like lightning: jack harries

one

JACK : pov

She read a lot. Almost too much, I thought. Everyday was something different-- Sunday was something by Ray Brudbury (I couldn't quite tell), Monday was (what looked like) the Philosopher's Stone, yesterday was, predictably, The Chamber of Secrets, and I awaited today's choice.

But Book Girl was gorgeous. From afar, at least. She had this incredible mix of dark, brown hair with caramelly highlights that she usually wore in a bun on the top of her head that I really did like, complimented by her usual summer uniform-- pajamas, I thought-- consisting of a t-shirt and running shorts.

She'd come out of the back door of the 107485 year old Mrs. Edwards' house every morning, book and cup of tea in hand while she sat in the rickety porch swing. Eventually what looked like her brother and father would come outside and paint the side of the house a baby blue, covering up the slightly horrific puce from before.

Around noon, her mother would hand her a sandwich and Book Girl would slowly munch, not wanting to pause to interfere with her current story. She'd read well into the afternoon, usually going back into the house at my dismay by dark. Sometimes her mother would creak open the door and remind her to come in for dinner if she forgot, making her eyes widen as she looked at her watch and the darkness of the sky. Then it would repeat the next day.

I lean my elbow on my cheek as I gaze out the rainy window, hypnotized by the swinging of the background porch swing, a loud squeak accompanying every back and forth. The wind blows slightly, causing the swing to go out of sync for a moment but quickly regaining it's constant motion.

She didn't come out today. The yard was absent of buckets of paint or trays and of Book girl, but instead of puddles of mud and rain. But I wondered what she would read today. Probably the third one, but I don't know if she finished the 2nd yesterday, so she could be finishing that too.

I sigh and peel myself away from my window. I can't keep doing this, watching some random girl from his window all day. This wasn't what I wanted my summer to be-- I should at least be trying to actually talk to girls instead of watching them read a goddamn book all day.

The rain patters gently on the roof as I walk over to my small book shelf. I wouldn't really call it a bookshelf, considering that most of the books were old math and science textbooks from past school years and miss-matched copies of the Box Car Children series. But it was a book shelf, nonetheless, and I needed to find something to read.

I flip through my small collection and gave up at the lack of substantial and appropriate titles for my age or liking on my book shelf. I lean up against my bed and sigh.

"Where the hell do you find books?" I mutter outloud, picturing the book girl climbing around the millions of stacks of books that were likely in her bedroom.

A library, for gods sake. Libraries have books. She probably lives in one of those, for all I knew.

I find my pennyboard and pad downstairs, finding my mother in the kitchen.

"I'm off to the library, mum." I call as I go to the door.

"The library?" she calls as I open the door halfway. "For what?"

"A book."

"Since when did my Jackson read?" My mum laughs, walking from the kitchen to the door to me.

I feel my eyes roll as I fully open the door.

"Are you sure you want to pennyboard out there? It's raining still, I can always drive you."