A group of young runaways, who once thought they had nothing to lose, create their own secret utopia in the shadow of a dangerously seductive idea that threatens to unravel it all.
Addison Walker, the eco-activist with the steamy mugshot, is fresh o...
"Close them one more time," Evie says, concentrating with intense steadiness as she rests the soft pad of her hand on my temple. She sweeps an inky paintbrush over my eyelids.
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The lace curtains in the open window behind me catch the occasional breeze, brushing against the backs of my arms, sending a welcomed chill down my spine.
"Hold still," she laughs.
"Sorry."
Her little paintbrush clings against the sides of the mason jar as she twirls it around the dark flower pigment, made from charcoal, purple trilliums and black mushroom ink.
It's hot in this small room, even with the French doors opened wide to the balcony. Aurora is sitting out there on the rotted, lichen covered boards, weaving crowns from wildflowers; her short raven hair smoothed down, reflecting the last of the day's light. Her skin is as luminous and bright as her yellow sundress. She still has that look about her—that newness; her skin still light and unmarked, her hair orderly. But in time, if Heath keeps her, the way she looks now will become a distant memory to her, if she even remembers at all.
Past her, down the hill, the boys have lit a fire: a blazing teepee, nearly five feet tall, surrounded by the encroaching dusk.
I've been sitting on the tub for nearly an hour being fussed over, but I'm not hating it as much as I thought I would. There's something relaxing about having someone play with your hair and run cool brushes on your skin.
I never had a sister, or any close girl friends growing up. I wonder if this is what it would have felt like. It's nice. I always thought I didn't like this kind of stuff, but I think maybe I was just so used to imagining girl friendships, or any friendships for that matter, in a light that let me trick myself into thinking I wasn't missing out on anything. It was always just me and my mom growing up. She never taught me how to French braid my hair, or put on makeup, but she taught me everything else. I loved her. With all my heart. So much that I didn't think I needed anyone else. She was my life and I was hers, and I never saw that as a bad thing. Not until I lost her.
Sometimes I feel like, when she died, all my love went with her, and I had to start from scratch, and ever since it's been like I've been trying to get back to where I was.
I look over to Anna. Her hair is down her back in a perfect fishtail braid. She's watching Aurora work on the crowns, while pressing a beet to her lips to stain them red. She turns back to the mirror every minute or so to see how well it's working. It's the same beet Evie rubbed on her own cheeks earlier for blush.
Looking at Evie now, it's hard to believe she's only seventeen. It's weird to think that when she leaves here she'll be going back to her normal, seventeen-year-old life of school hallways, homework, parties, boys... At least, that's how I imagine it. She never really talks about it, but it's hard to picture her as anything else but popular. When she's hanging out with us, without Van around, it's easy to forget that she has this whole other life on the outside. No one expected her to fit in here as well as she does. I remember the night she showed up. It was all so familiar: the youth, the fear... She had that kind of face; you could see in her eyes, that even though she was young, like us, something had happened that was making her grow up fast. She was just bursting from the chrysalis, but into a life that wasn't showing her anything beautiful, so she came out here to escape it. The same way her brother used to when she and Van were little.
