Demon Thief Read Free Page B

bring it up, they change the topic immediately. Once, when I pressed, Mom snapped at me, swore, and told me never to mention it again.
    And me? Well, I’m OK. Dad was right. The kids here
are
nicer than in the city. They chat with me at school, include me in their games, invite me to their houses to read and play, take me on day trips into the local countryside on weekends. Nobody bullies me, says nasty things to me or tries to make me feel like I’m a freak. (Of course, it helps that I don’t mention the secret patches of light!)
    But I still don’t fit in. I feel out of place. It’s hard to talk freely, to join in, to behave naturally. I always feel as though I’m acting. Most of the kids in Paskinston were born here or moved here when they were very young. This is the only world they know, and they believe it’s perfect.
    I don’t agree. While I’m certainly happier now than I was in the city, I miss the movie theaters and museums. Except for not having any friends, I liked being part of a big city, where there was always something new to see or do. The village is nice, but it’s a bit boring. And although the kids are nicer to me, I still haven’t made any real friends.
    But it’s not that important, because I’m not miserable anymore. I’m not sure why, but I don’t feel lonely these days. I’m happy just to be with Mom, Dad and Art. Especially Art. He might only be a baby, but I love dragging him around with me, explaining the world to him, telling him about books, television and life, trying to teach him to speak. He should have started by now, but so far not a word. Dad and Mom don’t mind. They say Einstein was older than Art is before he spoke. But I don’t think Art’s an Einstein — he likes tugging ears, biting people and burping too much to be a genius!
    Art’s all I really need from the world right now. He keeps me company better than any friend ever could. As Dad once said when I was lonely and he was trying to cheer me up, “Who needs friends when you have family?”
    To get to school, I have to pass the witch’s house.
    The “witch” is Mrs. Egin. There are thirty-seven families and six single people in Paskinston, and everyone’s on friendly terms with everybody else. There’s a real sense of community. They all take an interest in and see a lot of each other, chat amongst themselves when they meet in the street or at church, hold big parties every few months that everyone attends.
    Except Mrs. Egin. She lives by herself in a dirty old house and almost never has anything to say to anybody. She comes out for a long walk every day, and to draw water from the well. (There’s running water in Paskinston, but Mrs. Egin and a few others prefer to get theirs from an old well in the center of the village.) But otherwise we rarely see her. She spends most of her time indoors, behind thick curtains, doing whatever it is that witches do.
    I’m sure she’s not really a witch, but all the kids call her the Pricklish Witch of Paskinston. Some of the adults do too!
    There isn’t a real school in Paskinston, just a converted stable that’s being used as a school until the villagers manage to build a proper one. There are three teachers (two are volunteers), crappy old desks, wobbly chairs, a few tired blackboards, and nothing else except the ancient toilets out back. A big change from my school in the city!
    The school’s down the street and around the corner to the left from where we live. To get there, I walk past Mrs. Egin’s house. I could go the opposite way and circle around the backs of the houses if I wanted. But Mrs. Egin has never done anything bad to me. She hasn’t even spoken to me in the year that I’ve lived here. She doesn’t frighten me.
    Today I set off for school as usual. Classes start at nine-thirty, but I normally get there at nine, to play some games with the other kids beforehand. Trying hard to fit in, to be like they are, to have them accept me. Not that I’m