The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue - V. E. Schwab Page 0,18
genie, bound to your whim.
A low limb, half buried by the forest floor, rises just enough to catch her feet, and she goes down hard, knees hitting ragged earth and hands tearing through weedy soil.
Please, I will give anything.
The tears come, then, sudden and heaving. Fool. Fool. Fool. She pounds her fists against the ground.
This is a vile trick, she thinks, a horrid dream, but it will pass.
That is the nature of dreams. They do not last.
“Wake up,” she whispers into the dark.
Wake up.
Adeline curls into the forest floor, closes her eyes, and sees her mother’s tearstained cheeks, her father’s hollow sadness, Estele’s weary gaze. She sees the darkness, smiling. Hears his voice as he whispers that single, binding word.
Done.
New York City
March 10, 2014
XI
A Frisbee lands in the grass nearby.
Addie hears the rumble of running feet, and opens her eyes in time to see a giant black nose rushing at her face before the dog covers her in wet kisses. She laughs and sits up, runs her fingers through thick fur, catching the dog by his collar before he can get ahold of the paper bag with the second muffin.
“Hello, you,” she says as, across the park, someone calls out an apology.
She flings the Frisbee back in their direction, and the dog is off again. Addie shivers, suddenly wide awake, and cold.
That’s the trouble with March—the warmth never lasts. There’s that narrow stretch when it parades as spring, just enough for you to thaw if you’re sitting in the sun, but then it’s gone. The sun has moved on. The shadows have swept in. Addie shivers again, and pushes up from the grass, brushing off her leggings.
She should have stolen warmer pants.
Shoving the paper bag in her pocket, Addie tucks Fred’s book under her arm and abandons the park, heading east down Union and up toward the waterfront.
Halfway there, she stops at the sound of a violin, the notes picked out like ripened fruit.
On the sidewalk, a woman perches on a stool, the instrument tucked beneath her chin. The melody is sweet and slow, drawing Addie back to Marseilles, to Budapest, to Dublin.
A handful of people gather to listen, and when the song ends, the sidewalk fills with soft applause, and passing bodies. Addie digs the last change out of her pocket, and drops it into the open case, and carries on, lighter, and fuller.
When she reaches the theater in Cobble Hill, she checks the posted timetable and then pushes open the door, quickening her pace as she crosses the crowded lobby.
“Hey,” Addie says, flagging down a teen boy with a broom. “I think I left my purse in theater three.”
Lying is easy, so long as you choose the right words.
He waves her on without looking up, and she ducks beneath the velvet ticket-taker’s rope and into the darkened hall, the urgency falling away with every step. Muted thunder rolls beneath the doors of an action film. Music seeps into the hall from a romantic comedy. The highs and lows of voices, and scores. She ambles down the corridor, studying the COMING SOON posters and the ticker tapes announcing the showings above each door. She’s seen them all a dozen times, but she doesn’t care.
The credits must be rolling on number five, because the doors swing open, and a stream of people spill out into the corridor. Addie ducks past them, into the emptying room, and finds an overturned bucket of popcorn in the second row, golden pebbles littering the sticky floor. She scoops it up and marches back to the lobby, and the concession stand, waits in line behind a trio of preteen girls before reaching the counter, and the boy behind it.
She runs a hand through her hair, mussing it slightly, and blows out her breath.
“I’m sorry,” she says, “some little boy kicked over my popcorn.” She shakes her head, and so does he, a mimic, echoing her exasperation. “Is there any way you could charge me the refill cost instead of…” She is already reaching in her pocket, as if to pull out a wallet, but the boy takes the bucket.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, glancing around. “I’ve got you.”
Addie beams. “You’re a star,” she says, meeting his eyes, and the boy blushes fiercely, and stammers that it’s really no problem, no problem at all, even as he scans the lobby for a superior. He dumps out the rest of the spilled popcorn and fills it fresh, passing it like a secret back across the counter.