The Last Secret You'll Ever Keep by Laurie Stolarz (summer reads txt) 📕

The chewed-up paper moved downward into my throat, making me gag. I threw up. A stream of acid spouted out my mouth and nose. Somehow, I could feel it inside my ears. But at last, I could breathe.

Exhausted, I lay with my cheek pressed against the ground. The whistling was gone. Was it ever there to begin with? Eventually, I fell asleep and dreamed of drowning—of dirty beach water filling my sandpaper lungs as I floated out to sea.

When I woke up again, the light was still off. I slid my cheek over the ground, making sure that I was still in the well, that he hadn’t brought me someplace else. I ran my palms over the wall, feeling for the crevices I’d dug. I found the first one and moved my hand upward, able to feel the second.

Using the spine of the book as my pickax, I began digging again. My shoulder ached. My fingertips tingled.

I stepped into one of the crevices, able to reach upward and feel the bumpy brick surface. The spotlight hung down from the chain about two feet above that. But what was the chain attached to, outside the well? Was it something sturdy enough to hold my weight?

I continued working, keeping stability in mind. I’d need to anchor myself to the wall so I wouldn’t fall off. I dug extra deep into the highest crevice—the top rung of my makeshift ladder. With stinging-stabbing fingertips, I maneuvered a rock toward me and let it fall to the ground.

The crevice was elbow-deep now. I reached my arms inside it, steadying myself on the wall. But I was so slouched over. How was this going to work? What would I have to do?

Keeping one arm secure, I swung outward with my hand extended, trying to feel for the chain. No luck. I jumped back down, then climbed up again. I did this over and over, trying to grab the chain.

Where was it?

Just a little bit higher.

I could swing out farther.

Finally, my hand hit the rim of the light, producing a gong sound. My heart soared. The chain rustled. I performed the same motions over and over: climbing up the wall, securing myself with the top crevice, then swinging outward, until eventually I was able to grip the chain.

Keeping steady, I grabbed hold with my other hand too, and continued walking up the wall—left, right, left—moving up the chain.

I told myself, If I can get to the very top, I can crawl back inside my bedroom window (the one on Bailey Road). I can reverse time, and turn the knob, and open the door, and save my parents.

So many stories as I continued to climb—one step at a time, up the brick, hand over hand.

I was almost there.

Just a little bit more.

I could smell how close I was—the scent of forest trees and fresh blooms … I took another step, just as my foot slipped off the brick.

My legs dangled like monkeys on a tree.

The weight of my body slipped me downward at least a few inches.

Hold on, I screamed inside my head, swinging back and forth, as my palms seared and my biceps quivered. Don’t fall.

I clenched my teeth and slipped a little farther. Droplets of sweat rolled down my face. Rule number ten: Don’t panic. You can do this. It’s all a head game: If I could get to the top, I could win my prize, I could save my parents, I could live happily ever after.

But I felt myself sliding farther. My sweaty palms … if only I could’ve wiped them. Maybe one hand at a time … Did I have enough strength?

No. I didn’t.

I slid a few more inches down.

My feet clonked against the light. What did that mean? How much height had I lost? I held my breath and clung on to hope. But hope wasn’t enough because moments later I dropped to the ground with a hard, heavy thud.

NOW

29

Unable to sleep, I lie awake in bed watching the rain droplets pelt against the windows and throw dart-shaped shadows on my bedroom floor. I’m missing my mother tonight—so hard it hurts. I clench her sweater, wishing the fabric still carried her scent, the rose oil she used to dab behind her ears and the lilac-scented hand cream we used to stuff into her stocking at Christmas.

I picture her dark gray eyes and the scar through her eyebrow (from a scooter accident as a kid) and imagine that she can hear my voice: “Is there a rule that could help me now?” I ask aloud. What are the chances she’ll answer in a dream?

Eventually, after what feels like hours of tossing and turning, failing to fall asleep, I fish a pocketknife from my night table and go downstairs, seeking a little fresh air. Aunt Dessa’s backyard is fenced in on all sides. Sliders lead to an open deck. I step outside. The cool fall air bites the back of my neck. It’s probably no more than forty degrees.

I sit down on the floor of the deck and roll up my sweats as far as they can go to expose more skin. My feet are bare. My arms are too. I stretch out, facing up toward the sky, remembering how exhilarating the rain felt, when I was in the well. What I wouldn’t give to feel that same way now, as crazy as that sounds, as messed up as it is.

The rain soaks through my clothes and sprinkles inside my mouth, but it doesn’t taste nearly as good as it did in the well, like liquid sugar. Instead, it’s bitter like acid, like the water from old and rusted pipes. I roll over and rest my head against the crook of my arm.

What am I doing? Why am I out here?

And what is that?

On one of the side tables. A figure of some sort.

I sit up to get a better look. It appears to be a ceramic statue, about a foot tall, painted green, white,