AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I’m not surprised she’s surprised. I’ve never stepped foot inside her woodworking class. But she’s the only person I can think of that might want to help me.
And I was right. Her eyes light up when I show her the mirror, and she ushers me down to her workshop at the bottom of the small grounds. It smells like coffee and sawdust andhope.
She shows me how to sand down the frame, how to cut a new sheet of oval glass with a diamond-tipped scribe. She guides me through her personal collection of paints, oils, and stains, giving me the rundown on what could be used on each material.
Within a few stolen hours before and after school, we restore the mirror.
“It’s French, early nineteenth century, I’d guess,” Mrs. Harjo says, holding up our finished work to admire it. She looks back at herself in the polished glass, at her beautiful olive skin and cascading black hair. “And now, thanks to you, it has a new lease of life.” She places it carefully on the workbench and reaches for some tissue paper to wrap it up in. “This is exactly why I love restoration. Even the most broken things can be beautiful. They just need a little love.”
I nod, something unfamiliar swelling in my chest. Pride. “Thank you, Mrs. Harjo, I’ve learned so much.”
Her face stretches into a warm, easy smile. “What are you going to do with it? I’m sure your parents would love it.”
I skirt around the awkward topic of my family dynamic like I always do. “Actually, I want to sell it. Do you know how I can go about doing that?”
Mrs. Harjo’s eyes meet mine, that smile melting into concern. She pauses for a moment, drinking me in, as if looking at me for the first time. Those kind eyes slide over my so-worn-its-shiny sweater, my sneakers that are busted around the toe because they are two sizes too small. The ratty shoestring holding my thick red hair away from my face.
“I’ll buy it,” she announces. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks for it.” A pause. “Actually, make it one-fifty.”
Red hot shame burns at my ears. “Oh, no, I wasn’t suggesting—”
She slaps the dust from her overalls in a way that ends the conversation. “One-fifty it is. Come back with me to my office so I can get my wallet.”
When she puts three crisp fifties in my palm, I could cry. It’s my first step towards getting out of here. Getting as far away from Lorcan Quinn as possible.
“Come back to me with another gem soon, all right?”
I do. I head back to the wealthy Beacon Hill area and scour the streets like a hungry stray. Poking holes in the garbage bags that sit against the wrought iron fences, slipping into the back of luxury condos. My next gem is a mantel clock, clad in chipped ebony and sporting broken hands, which me and Mrs. Harjo painstakingly restore to its original eighteenth-century glamour. Then there’s the stained glass lamp— (Venetian, much to Mrs. Harjo’s delight—), and a hand-painted set of Babushka dolls.
“You have a talent for finding beauty in the most unexpected places,” Mrs. Harjo tells me with a smile as she touches up the floral paintwork with a delicate brush.
I may have a passion for finding the piece and learning about its history, but I also find a passion for the business side. Mrs. Harjo couldn’t buy all of my pieces (not on a teacher’s salary, that’s for sure), so she helps me set up an eBay account.
I find the beauty in numbers. The lamp sells first, and watching the bidding war whiz onward and upwards into triple digits sends me dizzy. With the pile of cash growing under my lumpy mattress, scouring the rich parts of town for promising-looking trash turns into browsing flea markets and thrift shops. When I’m not buffing, oiling, or painting in Mrs. Harjo’s workshop, I’m in the library, poring overBasic Business EconomicsandStarting a Business for Dummies.Return-on-investment, profit-and-loss, price-to-earnings. I fill my brain with the knowledge and vocabulary they don’t teach you in high school, and not just to learn to make money, but to fulfill the second part of my plan too.
Eventually, a thick letter lands in the mailbox.
My acceptance letter to Stanford Business School.
I could collapse under the weight of relief. Three weeks before my eighteenth birthday, I’ll be on the other side of the country, far, far, away from my cowardly father and cockroach-ridden condo.
But most importantly, far, far away from the Quinn territory.
Tears of relief slosh onto the golden ticket in my hands, smearing the ‘C’ in congratulations.
I belong to nobody.
Especially not the Devil.
Poppy
EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD
I’d had a million nightmares about my eighteenth birthday. They always started in the same way: the clock striking midnight and the world as I know it melting away around me. My dorm room, my new-found friends. Everything that makes me feel like a normal girl attending one of the best colleges in the world is pulled from underneath me and everything plunges into darkness.
And then I see his eyes. Wolf-like and hungry, shining even brighter than they were at the funeral. He pounces, enveloping me in his strong body, the smell of his oaky cologne and alcohol filling up my throat until I can’t breathe.
I didn’t have that dream tonight, because I simply didn’t go to sleep.
