Page 62 of Losing Wendy
Motivated now by the boys booing me, I push myself up.
“That was pretty pitiful, Winds,” says Freckles. “Come on. Try again,” he says, beckoning me with his hand.
This time, when I launch myself at him, he catches me by the waist and tosses me over his shoulder, spinning me around before setting me giggling back on the ground.
“I’m not doing your chores, though,” I say, to which Freckles feigns outrage.
“She’s right,” says Benjamin. “Technically the rules state that you don’t win unless you pin her.”
Freckles snorts, a flush climbing his neck. “Yeah, well, I’m not doing that.”
I’m still laughing, dusting my pants off, when I notice the emptiness in my pocket. Panicked, I slip my hands into my pockets, but it’s no use. I spin around to find Victor plucking the folded parchment from the dust.
“Oh. What does Winds have here?” he asks.
There’s no time to snatch it from him before he unfolds it, the shadows underneath his dark eyes deepening as soon as he glimpses its contents.
His hands tremble as he snaps his gaze up to me. “Where did you get this?”
“I—”
He doesn’t wait for me to respond as he wads it up and chucks it at me. I have to shield my face, the edges of the parchment stinging as they make contact with my forearms.
When Victor storms off, the rest of the boys remain wide-eyed. Freckles shoos them off before picking up the parchment and pressing it into my hands.
“What’s in it?” he asks.
When I show it to him, he nods knowingly.
“Oh, that’s Thomas.”
“What happened to him?” I ask.
Freckles shrugs. “We’re not really supposed to say. Peter warned us when you first got here. Well, right before he went to fetch you, I guess.”
“Can you tell me what Thomas was like, at least?”
Freckles pinches his forehead, considering whether this technicallybreaks Peter’s rules. Something tells me it breaks the intention, but I’m not about to make that argument to Freckles.
“Everyone practically worshipped him,” he says, blandly.
I raise my brow. “And you didn’t?”
“He was just an orphan like the rest of us. There’s nothing special about any of us. Not sure why everyone acted like he was, except that he was the oldest.”
The acid drips off Freckles’s tongue with such ease, I’m somewhat shocked. Even among the aristocracy, the dead were always much more amiable than their living personas. Death turned a drunk into a “jolly ole fellow, always up for a good time,” a cheater into a charmer, a miser into a conscientious businessman.
But I suppose jealousy is sharp enough to cut through even the flattering haze that lingers over our memories of the dead.
“I wouldn’t go around saying that,” I say.
Hurt flashes across Freckles’ face, the playful boy who just pretended to wrestle with me replaced by a sullen adolescent. “It’s not like they don’t already know. It’s not a secret that I wasn’t exactly an admirer while he lived. And I’m not going to go around shedding fake tears just because that’s what everyone expects. Everyone acts like they have the right to dictate how I feel about his death. If I bring up anything negative about Thomas, Simon says I’m being insensitive. The Twins just stare at me like I’ve grown an extra set of eyes. Nettle acts like I’ve transgressed some ancient ducal code of conduct.” Freckles rolls his eyes. “Smalls…well, it makes him cry, so I do feel kinda bad about that.” Guilt pinches Freckles’s features, red creeping up his neck. “You probably think I’m awful, don’t you?”
Because it’s difficult for me to imagine sweet Freckles, the boy who found me crying and gifted me his journal, being truly awful, I shake my head. “I’m sure you have your reasons for not liking him.”
Freckles shrugs. “I never could put my finger on it. Something about him…well, he just seemed…off, I guess.”
“Off how?”