Miracleville Read Free

it’s because she wants to see Maxim.
    â€œDon’t tell me you’re going to McDonald’s again,” Mom says to us.
    I know it’s pathetic, but McDonald’s is the coolest place in town to hang out. Other than the basilica (not exactly a hot spot for teens) and the other religious monuments, all we’ve got is the Sweet Heaven Candy Store and a couple of restaurants with names like L’Église and Pilgrims’ Café.
    I guess Mom wishes her two angels would spend less time at McDonald’s and more time at home reading the Bible, the way she says she did when she was our age.
    Mom runs Saintly Souvenirs, the souvenir shop she inherited after her parents died. Dad does the accounting—and the grocery shopping and cooking. He’s always testing new recipes he finds online. Tonight we had braided asparagus spears with cranberry chicken over steamed rice.
    â€œThat’s exactly where we’re going.” Colette answers for both of us. “Again.”
    Dad clears his throat. “We want the two of you home by ten thirty.”
    â€œNot a moment later,” Mom adds, wiping her chin with her napkin.
    â€œThat’s right,” Dad says. The two of them exchange small smiles. Maybe it’s because they disagree so much about religion that Mom and Dad seem extra-pleased when they agree about something.
    Colette groans. “Ten thirty is so too early! Can’t we—?”
    â€œWe’ll be back on time,” I say, catching Colette’s eye and giving her a sharp look.
    Colette mouths the words “Saint Ani” at me.
    I glare at her, but she just smiles back at me.
    It’s almost completely dark when Colette and I leave. Our house is on a winding stretch of Avenue Royale, a quarter of a mile past the basilica and the souvenir shops. Because we’re on the north side, the back of our house faces the rocky cliff that borders Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré on one side. From our bedroom window at the front of the house, we can look out at the basilica’s green roof and silver spires and the 138.
    There’s only one street in town where you can’t see the cliff behind you. That’s Côte Ste-Anne, where Iza lives, past the farmhouse with the old stone well. When I was little, I used to like the feeling of living sandwiched between the cliff and the highway. It made me feel safe. But I’m starting to feel different. Sometimes this town makes me claustrophobic. Trapped in a too-small town with too-strict parents and a super-annoying little sister.
    One day I’ll be old enough to live on my own. I like imagining myself in Quebec City or Montreal, someplace where my neighbors won’t know anything about me. Where I won’t always have to look out for Colette. That’s what I’m thinking when she taps my shoulder to offer me some of her new chocolate lip gloss.
    That’s the thing about Colette: just when you think you’ve had it with her, she does something sweet. Colette’s got a good heart. She really does. I need to try and be nicer to her.When Colette and I walk out to the street, we hear a sudden creaking, followed by the sound of someone’s raspy breathing. It’s coming from the upstairs balcony of the white clapboard house across the street, just a little down the hill from where we live. The house is small, but the balcony is as big as our living room.
    Colette steps a little closer to me. “It’s him,” she says.
    â€œNot so loud,” I say. “He’ll hear you.”
    â€œWhy’s he always spying on us?” At least now she’s whispering.
    â€œMaybe he just wants some fresh air. Besides, we used to spy on him.”
    â€œYeah, but we were little. He’s a grown man.”
    I take bigger steps to keep up with Colette. Though I would never admit it to her, I think Marco Leblanc is creepy too. In all the years we’ve lived across the street from him, he