Nightingale Songs Read Free Page A

over my eyes. I shook my head violently, and instinctively sat up, but the obstruction had gone. Across the grass, a dark brown butterfly moved erratically before it lit on the stem of a dandelion.
    It came from the house across the street, whose overgrown lawn attracted them by the dozens. My mind flashed to Mitch and how much he used to like watching the butterflies only a year earlier, before being sealed away in his house. I carefully stood and inched my way toward the creature. It flattened its wings to warm itself in the sun, and I saw the beautiful pattern of tiny circles, like a row of eyes, that edged them. I stood over it, careful to avoid putting my shadow between us, and when it closed its wings once more I bent down and pinched them between my fingers. The insect struggled, its legs moving wildly as I picked it up, but I did not let it go.
    I looked up and my eyes fell on the house across the street. I don't know why -- I'd barely given it much thought until then -- but when I looked I momentarily saw the face of a young girl in the dark curtained window before it disappeared. It was so quick, I wondered if I'd truly seen anything. If I had, the curtains were certainly no evidence. It didn't look as though they'd moved.
    I went to cup the butterfly in my hand, before going inside to get a glass jar, but the fragile creature had disappeared. It must have slipped free during my surprise. All that was left was a dust of dark brown scales on my fingertips. I cleaned them on the side of my pants and looked back at the vacant house. It lay still in the summer morning, looking as though nothing unusual had occurred.
    Inside, my mother sat at the kitchen table, her back to me. When she heard my voice, she jumped, but didn't turn around right away. I asked her if someone had moved into the house across the street.
    "No. Why?"
    "I thought I saw --" I started, and as she turned around I realized how foolish I was being. It was likely a reflection and nothing more. She didn't give me time to explain anyway.
    "Get ready. We're off to the Ramseys'."
    "Mom!" I said, and stamped my foot. "You promised ."
    She had no patience for my tantrum. She shut it down before I was even worked up.
    "We're going, and that's final. Get ready. Now ."
    Mitch was away from his bedroom window when we arrived, a white mask covering the lower half of his face. Mrs. Ramsey let my mother and me in, and then triple-checked the door was shut before hugging us both very tightly. I could feel my ribs straining from the pressure, and thought she’d never let me go. When she did, she glanced at me with an uneasiness that suggested she'd gone too far, and tried to compose herself by pushing her tight curls back into her bun. She smiled at me, her face folding into deep lines that looked forced and unnatural. Her eyes, though, were the worst. Baggy, wide and tired, they were the eyes of someone who had seen far too much and lived through even more. Far more than anyone deserved.
    She took hold of my small hands and inspected them as she did every time I visited. Then, she said, "You run upstairs and play." Did she look as though she was going to cry? Did my mother? I wanted to say something, but I was at a loss. Everything was still for a moment, and the afternoon light from the window made the world look like a photograph. The only sound was a gentle tapping from somewhere in the house, like a flutter on glass. Then Mrs. Ramsey sniffled and broke the spell.
    Mitch called out from upstairs: "Come up to my room, Neil," and I looked at my mother for some sort of reassurance. She wasn't looking my way, but Mrs. Ramsey was, and at the time I thought the ineffable look on her face was directed at me. In hindsight, though, I suspect I was wrong.
    Mitch had his chessboard setup on a small table, and he sat there with his large brown eyes staring expectantly at me. I hesitated at the door, long enough to hear my mother's voice, but not what she said.
    "I'm glad