Alive and Well in Prague, New York (Laura Geringer Books)

259 Pages·2008·0.53 MB·English

by  Daphne Grab

Alive Well
and
in
Prague,
New York
Daphne Grab
For Greg
Contents
Chapter One
“Okay, honey, this is it!” My mother’s voice rang with… 1
Chapter Two
Six years ago my father was injured when he fell… 10
Chapter Three
That night I was feeling cheerful as I went down… 28
Chapter Four
When I got home the next day, there was a… 42
Chapter Five
“So I found him.” I’d arrived at our table before… 58
Chapter Six
The next day it was raining, and even though my… 68
Chapter Seven
A loud, shrill sound woke me up just as the… 90
Chapter Eight
On Sunday I holed up in my room and hoped… 113
Chapter Nine
Violet was sitting at our usual table when I walked… 133
Chapter Ten
On Monday morning I had just started off for school… 147
Chapter Eleven
“So today in chem we were talking about the effects… 163
Chapter Twelve
The next morning I woke as the sun was rising… 188
Chapter Thirteen
It took about a week to work up my courage,… 208
Chapter Fourteen
When I came down to dinner on Monday night, my… 231
Acknowledgments 249
About the Author
Credits
Cover
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
“Okay, honey, this is it!” My mother’s
voice rang with false cheer, too loud
inside the little Honda she was still figuring out
how to drive. She hit the brakes and the car slid
slightly on the wet pavement.
I grabbed at the door for safety but acciden-
tally opened it. Rain sprayed in, splashing on my
dress.
“Damn,” I muttered, slamming the door. I
wasn’t used to being a passenger any more than
she was used to driving. “Even the weather here
sucks.”
“It did rain back home, too, sweetie,” she
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said. Her hands played absently with the silk
scarf looped around her neck. She plucked at
one of the splatters of paint that stuck to its
fringe. “I know the first day is hard, but I’m sure
you’ll make friends fast.”
I pulled a napkin out of the glove box and
began blotting my dress. “I can’t even say the
name of the stupid school.” I glanced out the
window, through the gloomy wet, to the blue
letters on top of the ugly brick building: Miloslsv
High.
“I’m sure there’s a great story about how the
school got such an unusual name,” she said.
I snorted.
“Seriously, honey! I bet you’ll come home
laughing about it.”
“Yeah, that’s what’s gonna happen,” I mut-
tered. I crumpled the napkin and put it back in
the glove compartment.
“Matisse, small-town living might surprise
you. There really is a lot happening here.”
“What, is there a gallery opening I missed in
the Prague Post?”
“Well, it’s what Dad needs right now,” she
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said. I looked down at the water stains on my
dress as silence filled the car. I willed my mom
not to make this morning worse by reminding
me of the real reason we’d moved here. I didn’t
need to think about that before my first day at
the lamest high school in existence.
“You know—” she started.
I grabbed the messenger bag at my feet and
snatched the black umbrella lying next to it.
“I’m out of here,” I said, opening the door and
trying to push open the umbrella to protect
myself from the downpour. I succeeded only in
poking my cheek and spraying water into the
car. “I’ll walk home,” I said as I shut the door.
Her “’Bye, sweetie” was muffled by the rain
pelting down around me.
I took baby steps up the path toward the
main entrance, trying to keep my shoes dry. For
the millionth time I considered the terrible irony
of moving to Prague, a town named after one of
the coolest cities in the world, yet pretty much
the most pathetic place I’d been to in my entire
life. I still couldn’t believe my parents had cho-
sen to leave our home in New York City to live
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here. We’d been in Prague three weeks and I still
kept expecting to wake up in our condo on West
Seventy-Eighth Street, with the best movies,
restaurants, museums, and galleries a short sub-
way ride away. Instead I woke up to the thrilling
possibility of seeing one of the two second-run
movies playing in town or eating at the local
pizza place, where they didn’t even have sun-
dried tomatoes as a topping. And the nearest
museums and galleries were back home in New
York City, about four hours away. It was like
moving from downtown paradise to the suburbs
of hell.
Once I got inside the cramped school lobby,
I shook out my umbrella. The walls were a
pukey shade of green, and the dim fluorescent
lights made me feel like I was stuck in a ware-
house. My old school, Upper West Side Friends,
was in a gorgeous brownstone, with a big fire-
place in the lobby and couches where we hung
out before school. You know things are bad
when you long for a school lobby.
Around me girls shrieked and guys slapped
one another on the back. People glanced at me
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as I strode past. I heard a girl mutter, “Nice
dress,” and then laugh with her little group of
friends. My black vintage Jackie O style was
nice; much too nice to be appreciated in this
dump.
I turned a corner and was practically
trampled by a hefty blond hick wearing overalls.
He looked like he belonged in a performance of
Oklahoma!
“Sorry! Hi there,” he called, as he clomped
past me, his thick hair sticking out absurdly.
I made a wrong turn but finally managed to
find my locker. A girl next to me with perfectly
curled hair was standing in front of her open
locker. I noticed she was taping up pictures of
girls with their arms around one another and
guys in football gear. She secured the last one,
slammed her locker shut, and then caught sight
of me.
“Hello there,” she chirped, bouncing slightly
on her toes. “You’re the new girl. We haven’t
had one of those in a while. I’m Sherry.
Welcome!”
She paused, then skipped off down the hall,
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