|
What She Found in the Woods
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
About the Author:
|
JOSEPHINE ANGELINI is a graduate of New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts in theater, with a focus on the classics. She now lives in Los Angeles with her husband and daughter. The titles in her debut series, the Starcrossed Trilogy (Harper Teen) are all international bestsellers and have garnered the praise of various major publications. Visit her at josephineangelini.com.
|
Read an Excerpt
I wake alone.
“Bo?” I say, looking around, but I already know he’s not here. I can feel that he’s gone. It’s an unnerving thing to fall asleep with someone and then wake up alone. It’s like there’s a hole in your day—a swath of time where you know something important happened, but you can’t remember what it was. I hate that feeling.
As I start packing up my stuff, the initial surprise I felt at his absence turns to anger. Just as I’m working myself up into the thought of never seeing him again, I find a torn-out page from my notebook with blocky, masculine handwriting on it.
I tried to wake you up, but you were sleeping too deeply. I had to go. See you tomorrow?
Though the page he used to write on is from my journal, I know he didn’t peek at my writing while I was asleep—that’s not what worries me. Bo has too much respect for others and for himself to trespass in such an underhanded way. what she found in the woods 99 worries me is that I can’t see him tomorrow. And now I’m imagining him waiting here for me and me never showing. I imagine his anticipation turning to worry turning to disappointment, and it actually hurts me to think of him being hurt. I tear out a fresh piece of paper and write,
I can’t tomorrow. The day after?
I leave the slip of paper under a river rock, right where I usually put my blanket. That’s when I notice that he’s left me the bow, arm guard, and a few arrows. I smile, thinking how awesome it would be if I practiced nonstop and became amazing enough to impress him.
I put on the arm guard and nock an arrow. I pull back in the long, drawing motion he taught me. My feet are planted. My breathing is steady. I think I’m actually better at this when he isn’t with me. I’m calmer. Everything is still. I close my eyes and just hold fast, letting the posture sink in. Letting the wilderness teach me to do something wild.
I hear a rustling in the underbrush and turn to it. I don’t think. I don’t feel. I loose the arrow.
Something shrieks. The ferns twist in circles as something I can’t see struggles among them.
“Oh shit,” I whisper.
I realize I’m frozen to the spot. I drop the bow, wrench my numb feet into action, and blunder into the ferns. All I can hear is Bo’s voice that first time I met him, when he fell on me, chasing the wounded deer. He said, “I can’t leave her like that,” and the words echo in me until they become all.
Whatever it is I hit, I can’t leave it to suffer, but how am I going to kill it? I don’t have a knife.
A rock. I’ll use a rock.
I find a sizable rock and clutch it tightly in one hand as I push the ferns back with other. There’s blood. A lot of blood. This isn’t a rabbit. I picture a fawn, and my stomach heaves. I try to follow the path of blood. The poor creature must have been running in circles.
Whatever it was, it was big. It looks like there are buckets of blood smeared on leaves and ferns, enough so that it’s transferred to my clothes as I’ve been circling. And then— nothing. I double back and try to find a few drops trailing in a new direction, but I can’t see anything.
I start stamping down the ferns so I can see more clearly where I’ve been. I can’t find the trail.
I’ll do it in quadrants. I have to find this animal and put it out of its misery. I start sectioning off areas, looking for the trail leading out of the panic circles. Nothing.
I start calling out to it. Begging it. Saying it’s going to be okay in my most soothing voice as I heft my killing rock.
I don’t find it. I find the arrow. Must have come out in the mad whirling circles the creature made. I pick up the arrow and realize I’m covered in blood.
I go to the river. I wash Bo’s things first. I leave the bow, arm guard, and arrows with my note. I can’t bear to take them home with me. Then I wash my body. Blood has soaked into my clothes and stained my skin. I can’t tell Bo. Something in me says he’d be furious with me for doing something so thoughtless, even if it was a million-to-one shot.
I never should have done that. Careless carnage. I thought I was through with that. Shame stains me more deeply than the blood.
“Bo?” I say, looking around, but I already know he’s not here. I can feel that he’s gone. It’s an unnerving thing to fall asleep with someone and then wake up alone. It’s like there’s a hole in your day—a swath of time where you know something important happened, but you can’t remember what it was. I hate that feeling.
As I start packing up my stuff, the initial surprise I felt at his absence turns to anger. Just as I’m working myself up into the thought of never seeing him again, I find a torn-out page from my notebook with blocky, masculine handwriting on it.
I tried to wake you up, but you were sleeping too deeply. I had to go. See you tomorrow?
Though the page he used to write on is from my journal, I know he didn’t peek at my writing while I was asleep—that’s not what worries me. Bo has too much respect for others and for himself to trespass in such an underhanded way. what she found in the woods 99 worries me is that I can’t see him tomorrow. And now I’m imagining him waiting here for me and me never showing. I imagine his anticipation turning to worry turning to disappointment, and it actually hurts me to think of him being hurt. I tear out a fresh piece of paper and write,
I can’t tomorrow. The day after?
I leave the slip of paper under a river rock, right where I usually put my blanket. That’s when I notice that he’s left me the bow, arm guard, and a few arrows. I smile, thinking how awesome it would be if I practiced nonstop and became amazing enough to impress him.
I put on the arm guard and nock an arrow. I pull back in the long, drawing motion he taught me. My feet are planted. My breathing is steady. I think I’m actually better at this when he isn’t with me. I’m calmer. Everything is still. I close my eyes and just hold fast, letting the posture sink in. Letting the wilderness teach me to do something wild.
I hear a rustling in the underbrush and turn to it. I don’t think. I don’t feel. I loose the arrow.
Something shrieks. The ferns twist in circles as something I can’t see struggles among them.
“Oh shit,” I whisper.
I realize I’m frozen to the spot. I drop the bow, wrench my numb feet into action, and blunder into the ferns. All I can hear is Bo’s voice that first time I met him, when he fell on me, chasing the wounded deer. He said, “I can’t leave her like that,” and the words echo in me until they become all.
Whatever it is I hit, I can’t leave it to suffer, but how am I going to kill it? I don’t have a knife.
A rock. I’ll use a rock.
I find a sizable rock and clutch it tightly in one hand as I push the ferns back with other. There’s blood. A lot of blood. This isn’t a rabbit. I picture a fawn, and my stomach heaves. I try to follow the path of blood. The poor creature must have been running in circles.
Whatever it was, it was big. It looks like there are buckets of blood smeared on leaves and ferns, enough so that it’s transferred to my clothes as I’ve been circling. And then— nothing. I double back and try to find a few drops trailing in a new direction, but I can’t see anything.
I start stamping down the ferns so I can see more clearly where I’ve been. I can’t find the trail.
I’ll do it in quadrants. I have to find this animal and put it out of its misery. I start sectioning off areas, looking for the trail leading out of the panic circles. Nothing.
I start calling out to it. Begging it. Saying it’s going to be okay in my most soothing voice as I heft my killing rock.
I don’t find it. I find the arrow. Must have come out in the mad whirling circles the creature made. I pick up the arrow and realize I’m covered in blood.
I go to the river. I wash Bo’s things first. I leave the bow, arm guard, and arrows with my note. I can’t bear to take them home with me. Then I wash my body. Blood has soaked into my clothes and stained my skin. I can’t tell Bo. Something in me says he’d be furious with me for doing something so thoughtless, even if it was a million-to-one shot.
I never should have done that. Careless carnage. I thought I was through with that. Shame stains me more deeply than the blood.
Looking for more YA thrillers?
