Read Online The Good Sister by Wendy Corsi Staub - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Wendy Corsi Staub
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bookshelves. She’s always making fun of her for keeping dog-eared copies of Charlotte’s Web , Amelia Bedelia, and the Little House series.
After removing two fat hardcover volumes of the Hunger Games trilogy from her bookshelf, Carley takes the bag of miniature Twix out from behind them.
When, she wonders as she reaches into the bag, was the last time she devoured a book as fervently as she did these? Back when she was in parochial school, she read the entire trilogy one title right after another, lost in a futuristic world where terrible things happened to kids just like her.
If only it were so simple to escape the real world now. If only terrible things happened just to fictional kids. If only . . .
If only I didn’t have to spend so much time thinking if only this or if only that.
She counts out three candy bars, starts to return the bag to the shelf, then grabs one more Twix. No, two more.
It’s been a rough day. She deserves it.
She crams the bag back into its spot, replaces the books, unwraps a candy bar, and pops it into her mouth.
Another if only: If only chocolate could make it all better.
If only something, someone, could make it all better.
Someone . . . like who?
Nicki, her ex-best friend?
Aunt Frankie, who won’t be here for another whole week?
Mom, down there in the kitchen baking Carley’s favorite peanut butter cookies?
The house smelled so good that her mouth started watering the moment she opened the door. But she didn’t dare make a detour to the kitchen. She couldn’t bear the thought of sitting there eating cookies with her mother’s eyes on her, pitying her.
“How was school?” Mom asked, like Carley is just some regular kid. How would her mother react if she told her the truth?
I sat alone at lunch, alone at Mass, alone at the assembly. Oh, and I also sat on a thumbtack someone put on my chair in earth science, and it really hurt, but I pretended I didn’t notice anything and I left it there, sticking out of the back of my skirt, until I could get to the girls’ room after class. Even though I could hear them all laughing about it behind my back when I walked down the hall. Oh, and I was the last one picked for volleyball in gym .
Actually, it was worse than that.
So much worse.
Ever since she started freshman year, Carley has always been the last one chosen in gym—that’s bad enough. She’s never exactly been a star athlete. Who can blame the competitive team captains for picking the best players?
But only recently—since the Spring Fling debacle—has she been tripped by her own teammates, or pegged so hard with the ball that her back is bruised. The other girls actually aim it right at her. If Mr. Klerman—hardly the warm and fuzzy type—catches them, he blows the whistle and glares at everyone, including Carley.
“This is volleyball, ladies,” he shouts, “not dodgeball!”
A couple of times, he benched the offender. But no one ever minds that, not even the jocks. There are worse things than having to sit out a volleyball game on a bench behind the teacher’s back, where you can text and check your Peopleportal page from the cell phone smuggled in your shorts pocket, even though phones are supposed to be left in the locker room during gym.
Yes. There are far worse things than any of that.
What happened to Carley at school was unbearable. She still isn’t over it. She’ll never get over it.
But I have to stick it out. I have to, because . . .
“What are you going to do, Carley? Leave school? Let them win? Wouldn’t you rather hold your head high and show them that they can’t get the better of you?”
“But . . . I can’t. I just . . . I can’t . . .”
“You can’t hold your head high? Sure you can, if you grow a spine . . .”
She just didn’t understand. No one understands.
But maybe she was right. Maybe it’s time to grow a spine. Carley’s been trying to do just that—when she isn’t dwelling on what happened,
After removing two fat hardcover volumes of the Hunger Games trilogy from her bookshelf, Carley takes the bag of miniature Twix out from behind them.
When, she wonders as she reaches into the bag, was the last time she devoured a book as fervently as she did these? Back when she was in parochial school, she read the entire trilogy one title right after another, lost in a futuristic world where terrible things happened to kids just like her.
If only it were so simple to escape the real world now. If only terrible things happened just to fictional kids. If only . . .
If only I didn’t have to spend so much time thinking if only this or if only that.
She counts out three candy bars, starts to return the bag to the shelf, then grabs one more Twix. No, two more.
It’s been a rough day. She deserves it.
She crams the bag back into its spot, replaces the books, unwraps a candy bar, and pops it into her mouth.
Another if only: If only chocolate could make it all better.
If only something, someone, could make it all better.
Someone . . . like who?
Nicki, her ex-best friend?
Aunt Frankie, who won’t be here for another whole week?
Mom, down there in the kitchen baking Carley’s favorite peanut butter cookies?
The house smelled so good that her mouth started watering the moment she opened the door. But she didn’t dare make a detour to the kitchen. She couldn’t bear the thought of sitting there eating cookies with her mother’s eyes on her, pitying her.
“How was school?” Mom asked, like Carley is just some regular kid. How would her mother react if she told her the truth?
I sat alone at lunch, alone at Mass, alone at the assembly. Oh, and I also sat on a thumbtack someone put on my chair in earth science, and it really hurt, but I pretended I didn’t notice anything and I left it there, sticking out of the back of my skirt, until I could get to the girls’ room after class. Even though I could hear them all laughing about it behind my back when I walked down the hall. Oh, and I was the last one picked for volleyball in gym .
Actually, it was worse than that.
So much worse.
Ever since she started freshman year, Carley has always been the last one chosen in gym—that’s bad enough. She’s never exactly been a star athlete. Who can blame the competitive team captains for picking the best players?
But only recently—since the Spring Fling debacle—has she been tripped by her own teammates, or pegged so hard with the ball that her back is bruised. The other girls actually aim it right at her. If Mr. Klerman—hardly the warm and fuzzy type—catches them, he blows the whistle and glares at everyone, including Carley.
“This is volleyball, ladies,” he shouts, “not dodgeball!”
A couple of times, he benched the offender. But no one ever minds that, not even the jocks. There are worse things than having to sit out a volleyball game on a bench behind the teacher’s back, where you can text and check your Peopleportal page from the cell phone smuggled in your shorts pocket, even though phones are supposed to be left in the locker room during gym.
Yes. There are far worse things than any of that.
What happened to Carley at school was unbearable. She still isn’t over it. She’ll never get over it.
But I have to stick it out. I have to, because . . .
“What are you going to do, Carley? Leave school? Let them win? Wouldn’t you rather hold your head high and show them that they can’t get the better of you?”
“But . . . I can’t. I just . . . I can’t . . .”
“You can’t hold your head high? Sure you can, if you grow a spine . . .”
She just didn’t understand. No one understands.
But maybe she was right. Maybe it’s time to grow a spine. Carley’s been trying to do just that—when she isn’t dwelling on what happened,
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