The Sky Always Hears Me by Kirstin Cronn-Mills

Author:Kirstin Cronn-Mills
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: small town, secrets, ya, young adult, fiction, teen
Publisher: Llewellyn Worldwide, LTD.
Published: 2008-11-01T00:00:00+00:00

You will have gold pieces by the bushel.

Mixed Grill Hawaii, Honolulu

Me and the hill haven’t done much communing lately and it’s finally warm enough to be out there for longer than ten seconds, so I borrow Grandma’s car. Today I shout I AM A SECRET SEX FIEND AND I WANT ROB about seventeen times, and then I scream I HATE RUMORS and HIGH SCHOOL SUCKS and GET ME OUT OF HERE and I NEED A MILLION DOLLARS about ten times each. Then I holler FUCK exactly ninety-nine times.

I am still divided about the F-bomb, because it’s so overused in our culture. But it still packs a wallop when it’s used well. And it’s not overused on the hill.

I get back into the car after about half an hour because it’s still pretty chilly out there, and I drive back down to Central Nowhere. I always holler on the east side of the road, and when I pull onto the gravel road today from the dirt track I parked on, I notice a red pickup about a quarter mile west. The truck’s familiar, but I don’t see anyone.

When I park the car in her driveway, I see Grandma through her kitchen window, sitting at her busy table and shuffling through the mile-high stacks. I knock on the glass. When she sees it’s me, she smiles.

I go in and already she’s fixing tea for us.

“What’s new today, honey bunch?”

“Not much. It’s still cold on the hill.” I give her a kiss on the cheek, and get one from her in return.

“It’s only late March. Got a fortune for me?”

I’ve told her what I want to do for a living. “Let’s see … how about ‘Life will work out for you’?”

Grandma hands me a cup of tea. “So what does it mean?”

“It doesn’t mean much if I keep working at the Grocery Boutique.”

We move to the living room and she settles into her armchair. “But what if you become a famous writer?”

“It takes a while to write the Great American Novel.” I curl up in the other armchair.

“There’s no hurry, remember? You’re seventeen.” She chuckles. “Whenever it all works out, you just remember your old grandma. And remember what your first words were to me.”

“I have no idea.”

“We were getting ready to celebrate our birthday—your first, my fifty-second—and when you discovered presents on the table, you wanted them in the worst way. When I let you open them, you realized what they were, and you handed me one and said ‘Read a book.’ The first words you ever said made a complete sentence.”

“That’s me. A genius at one.”

I’m kidding, but Grandma isn’t, and she gives me a serious version of her beautiful smile. “Exactly what I thought. So write away, honey. Write as much as you can.”

I reach over and squeeze her hand. “I’ll write books for you.”

“No, for you. Write the book you want to find, a book that will jump off the shelf at you and leave you so excited you can’t stand it.

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