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

the bathroom. The tone of her voice had felt like a warning, which made me wonder just how many times Nancy had stepped in as Guy’s protector. Maybe the two of them still enjoyed a mutual alliance against the power of Gord.

But any misgivings I had about fitting into Nancy’s world flew away when I stepped into their bathroom. Compared to the sterility of the other rooms, this was a haven of sensuality. Tears sprang to my eyes when I estimated that 99.9 percent of the population would never set foot in or even glimpse a room as exquisite as this one. Two white tapers in large teak candlesticks flooded the ceiling and walls with a pale honeyed glow. One side of the room was a continuous wall of windows looking out onto a forest of birch trees, their slender trunks so perfect it seemed an artist had created the exquisite arrangement of silvery saplings.

In front of the window a perfect shell of a tub sat like a modern sculpture on a freckled marble platform. A long marble and wood vanity ended in a shower enclosure as large as an average bedroom. Lined with the same honey-colored marble, it boasted four rectangular showerheads. My fingers itched to switch on the water. To strip off my clothes and get inside. It would be like standing in the middle of a forest during a warm rain shower. I stood open-mouthed like a child in a toy store, my fingertips resting on the glass enclosure.

My mind swam back to all the bathrooms I’d ever used in my life. Cracked white tubs with scum lines and mildewy grout. Hairs plastered on shower walls, the eggy stink of sewer gas, toothpaste splatter on mirrors, moldy vinyl shower curtains streaked with soap scum. Danger lurking in every grimy corner, behind every cracked and fingerprint-streaked door. A wave of nausea rushed into my throat.

Sabrina was right. I wanted this world. Wanted it so bad my stomach ached. If I could live in safety, surrounded by such pristine perfection I’d learn to listen to Gord and never interrupt. It was worth it at any cost. I’d give up my soul just to stay here.

“They loved you,” said Guy on the drive home. He patted my knee. “I’m proud of you.”

“Really. I hardly opened my mouth.”

He shook his head, his eager glance flitting to me then back to the road. “Not at all. You were polite and interested. That counts for a lot with Dad.”

I focused on the rear lights of the car ahead, my vision blurring in a fog of red. “Easy to see why,” I murmured.

“Meaning what?”

“He likes to hold court. I mean he’s probably always the one that grabs the mic at parties or family gatherings. The guy you have to drag offstage with a metal hook.”

Guy’s shoulders slumped. “Mom and I both know it’s easier to let him have his say. He’s used to taking charge and having the last word.”

“No offense meant,” I said, picturing the forest scene from that glorious bathroom window and swallowing any further acid comebacks. “I enjoyed listening to him and I really liked your mother.”

“She’s a special person. Glad you liked her.”

I leaned over and nestled against his arm. I really didn’t want to hurt Guy.

Curb your wicked tongue I told myself, wondering who on earth had uttered that strange, archaic phrase to me. Or did someone say it to Birdie? I couldn’t remember. Or perhaps I knew perfectly well and wasn’t ready to confront the awful truth yet.

10

Just before spring break, I stayed late one night looking over the student journals. Carla had been absent for more than a week and no one had heard from her. I scanned the last few entries in her notebook. A garbled story had begun to emerge.

I hate people basicly. People are crap. I don’t like it when people do and think and say evil things. Things that show they don’t give a shit.

What is life? What is love, Mommy? What is life? What do you really know about life? I know everything about it. People are rotten perverts. Hey I can write anything here. I can say anything my little mind wants to say. Ha ha. Ha ha. LMAO.

I’m scared of the dark. The closet door sucks. There’s sumthing inside that I don’t want to see. It’s the sharp-clawed boogeyman! Go to hell and back. Stay away.

The next few pages continued – half-mocking, childish but with an ominous undertone. Reading those words revived another thread in my memory. A memory of fear rising into my throat like undigested food. Sharp, tingly, acidic. I swallowed it back and checked the last pages for more clues about what could be going on. I’d have to alert Robin if there was reason to be concerned. We’d been diligent about that since a fifteen-year-old kid had committed suicide last year after throwing down a bunch of hints in his journal. Too bad I hadn’t checked it until after he’d downed a bottle of pills.

Carla’s last entry was bizarre. Even cryptic in its way:

I opened the closet door and let him in. I laughed in his face cos I’m not afraid of him. He’s real close. So close I can smell his colone, and he’s got money. Lots of it. LOL. But I can slit his throat when I’m high. I can do anything. I can climb the wall on my hands and feet. Like a super hero. Carla the Conkerer. Is coming to a place near you. Watch out.

I closed the book, wondering when the room had grown so cold and silent. I switched off the classroom light and tiptoed down the hallway towards the entrance hall. The light was on in Robin’s office so I did an abrupt turn and rushed out through the back exit instead. Something had set my blood racing. That image of Carla climbing the wall. I remembered Birdie trying to clamber up a wallpaper-covered wall, her hair