The Secret Sister by M. DeLuca (classic novels for teens txt) 📕

slipping over one ear. On the way down she smacked her face on the corner of the kitchen table and split her lip. Her face crumpled up in tears as a stream of blood dribbled from her nose into her mouth and down her chin. I ran to her, folding her bony body in my arms. A surge of love and fear almost knocked the breath from me. Then I yelled and screamed at those asshole kids to piss off and leave her alone.

The buzzer for afternoon classes blasted like a ship’s horn, sucking away the horrors of the past and leaving me so shattered I threw on The Shawshank Redemption and had a Friday film afternoon. It was early dismissal so I was out of there at two thirty before Robin could collar me with some phony claptrap about professional development or curriculum review.

My insides churned as I drove home. Worry about meeting Guy’s parents next weekend and memories of Birdie had sent me into a tailspin. I had to stop and think somewhere quiet. Carry on delving into the past. Testing the waters. Guy wouldn’t be home for at least three hours so I took a detour off the freeway and paid a visit to one of my old stomping grounds. The place I’d been happiest. When I lived with the Levines.

I pulled up by the playground near their place, a long, suburban street of shabby seventies-style bungalows. The playground gave off a neglected vibe. Rust bloomed on the swing set, graffiti on the edges of the slide, a cracked steering wheel on the playhouse. Maybe I could channel some of the old memories. Remember growing bolder. Laughing again as the swing flew high and the good, clean air blew the demons away until I could actually look someone in the eye without frowning. But I couldn’t conjure up anything specific.

Empty playgrounds in the afternoon are the loneliest places on earth. Filled with memories of laughing children and muddled, sleep-deprived parents. Or maybe ghosts of ragged kids with hollow eyes and pale, undernourished faces like my student Carla’s brothers and sister. I’d been one of those kids when I was in the foster homes. Kids who ran wild on the streets all day with only a bag of chips or a pack of dry noodles to chew on. Back at dark and mind out for the creeps and perverts. Go to sleep in the clothes you stood up in. No time to brush your teeth.

But not with the Levines. It was different with them. I spent two years there from when I was fifteen or maybe sixteen, then Marty Levine got sick and Rachel couldn’t manage to look after me as well as him. But by that time I’d stabilized, and was old enough to go into a dorm at university.

I looked over at their place. The front of the house had polished brass carriage lamps beside a painted turquoise door. I thought it was beautiful when I first saw it. And Mrs. Levine was cooking shepherd’s pie with real grated cheese on the top. I was in paradise.

Except Birdie wasn’t there with me.

By then I didn’t know where she was.

The previous four or five years spent bouncing between temporary placements was a shadow box of formless impressions I was afraid to open. Linda Martin, my social worker at the Levines’, always said I could come and talk to her about the particulars of that time. When I was ready.

I still hadn’t talked. Because during that dark period of constant change, Birdie disappeared.

And now the Levines were long gone.

I owed so much to Rachel. She took a traumatized teenager who glowered like a demon from beneath heavy, black bangs, who called her foster mother a stupid bitch and worse, until the endless supply of love, patience and good books broke through the tough shell and I became human again. Years later, I heard Marty had died and Rachel moved to the country with her sister, a bee farmer. I made a mental note to visit as soon as I had time. Maybe in the summer holidays.

A steady drizzle had started up, so I pulled up my collar and ran back to the car. I drove straight to the mall and plunged into its cinnamon warmth. Once there I bought a giant latte and began to loosen up a bit. Credit card in hand, I slipped into one of the pricier stores. The kind that doesn’t have a dollar sign on the price tags and the marble floor is so polished it feels like you’re walking on water. Normally I’d slide right out again when one of the wraithlike sales clerks fixed me with a what the hell are you doing here look, but the camel coat was now my membership to this exclusive club.

I exited the glass doors an hour later after purchasing a strappy little dress in floaty gold material as well as drop earrings and a gold pendant. My heart thudded in my ears when I paid the equivalent of my rent money for it. Thanks to free lodgings and Guy’s generosity, that extra cash was burning a hole in my pocket. I’d felt a momentary dizziness when the purchase went through, followed by a rush as if I’d drunk three shots in a row. Carried along on this euphoria, I stepped into the first lingerie shop that had a deal on panties. I bought twenty pairs, vowing to throw away all my old ones except the gifts from Guy. Scented candles were going three for twenty dollars at Bath and Body, so I bought six as well as four bottles of body lotion and two car deodorizers in the shape of daisies. Afterwards, I pushed through the mall doors into the late evening sunshine, breathless and elated. The past was a distant and nagging memory, the weight of the shopping bags a comforting reminder of my new good fortune.

Guy was home early.

“I need to get