Spyhole Secrets Read Online Free Page B

“Hallie dear. We were about to have a piece of cherry pie. Wouldn’t you like to join us?”
    Hallie wouldn’t like to. At least she wouldn’t have, if it hadn’t been for the pie. But she remembered Annette Tilson’s cherry pie, or at least her taste buds certainly did. So much so that she had to swallow quickly before she said, “Hey great.” She swallowedagain and added, “But I can’t stay long. Homework, you know.”
    At the Tilsons’ kitchen table there were thick slabs of luscious pie, cups of tea for the Tilsons, and a glass of milk for Hallie. And, just as she’d feared, a lot of nosy questions. The questions and comments about her school were bad enough. Questions like “Are you finding your classes interesting?”
    “Yeah.” Hallie shrugged. “Some of them.” But what she wanted to say was,
Yeah, really interesting, if you don’t mind being around a lot of people who hate you and make sure you know it.
    And then “I suppose you’re making lots of new friends?”
Yeah, really good friends. The kind who just act like they think you’re already dead, instead of actually trying to kill you.
    But the questions about her mother were the worst. After a lot of comments about what a lovely lady Paula Meredith was and how she reminded them of their own dear daughter who lived far away in Massachusetts, Mrs. Tilson said, “We’ve been worrying about your mother, dear. She’s been looking so tired lately. Working such long hours and with all the household duties to handle by herself. I hope you’re doing all you can to help.”
    That did it. The throat-swelling, eye-burning rage flared up like an erupting volcano.
    “Yeah, I try to help her.” Hallie pushed away her pie plate and got to her feet. The Tilsons were staringup at her, looking more than ever like a pair of nervous rabbits. “At least I don’t send her to the store all the time to buy yogurt for me.”
    She was heading for the door when the guilt thing kicked in, mixing up the hard, clean anger and turning it into a miserable, stomach-tightening confusion. She turned back long enough to mumble, “Thanks for the pie,” and then, halfway out the door and halfway crying, she stopped again, this time to choke out, “I’m sorry.” Then she ran down the hall and up the stairs to the third floor. She was still running and crying when she got back home.

O utside the door to the cell block, Hallie wiped her eyes and clenched her teeth, biting off the urge to sob. It didn’t take long. She’d had a lot of practice at that sort of thing lately. At swallowing sobs and wiping pain and anger off her face. She waited until she thought everything was under control before she went on in.
    On her way to her bedroom she stuck her head through the kitchen door and said, “They said to tell you thanks for the yogurt.” She swallowed hard to clear her throat before she went on, “I had some cherry pie.”
    Still at the kitchen sink, her mother turned her head, “Oh, good for you,” she said. “Annette’s cherry pie is just about…” But by then Hallie was out of earshot, on her way to her bedroom. Closing the door firmly behind her, she sat down on the bed, then got up again to look in the small oval mirror over her dresser. Leaning forward until her face filled themirror, she checked out her eyes first—red and puffy, and angry too. And not just her eyes. Her whole face looked tight and ugly with anger. Positively ugly.
    Feeling shocked, she reached up to wipe her eyes and run her fingers across her cheeks. Forcing her lips into a phony smile, she tried to remind herself how she used to look. Pretty, people used to say. What a pretty girl, and such a charming one-dimple smile. She smiled a phony, charming smile again and held it until the tears came back. She watched a tear run over the spot where the dimple had been before she flopped down to bury her face in the pillow.
    Lying there, facedown, she reached back for the anger, asking