Rebel Spirits Read Online Free

desk to inspect closer. His blond hair wisps over his eyes, and his jeans are holey at the knees. He and Old Dryden seem to be in an argument. I tug up thewindow, and it slides open silently like it’s greased with butter. Evan’s got a voice that carries. Probably has an ego to match.
    “Dryden, my friend, get with the program. You look like your body made a U-turn. Scoliosis, man, and it’s not getting any better the longer you bend over picking weeds. This Weedwacker, I’m telling you, it’s the solution to all your problems.”
    “You’re my problem,” Old Dryden yells.
    Evan squats to look up into Old Dryden’s face. “You want to go through life like a pretzel?” He stands up and pets the Weedwacker. “Trust me, this little honey will save your life. Give it a test run.”
    Old Dryden waves him away. Evan switches on the Weedwacker, and it hums to life.
    “Turn that thing off!” shouts Old Dryden. Then he mellows, noticing how efficient the spinning metal string is. “That how she goes?”
    “Yup. Want to hold her?” The old guy backs away. Evan looks up and spots me. I freeze. The evil Weedwacker takes advantage of the moment, topples a whole bed of daffodils, and is moving robotically toward a rosebush.
    “Arggggggg!” Old Dryden cries.
    Evan cuts the motor. It dies a slow death, like his car, while he looks up and beams at me. Embarrassed, I duck down, then slowly rise again to check if he’s gone. He’s still staring up atmy window, like Romeo gazing at Juliet, while Old Dryden mournfully caresses an armload of lopped-off daffodils.
    “Hi, up there,” Evan calls with a wave. “Me, again. We met yesterday.” He hops on the second rung of a trellis under my window, but I’m still three stories above him. “Evan Maxwell, remember? Dryden’s worthy assistant.”
    “Hi.” I wave back.
    “He’s no such,” Old Dryden protests.
    “Come on, you’re breaking my heart, man.”
    “Mow the lawn, that’s it. Don’t you ever come near my flowers again, not with that mechanical monster.”
    Evan jumps down and strides toward the shed, where I’m guessing the lawn mower is parked. He’s kind of self-impressed, or else he’s trying real hard to impress me. But why would he care? He’s cuter than Danny Bartoli, and Danny never even noticed me.
    Backing away from the window, I knock over a box, and all my desk stuff spills out — pens, pencils, staplers, Tootsie Pops, and scruffy softballs from the last two summer leagues, plus my beautifully broken-in mitt and a million paper clips. Odd — I’m sure that box was taped shut last night.
    I dump the rest of the box on the floor. My room looks ransacked by burglars.
    A zillion staples fall out of their little Altoids tin. Something’s missing; I sense it. I scramble through all the loose papers and old letters and a calendar from two years ago, the phone charger. Seeing what’s there is a lot easier than figuring out what’s not. What’s missing? My address book’s here, and the little leather notebook with all my passwords …
    My journal, that’s what’s missing! Someone’s stolen my private thoughts. How dare he!
    Who?
    A creepy wave radiates over me. I cross my arms over my waist, feeling naked even in my slept-in clothes.
    What is happening in this strange room? Could Bertha Dryden be right about the house being haunted?
    I have to talk to somebody, see a live and sympathetic face.
    I power up my laptop and type out a quick e-mail to my brother.
    [email protected]
Let’s set up a Skype time, Randy. Got a lot to tell you.
     
    No response. He’s probably teaching. I want to call Jocelyn, but there’s no cell phone reception at that horseback-riding camp where she’s working. I message her.
    [email protected]
You online, Jos?
     
    Nothing wings its way back to me.
    Okay. Ping me when you get some
Wi-Fi time.
     
    A good run with Gertie — that’ll clear my cottony head. But first, a shower. I turn to grab a towel and see my