Read Online Runt by Nora Raleigh Baskin - Free Book Online Page A

Modem. Internet.
    All over town. All over the state. For a full ten and a half days.

WHO’S TOP DOG NOW?
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    Just because the Israelites took forty years to cross the desert doesn’t mean I can live without the Internet for one second longer and, frankly, I have no idea what my dad is talking about anyway.
    So what’s the worst part?
    The water.
    Or lack of it, rather.
    We haven’t been able to flush a toilet without using our water containers that we have to fill up every day and lug into the house. I have to brush my teeth by pouring water from a cup over my toothbrush. My mom gave up trying to cook with water from the bottles and now we just get takeout for dinner and she set up one of thoseDunkin’ Donuts coffee dispensers right on the counter next to all the dirty dishes we can’t wash. But seriously, the toilet situation is the worst.
    And no heat.
    No TV.
    No Internet.
    Did I mention the toilets?
    And for some reason that only God or Verizon would be able to explain, no cell service. No talking. No texting. No tweeting.
    No toilets.
    â€œI’m cold,” my sister says for the ten millionth time in the last hour.
    â€œWe all are, Nadine,” my mom answers. “Put on a second pair of pants.”
    But I know she won’t, because it will make her look fat even when it’s just us who can see her. I, on the other hand, am wearing pajama bottoms, fleece sweatpants, two pairs of socks, a thermal undershirt, a long sleeve T-shirt, a polar fleece jacket, and my dad’s ski vest. Oh, and a hat.
    School has been closed for four days. We take our showers at the Y.
    We do have a small gas heater so we, all four of us, sleep on air mattresses in the den. My mom has—count them—six carbon monoxide detectors set up around the room.
    â€œDaddy snores,” Nadine says. She’s tucked in her sleeping bag like a knish. I can smell her aloe nighttime facial cream from here.
    â€œGo to sleep, Nadine,” my dad says.
    We go to bed real early these days. By nine o’clock we’ve read as much as we can. There’s just nothing to do. I haven’t gone to bed before ten thirty since I was in elementary school when my dad used to scratch our backs and tuck us in at night.
    â€œTell us a story, Daddy,” I say. I am wrapped up warm, laying between my sister and my mom and dad. I look straight up, watching the lights from the passing cars outside rush across the ceiling and down the side wall.
    Nadine groans but we all ignore her.
    My dad is the best storyteller. Everybody knew it. Whenever I had a friend sleep over, I would plead with my dad to tell us a bedtime story, and he would pretend to resist until even my friend was begging him. I think my friend Maggie loved his stories more than anyone. Herdad works in Washington, DC, and she doesn’t see him very often.
    â€œAll righty, then,” my dad begins. “Once upon a time . . .”
    I haven’t been friends with Maggie since last year. She kind of changed groups or maybe I did. Either way I haven’t been friends with Maggie since last year.
    A year ago she never would have been friends with someone like Zoe, and then it seemed like one day, she just was. I never liked Zoe. She scared me and I knew enough to stay away from people who scared me. But not Maggie, so when Zoe invited five girls to her sleep-over—one of them was Maggie and one of them was me—I didn’t want to go.
    â€œFreida, please. You have to go. I can’t go without you. We are twins, remember? BFFs. At least do it for me.”
    I knew why Maggie wanted to go so badly. It was like winning the lottery, like getting a chance to see a live Taylor Swift concert from the front row. It was an offer that wouldn’t come again if you didn’t act quickly. A chance to stay at Zoe Bellaro’s McMansion. Zoe’s mother had supposedly been in an episode of Law and Order or Cold Case . I guess