The Oldest Trick in the Book

Written by Aashaya Anand, 22006, 9G

When I was five years old, I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of my mother weeping next to me. She had her copy of Little Women in her hands.

The next morning, she disappeared.

She was not there next to me when I woke up. Her copy of Little Women occupied the space where she had once slept. I did not cry that day. I did not cry that day because I knew that wherever she went, she would be happier than she had been here.

When I was sixteen years old, I read Little Women for the first time. Until then, I never quite understood why anyone would read a sad book willingly. But when I read Little Women for the first time, I was wonderstruck.

***

I was twenty-one and seated on a rock at the shallow end of a stream. My jeans were rolled up to my calves and I was staring at the water running over my feet. Dense bushes encircled me. There was not a single person in sight. I was convinced it was the closest thing to paradise.

I was home.

I discovered the place when I was seven. Nobody in my family ever found out it existed. During my teens, I used to go there for hours. I had read hundreds of books there. My dad eventually stopped trying to figure out where I disappeared to every day because he knew I always came back for dinner. I loved that place to death.

But then I went to college. Saying goodbye to Paradise was like saying goodbye to a family member or a close friend. But I had to go away. I had to. My grandparents were doctors. My parents were doctors. As for my aunts and uncles... It was my turn. I never wanted to leave, but I never had another option.

Not far into my first year of school, I realised that medicine wasn’t for me. If I was spending all my hours studying for test after test, when was I going to read? 

But I made it through my first three years. The fourth one, the monster, was coming. I didn’t want to think about it. I was just glad to be back home.

Even in winter, my hometown was warm. Our Christmas was not like those in books and TV. There was no snow or mittens, or parents layering their children in thick fabric. But despite that, Christmas time was special for our family. All my relatives - grandparents, uncles and aunts, first, second, third cousins, they would all come over to our place.

The house was always busy. Everyone was either in the kitchen or drinking by the porch. I was always at my hideout, away from everything. As much as my family meant to me, I didn’t want to go inside. I was sure they would ask me about how school was going. And then I’d have to say “Good.” Which was obviously a complete lie. The whole situation was better avoided.

So, there I sat, looking down at my feet. Wuthering Heights was placed next to me. I loved sad stories. It was a dream of mine, to write stories. If only one could live off of writing stories. Maybe someday I could go somewhere nobody would find me, and just write. 

A faint rustling of leaves jolted me back to reality. I didn’t want anybody to discover this place. I was cautious. Soon, a figure emerged from behind a tree. I squinted. I was practically blind without my glasses on.

My seven-year-old little cousin stood before me. I felt a relief I couldn’t explain.

I smiled at her and she did the same, flashing her dimples. She invited herself to sit next to me, but I didn’t mind. She pulled out a sketchpad and began painting. She used the water from the stream to wet her brush, and dipped it in green, attempting to paint the trees. I observed her.

Her art overflowed with passion. I felt like it was a shame, that that passion would be put to waste. Nobody in my family respected art. I knew first-hand.

Then, she stopped painting and looked over at my Wuthering Heights. 

“My sister read that book. She cried very much. She told me it’s sad.”, she said.

“I know.” I replied with a smile.

“Why would you read it? Don’t read it. It’s sad.”

That made me laugh.

“You’ll understand when you grow up”

 That’s when I realised what I had said. When I was a kid, I used to hate when adults said that. Why do I have to grow up to understand? Why can’t you just tell me now?

I felt a drop of rain fall onto my nose. “It’s dinner time,” I said. “Come, let’s go come.”

“But I don’t wanna,” she whined. 

“We can come back later. This place belongs to us. It’s all ours.”

And so we went home. I noticed how, during dinner, my cousin said nothing about the place she had just found.

“Oh! Looks like you’ve made a new friend today,” somebody asked me. “You guys getting along?”

“Yesss, she’s my favourite cousin.” the girl said. Everybody laughed.

After dinner, I was standing on the balcony of my room, leaning against the railing. The air was heavy with silence. Sleeping seemed impossible. I was wide awake.

And then I had a thought.

As quietly as I possibly could, I walked over to my room and grabbed my mother’s copy of Little Women from my bag. I took that book with me everywhere I went. I also had my copy of Wuthering Heights with me. Then, I went downstairs. After much hunting, I found my way to the room where my little cousin had been sleeping next to her mother. The door opened with a soft creak. I placed the two books on their shared bed, next to the little girl.

Then, without a sound, I walked to the front door.