Page 4 of Unspoken Words
Opening the page of my Christopher Pike book, a gentle breeze blew along the river, carrying what sounded like the strumming of a distant guitar. My head snapped up like a meerkat, and I looked in the direction I thought it was coming from, angling my left ear toward the sky. The tune was sweet, inviting, and yet it also sounded a little sad, the tempo slow and sombre. It was beautiful, and I had to know where it was coming from and who was playing it.
Gathering my stick, book, notebook, and pen, I stood up, stepped off the dead fallen tree, and made my way along a barely formed dirt path through thick brush, the perfectly timed notes of the guitar growing louder with each step I took.
“It is someone playing a guitar,” I murmured to myself as I pushed aside the foliage of a bush, my eyes catching sight of Connor perched on a rock in the sun, guitar in his hands, the worries of the world seemingly absent from his face as he played.
The river’s reflection glittered across his skin and hair, which rested comfortably on his shoulders—longer than what most boys his age wore—flecks of amber shining through warm, brown strands lightly blowing with the breeze. He looked … magical, like a paranormal character in one of my books, and I wondered for a split second if he was, in fact, human.
Unable to help myself, I tucked the stick and my book under my arm and hid behind a large gum tree before opening my notebook. My fingers itched to jot down what I was seeing, which was what I used my notebook for. Kinda like a journal but not really a journal. More a written collection of what I encountered in my everyday life.
“I can see you,” Connor called out.
I flinched, dropped my pen, and quickly pressed myself against the tree trunk, praying he wasn’t referring to me despite the odds of that being worse than a dolphin emerging from the river and neighing at us.
“Really? You’re gonna pretend you’re not there? Okay, let’s do that then.”
Silence settled like a winter blanket, and I couldn’t breathe yet I couldn’t answer.
“Trees don’t wear shoes, you know,” he added.
Glancing down, my face contorted when I noticed my well-worn Chucks peeping out at the base of the trunk.
“You may as well come out, Eloise.”
Connor chuckled for the slightest of seconds but then stopped, and I almost questioned whether I’d heard it or not, as if he hadn’t meant to do it in the first place. It made me curious, so I stopped acting ridiculous and left my hiding spot, tediously stepping out while cradling my book and notepad to my chest. They were my shield; my protection against everything.
“I … I heard you playing the guitar,” I stuttered, avoiding his gaze while toeing a pattern in the loose dirt at my feet. “You’re really good.”
“I like to play . . .alone.”
My head snapped up at the sour tone of his voice, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to spy. I … I was just a few metres up the river, reading. I—”
“I meant thanks,” he added, cutting me off and avoiding eye contact while tightening his guitar strings.
I pressed my lips together and nodded, unsure whether to stay or leave. He hadn’t exactly made me feel welcome, but then I didn’t think he wanted me gone either, his mouth twitching with what appeared to be pending conversation that he couldn’t quite release.
Maybe he’s just shy?
I stood still and waited but he just ignored me and kept turning his guitar pegs.
Maybe he’s just a jerk?
Stepping back, I turned and went to leave.
“What’s that?” he asked.
I turned back to face him. “What’s what?”
He nodded toward my chest, to where I was cradling my copy ofChain Letter.
“This?” I held it at arm’s length. “It’s just a book I’m reading.”
“No, the other thing.”
The only other things I possessed were my notebook and the stick. The stick was clearly a stick, so I figured he was referring to the notebook.
“This?”
He nodded, once.
