Higher Ground Read Free Page A

been this close. My curiosity got the best of me, and I spent my morning watching the family, the minister, and the crowd as they gathered to mourn and celebrate. A small group of tourists gathered away from them, down the row from my spot.
    One boy caught my attention as he snapped picture after picture of the band and the proceedings. We were both spectators that morning, but on some level, his intrusion felt worse than mine. At least I wasn’t capturing it for a vacation scrapbook.
    He stood in the shade of a stacked tomb, and he aimed and clicked over and over, irritating me more and more as the minutes passed. I dared him to look my way but was met with a view of dirty-blond hair on top of his head and a camera blocking his face.
    I left before the end of the funeral, mad at myself for getting caught up in something that should’ve been private and still mad at the stranger who’d captured it on film.
    The music started again and then faded in the distance when it was all over. I fell into the pages between my hands, lost in a dark cell and ignoring the occasional sound of a tour guide’s voice as he gave away secrets and doled out legends.
    “What are you reading?” A shadow darkened the paper and print before blocking the sun from the side of my body.
    Shielding my eyes with one hand didn’t help, but the dishwater locks were recognizable. My thumb slid between the pages to keep my place before I held up the book for him to see. “A book.”
    “Reading a dead guy in a cemetery full of dead people on a bright, sunny day?” He stepped closer, but even though I tilted my head, his face was still elusive in shadow. “May I?” He pointed to the ground next to me.
    “It’s not my tomb.” I shrugged and reopened my book, determined to ignore my unwelcome guest as he settled a few inches away.
    “Good thing,” he said. “You’re much too young to die, Violet.”
    My fight-or-flight instinct reared at the sound of my name on a stranger’s tongue. Every hair on my arms and the stubble on my calves stood on end. As calmly as possible, I closed the book and dropped it into my lap. Since he was only a foot away, I paused long enough to study his face.
    Soft blue-gray stared back, and a twisted, teasing smile helped ease some of my initial panic.
    “Do we know each other?” I asked. Handsome, with a boyish face and a lanky build, he was definitely hot enough to remember.
    The corner of his mouth turned up, and he shook his head. “Apparently not,” he replied, his hands busy closing the lens cap of the camera resting in his lap. It was an older model, one with film.
    “Okay. Do you know me?”
    “I was in Mrs. Wimberly’s third-grade class, too,” he said.
    “Wow.” I studied his face and tried to think back, but elementary school felt like a lifetime ago. “Do I really look the same as I did eight years ago?”
    His eyes lowered, and I felt my chest heat beneath his gaze. He licked his bottom lip when his eyes settled on my hips. “No. You’ve grown up… nicely.”
    “Um, thanks…”
    “Oliver.”
    “Oh, my God.” Memories of a scrawny boy who owned different colored suspenders for each day of the week swirled in the back of my mind. “Oliver Bergeron?”
    He winked and unleashed a smile that made my breath catch. “The one and only.”
    “You’re so different .”
    The Oliver I remembered was shy. He’d blushed and stammered anytime Mrs. Wimberly had called on him in class, and he’d spent most of recess on the sidelines. His mother had attended every class party, and he’d rarely left her side when she was near.
    “Not really,” he said. “I just didn’t have much to say back then.” He turned his body, angling closer. “You went to Academy when St. Luke’s shut down, right?”
    I nodded. “I did, but I’m going to Newman this year.”
    “Changing schools for your senior year? That’s unusual.”
    “My brother and I were kicked out.”
    His head tilted back against the sky,