knew how to stop the square nose aimed right for Boone’s twenty gallons of gas.

Finally, Grampa pushed his left foot down, and the old tractor eased to a standstill while the engine roared at the same volume. He pulled a knob that looked like it should dispense a candy bar instead of doing what it did, which was make the motor stall out. A titan-sized corkscrew swung lazily from two arms on the back of the tractor, a creaking agricultural pendulum marking time in the reversal of human progress.

Dad helped Grampa down. “Hey, girlie,” Grampa croaked. He yanked me with thin age-spotted arms into a stiff hug.

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