Julia Hoban - Willow

Table of Contents

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

If she let herself, shed drown in a world of pain. But she cant let that happen, she simply wouldnt be able to handle it, not that kind of pain. Thankful y she knows how to prevent such a thing.

Wil ow reaches into the pocket of her robe, feeling for what she knows is there.

She never takes her eyes off of them as she slices into her flesh. The blade bites so deeply that she almost swoons, but stil , she never stops looking at David and Cathy.

Her blood spouts as voluptuously as Davids tears. It drips unchecked, down her arm and onto the floor as Wil ow watches Cathy dry Davids eyes with her long, long hair.

Wil ow knows that she should leave. At any moment they could look up. But she cant leave, she cant move. She can only slice deeper and deeper.

The razor doesnt hurt her. Not real y.

Not like some things could, anyway. Wil ow savagely swipes at her wrist.

Not like some things could.

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Speak

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First published in the United States of America by Dial Books,

a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2009

Published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2010

Copyright Julia Hoban, 2009 All rights reserved

THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE DIAL EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

Hoban, Julia.

Willow / by Julia Hoban.

p. cm.

Summary: Sixteen-year-old Willow, who was driving the car that killed both of

her parents, copes with the pain and guilt by cutting herself, until she meets

a smart and sensitive boy who is determined to help her stop.

eISBN : 978-1-101-19577-2

http://us.penguingroup.com

Maybe its just a scratch.

Wil ow Randal stares at the girl seated opposite her. Some might notice the girl because she is pretty. Others because of her flaming red hair. If the guys in the class were looking, they would see that the outline of her bra is clearly visible beneath her shirt. But Wil ows eyes are riveted by something else: an angry red welt, about three inches long, that runs from the girls elbow to her wrist. If Wil ow squints hard enough, she can just about make out a few flecks of dried blood.

How did she get it? She doesnt look the type.

Maybe she has a cat. A whole bunch of kittens.

Yeah, thats it. Playing with her kitty. Thats probably how it happened.

Wil ow slumps down in her seat. But her scrutiny hasnt gone unnoticed and the girl turns to one of her friends and starts whispering.

Sshshhsh...

What are they saying?

Wil ow looks at the other girls uncertainly. She has a bad feeling that theyre talking about her, and shes pretty sure that she knows what theyre saying, too.

Shes the one without parents.

No. Shes the one who kil ed her parents.

Their whispers remind her of the rustling of dried leaves. Wil ow has always hated the sound. She fights the urge to clap her hands over her ears, reluctant to cal any more attention to herself. But she cant stop the river of noise that flows out of their mouths. Shhhhsshhhsh...

The sound engulfs her. Threatens to overwhelm her.

Only one thing can make it go away.

Wil ow stands up abruptly, but her shoelace gets tangled with the chair leg and she pitches forward. Her books fal to the floor with a crash. She grabs the desk with both hands, barely managing to stay upright.

Dead silence. Everyone is staring at her.

She can feel her face burning and glares at the two girls who were whispering.

Wil ow? Ms. Benson sounds alarmed. Shes clearly concerned, and not just pretending. Shes a good teacher.

Shes nice to the fat kids, the pimply kids, so why not the orphan kids? Why not the killer kids?

I just... Wil ow straightens up slowly. Justthe bathroom. Her blush deepens painful y. Shes ashamed of her clumsiness. Ashamed at the way she looked at those girls... And couldnt she have come up with a different excuse?

Ms. Benson nods, but she looks doubtful, as if she might suspect.

Wil ow couldnt care less at this point. Al shes thinking about is making a quick getaway and leaving those smirking faces behind. She picks up her books, grabs her bag, and as soon as shes out the door she starts running down the hal . Wait. No running in the hal s. She slows down to a walk. Thats the last thing she needs, to get busted for something as stupid as running in the hal s.

The bathroom smel s like smoke. Theres no one around. Good. The door to one of the stal s swings free. Wil ow kicks it shut behind her and lowers the toilet seat before sitting down.

She rummages through her bag. Getting frantic because she cant find what she so desperately needs. Did she forget to get more supplies? Final y, just when shes given up hope, when shes about to start howling like a dog, her hand closes on smooth metal. Her fingers test the sharpness of the edge.

Perfect. Its a fresh blade.

The girls voices rustle in her head. Their clamoring pushes out al rational thought. She rol s up her sleeve.

The bite of the blade kil s the noise. It wipes out the memory of those staring faces. Wil ow looks at her arm, at the life springing from her. Tiny pinpricks of red that blossom into giant peonies.

Peonies like the ones my mother used to plant.

Wil ow shuts her eyes, drinking in the quiet. Her breath deepens with each dip of the razor. Silence reigns, not like when she tripped, but perfect and pure.

You couldnt really say that something that hurts so badly feels good exactly. Its more that it just feels right. And something that feels so right justcouldnt be bad. It has to be good.

It is good. Better than good.