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

a spray in the washroom that neutralized poo smell she almost fell off her chair laughing. “But your father-in-law. Sorry to say it, he’s a tool. Said he didn’t remember me from that conference I told you about, when I know for sure I had my knee against his crotch for at least thirty seconds.”

“Can’t say I know him well enough yet to make a judgment,” I said, munching on the smoked salmon bagel Guy had made me. He’d been so sweet since the wedding. “Besides, I’m not married to him, am I?”

“You marry someone, you’re married to their family. Believe me. I know. I’ve turned down a couple of hot, ripped guys because their parents were major assholes.”

“Sometimes you gotta put up with shit to get shit,” I said, pulling a container of fresh raspberries from my lunch bag.

Sabrina lowered her fork and narrowed her eyes. She smiled a slow, knowing grin. “You, Anna Holt, are one materialistic little bitch,” she said, her face cracking into a blinding smile. “But don’t you forget to introduce me to any eligible relatives or friends of the family. Single, widowed, newly divorced, weird, nerdy. Don’t matter. I’m very flexible.”

I smiled, knowing with absolute certainty I had no intention of allowing her near Guy or any member of his family. “Will do,” I said, spearing a plump berry and watching the juice spread like fresh blood onto the white plastic.

Carla still hadn’t shown up at school. Only Dane and two other buddies of his came to class every day. Sabo with the sable-black Mohawk and ripped trench coat held together with safety pins and Martin with the purple tipped hair and tongue piercing.

But Dane was the only one who actually talked to me. The others drifted in, wrote their journals and read a lot.

I asked Dane if he’d seen Carla.

He shook his head. “Nah – but some kid said she might’ve met some guy at the mall who promised to get her into modeling.”

A wave of nausea rolled through my gut. That was the oldest con trick in the book. “Which guy?”

“From the mall. Downtown. He owns a record store. Told her he’d seen her around and thought she’d be great for promo work.”

“You know where?”

“I think it’s Toonz. By the gamer store. But like I said – I haven’t seen her. It’s maybe just a rumor.”

“Thanks, Dane. I appreciate the info.”

He shrugged and took his journal from my desk.

On the way home I drove towards the downtown mall. News about Carla was a swift reminder that even the mall wasn’t a safe place for lost kids. One time, Birdie told me about the guys who hung out there trying to pick up kids nobody cared about. They’d drift up with their crooked smiles, hands stuck into the pockets of their fake leather bomber jackets, paunch straining the front of their polo shirts. They’d offer cigarettes or chocolate and tell little girls how pretty they were and ask them to model for some photo shoot or video.

At first Birdie said she’d gotten all starry-eyed and almost fell for it, thinking it would be the way to launch her dream career as a famous movie actress, but Loni put her straight. She barreled right in between Birdie and the middle-aged loser and told him to go screw your dog instead. For once I said a silent thank you to Loni for protecting Birdie who, left to her own devices, would probably hold out her hand and let any weasel-faced perv lead her away to porn land.

I parked the car in a side street and sat nursing my coffee and gazing at the dark brown buildings linked by glassed-in crosswalks. Some city planner had introduced fancy streetlamps and colored street banners in an effort to brighten the place up, but all I could feel was a sense of brooding darkness. An absence of sunlight and air.

This place was very important to Birdie and me. Bad things had happened here. I knew because I felt that familiar sense of dread squeezing my gut. We’d started coming here when we were still at the group home. A place where we’d begun to feel settled. But as usual, nothing was ever permanent in our lives. Some well-meaning person always moved us on, whether we wanted to go or not. I remember the day they took us away from there. It was a muddy spring afternoon. Dirty, half-thawed snow flecked the sidewalks and I’d skipped school, faking a stomachache.

Tammie, the supervisor didn’t care if I stayed away from school. She was in her final year of nursing and exams loomed on the horizon followed by the prospect of a raunchy spring break week in Fort Lauderdale if she passed. She came around and checked on us every few hours, mostly to see we weren’t shooting up or hanging ourselves from a coat hook. But she was a major pushover. We were into our teens by then, and didn’t give a damn. If we didn’t want to follow orders, we just got right up into her face and lipped off at her. She usually shrugged and backed down.

I was enjoying a rare moment of peace and quiet, lying on the couch in the TV room, sipping tea and polishing off a pack of white chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies. The Young and the Restless chugged along at a snail’s pace. I loved that show. The expensive clothes, every room with a giant arrangement of cut flowers, every woman made up to the teeth and sporting chunky, glittering jewelry and rhinestone encrusted earrings that they only took off to answer the phone. People fell in and out of love, plotted, connived, cried, died, got possessed by demons, ran away then returned to big, comfy fortunes. It was all there in glorious color. An hour of pure escapism every day.

I was just nodding off to sleep when the front door burst open and Marian, our social worker of the moment,