Eleanor aimed a kick at the RW trunk. “That’s for tripping me before.”
“Don’t do that . . . ,” managed Cordelia. “Not the trunk’s fault . . . We actually need to open that. Tomorrow . . . for sure . . . ” Her head sank into the pillow. She was asleep before the air seeped out of it.
It would be tempting to say that night passed quietly in the primeval forest of Denver Kristoff’s fiction. In truth it was only the extreme fatigue of the Walkers and Will that prevented them from being woken up every five minutes from the sound of a giant unknown beast howling or an oversize dragonfly buzzing by the window. They all had dreams, although only Cordelia remembered hers—tunneling nightmares where the Wind Witch blew her down a corridor as blood sprayed from the walls. When she awoke in terror, gray dawn light sifted through the windows.
Cordelia hated waking up too early. She could never go back to sleep. It had happened to her at a slumber party last year. She’d had a bad dream and woken up in a sleeping bag in a room full of five girls, not daring to go to the bathroom or get a book because the others would ask her why she was up so early. And then one of them would say, “Why are you so weird ?”
Luckily Cordelia had The Fighting Ace . She opened it and started reading—fast. She could speed-read with the best, and she had the added motivation of really wanting to know what happened to Will Draper. She read about aerial dogfights and backroom army dealings, but most disturbingly, she read about a woman named Penelope Hope. A woman who was older, more beautiful, and more mysterious than she.
As Cordelia neared the end of the book, she heard, “You’ve been busy this morning.”
She turned. Will was smiling at her.
“How’d you know I was up?”
“I’ve been listening to you turn pages for an hour. Woke up early. Can’t get any kip in here. What are you reading?”
“Nothing.” Cordelia hid The Fighting Ace . She didn’t want Will to know she’d been reading about him. But thanks to the book she knew that kip meant “sleep.” “How’s your shoulder?”
“Feels like a tiny man built a campfire on me. But you did a wonderful job, Miss Walker.”
“Call me Cordelia.”
“From King Lear . . . ”
“ Buffy , actually. My mother loves it.”
Will draped a hand off his mattress, inches from Cordelia’s. “Have you ever read King Lear ?”
“No, actually. I’ve read most Shakespeare, but not that.”
“American education. Tragic.”
Cordelia was glad her siblings weren’t awake to see her turn beet red. Getting called out on a lack of literary knowledge was the worst—and besides, what was Will doing with his hand? Was he just going to leave it there as if she hadn’t noticed? She totally noticed.
“Cordelia,” Will declared, “was King Lear’s youngest daughter. At the start of the play, when the king asks his less-fit daughters what they think of him, they give flowery speeches. But Cordelia tells the truth and gets banished.”
“I actually think I remember that—”
“You’re a lot like her. I can see it in your eyes.”
He took Cordelia’s hand so smoothly that she found it hard to pinpoint when it happened.
“You’re controlled by your emotions. Ruled by your heart.”
“Actually, I like to think I’m ruled by logic,” Cordelia said, pulling her hand away.
“Then why is your heart beating so fast?”
Cordelia glanced at Will’s fingers. He’d been taking her pulse. She rolled over on her side, holding her hand close to her face, and felt the sharp shape of The Fighting Ace under her pillow. Will was brave in the book. And bold. And he had a lot of girlfriends.
“You know, all of a sudden, I am actually tired,” Cordelia said. “I’m going to try and get some sleep before everybody wakes up.”
“I understand. By the way, what’s a Buffy?”
T hey had Lunchables for breakfast. It wasn’t anyone’s first choice (except maybe
“Don’t do that . . . ,” managed Cordelia. “Not the trunk’s fault . . . We actually need to open that. Tomorrow . . . for sure . . . ” Her head sank into the pillow. She was asleep before the air seeped out of it.
It would be tempting to say that night passed quietly in the primeval forest of Denver Kristoff’s fiction. In truth it was only the extreme fatigue of the Walkers and Will that prevented them from being woken up every five minutes from the sound of a giant unknown beast howling or an oversize dragonfly buzzing by the window. They all had dreams, although only Cordelia remembered hers—tunneling nightmares where the Wind Witch blew her down a corridor as blood sprayed from the walls. When she awoke in terror, gray dawn light sifted through the windows.
Cordelia hated waking up too early. She could never go back to sleep. It had happened to her at a slumber party last year. She’d had a bad dream and woken up in a sleeping bag in a room full of five girls, not daring to go to the bathroom or get a book because the others would ask her why she was up so early. And then one of them would say, “Why are you so weird ?”
Luckily Cordelia had The Fighting Ace . She opened it and started reading—fast. She could speed-read with the best, and she had the added motivation of really wanting to know what happened to Will Draper. She read about aerial dogfights and backroom army dealings, but most disturbingly, she read about a woman named Penelope Hope. A woman who was older, more beautiful, and more mysterious than she.
As Cordelia neared the end of the book, she heard, “You’ve been busy this morning.”
She turned. Will was smiling at her.
“How’d you know I was up?”
“I’ve been listening to you turn pages for an hour. Woke up early. Can’t get any kip in here. What are you reading?”
“Nothing.” Cordelia hid The Fighting Ace . She didn’t want Will to know she’d been reading about him. But thanks to the book she knew that kip meant “sleep.” “How’s your shoulder?”
“Feels like a tiny man built a campfire on me. But you did a wonderful job, Miss Walker.”
“Call me Cordelia.”
“From King Lear . . . ”
“ Buffy , actually. My mother loves it.”
Will draped a hand off his mattress, inches from Cordelia’s. “Have you ever read King Lear ?”
“No, actually. I’ve read most Shakespeare, but not that.”
“American education. Tragic.”
Cordelia was glad her siblings weren’t awake to see her turn beet red. Getting called out on a lack of literary knowledge was the worst—and besides, what was Will doing with his hand? Was he just going to leave it there as if she hadn’t noticed? She totally noticed.
“Cordelia,” Will declared, “was King Lear’s youngest daughter. At the start of the play, when the king asks his less-fit daughters what they think of him, they give flowery speeches. But Cordelia tells the truth and gets banished.”
“I actually think I remember that—”
“You’re a lot like her. I can see it in your eyes.”
He took Cordelia’s hand so smoothly that she found it hard to pinpoint when it happened.
“You’re controlled by your emotions. Ruled by your heart.”
“Actually, I like to think I’m ruled by logic,” Cordelia said, pulling her hand away.
“Then why is your heart beating so fast?”
Cordelia glanced at Will’s fingers. He’d been taking her pulse. She rolled over on her side, holding her hand close to her face, and felt the sharp shape of The Fighting Ace under her pillow. Will was brave in the book. And bold. And he had a lot of girlfriends.
“You know, all of a sudden, I am actually tired,” Cordelia said. “I’m going to try and get some sleep before everybody wakes up.”
“I understand. By the way, what’s a Buffy?”
T hey had Lunchables for breakfast. It wasn’t anyone’s first choice (except maybe
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