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

out, you crazy little fuckers,” she yelled, yanking my arms away from Birdie. “Someone’s gonna call the cops if you keep this up.”

Once she’d separated us, she grabbed Birdie’s hand.

“You can come with me but your bitch of a sister can fuck right off.” She glared at me then turned back to Birdie. “Her or me? Your choice.”

Birdie scowled at me, her hand cradling the welt on her cheek. “Yeah – she can fuck right off.”

Her words were knives stabbing at my heart. The ground tilted underneath me, only this time it wouldn’t straighten itself. They walked away, but I tagged along behind.

“Where are you taking her?” I croaked, running alongside them.

“Did I hear someone talking or was it a pig grunting?” said Loni, turning her head to smile down at Birdie.

“Oink, oink,” said Birdie, giggling. She slipped her hand into Loni’s and I started to cry, tears burning down my cheeks.

“Don’t go with her, Birdie. Don’t leave me. I’m sorry.”

Birdie just looked round at me and pursed her lips. I’d never seen her look through me like that. “You have snot bubbles coming out of your nose. Yech,” she said, then trotted away with Loni.

I drifted back to the group home, barely noticing the rain that drove against my face. Nobody noticed me coming in drenched. Maybe Birdie was right. None of them liked me. The night supervisors didn’t even look up from their Mario Kart game and the assistant had her nose buried in a pile of schoolbooks. The other kids were gathered round the TV watching Survivor. I ran up to my room and flopped onto the bed, stuffing the pillow into my mouth to stop anyone hearing my howling. Not that they’d care anyway.

Much later, when Birdie returned, my eyes were sore and dry and my heart was a chunk of ice.

I turned to the wall and concentrated on the weird orange-peel texture of the paint. A sweet, skunky stink floated in with her. Just like the weed smokers at the back of the house. My stomach heaved at the thought of Loni giving Birdie weed, but I bit my lip and pretended to be asleep. I felt her standing above me, breathing lightly. The air hung heavy and hot in the room.

“Sorry,” she said in a small, slurry voice.

I stared at the wall.

“I said I was sorry.”

I chewed at my lower lip and stayed silent. I’d make her pay.

“Suit yourself,” she said. When she finally left the room, I was paralyzed with regret. I wanted to run after her and tell her I forgave her, but my voice was trapped inside my body.

Later on, when I calmed down and was really ready to forgive her, I wandered into the lunchroom. But it was too late.

A cluster of older kids stood in a circle, kicking off at Birdie who was shoving fistfuls of chocolate raisins into her mouth.

“I’ve got the munchies,” she chanted. Over and over. Then she filled her mouth again, chomping on the candy and letting the chocolate dribble down her chin. When she smacked the side of her bloated cheek a stream of chocolate pulp shot down her chin and T-shirt.

Anything for an audience. That was Birdie. I hung around on the outside watching, my legs paralyzed, unable to step forward and pull her away. When she started drinking milk and shooting it out from her nostrils, I looked away, sick to my stomach, then drifted back to the bedroom.

I woke up much later. The moon shone through the window. Birdie was sleeping behind me, snoring, her arms wound tightly round my waist. She stirred and mouthed sorry, her lips sticky with chocolate.

Guy was teaching a night class so I left the group home and drove by the mall. My mind settled the moment I stepped into the scented warmth. Glassed-in elevators swished up and down, escalators hummed from one white-balconied floor to another, sunlit evening sky glowed through the skylights. I passed all the familiar stores as if I was walking down my neighborhood street.

Nancy had called earlier to excuse herself from our shopping trip. Apparently, the PowerPoint for Gord’s new keynote address needed work and she couldn’t be spared. I was relieved. I preferred shopping alone anyway. Company always broke my concentration and prevented me from getting into the “zone” of maximum satisfaction. Besides, they’d never put up with my idiosyncrasies. I’d go down a row of garments at least three times, pulling out the clothes, turning them around and around, checking out the place of origin, the washing instructions, etc. I’d try on armfuls of dresses, tops and pants, then go through them all again to ensure I was making the right choice. Then I’d get to the front of the checkout line, spot a cute little jacket or fancy belt hanging nearby and give up my spot to go rooting through the racks again. Nancy’s patience probably wouldn’t stretch that far.

After three hours of circling the best boutiques, I found the perfect dress. Creamy white with a lace trimmed bodice, wide straps that wrapped under the bust line and a long, floaty skirt. I swirled around in front of the mirror knowing Birdie would have loved it. It was a dress she could only dream about.

Then I stopped in at the lingerie store, mainly to see if Carla had shown up again or if anyone had seen her. On the way in I just had to pick up the white lace corset with pink bows and the matching bra. Guy would get a kick out of it.

My husband, Guy. I’d hardly let myself say it. I had a husband. Someone who’d worry about me. It hadn’t really hit me until then. I actually had a family. Husband, mother-in-law, father-in-law and – what’s more – they were loaded and they seemed to like me. Or at least they put on a good show. I could live with that. But the weight of the dress in the white and gold