Read Online Then I Met My Sister by Christine Hurley Deriso - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Christine Hurley Deriso
Tags: Drama, Fiction, Family, Young Adult, Angst, Teenager, teen, teen fiction, Sisters, Relationships
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simmering in my chest. I hate to sound petty, but it really chaps my ass that Leah and Kendall are reading Chaucer with Gibs in honors classes while the headiest reading they do in their spare time is Cosmo. I know, I know … I have no one to blame but myself for not being in those classes (I really could crack a textbook now and then, other than during finals). But honors courses should require thinking an original thought once or twice in your life, shouldn’t they?
“Summer?” Leah says, and I realize she’s repeating herself.
“Oh, sorry,” I say. “What?”
“I asked what you’re studying.” She’s inching closer, to peer at the history book I’m holding.
“History,” I say.
“Yeah, but which one?”
Snothead. She loves rubbing my C-list academic standing in my face.
“Ms. Pilcher’s class, right?” Kendall volunteers helpfully, making it clear that yes, that’s the class one tier up from remedial.
“Right,” I say evenly.
“Isn’t Brice Casdorph in that class?” Kendall asks.
Touché. He’s the one who was just arrested for vandalism.
“Mmmmmm,” I reply.
“So your final is today?” Leah asks.
“Mmmmm.”
“Well … good luck with that.”
I manage a fake smile as they walk away. “Bitches,” I murmur under my breath.
“What?” Gibs asks earnestly. “What did they say?”
I roll my eyes. “You don’t get girl vibes at all, do you?”
He studies my face for a few seconds, then pulls a knee against his chest. “So,” he says, changing the subject, “what’s the latest with Shannon?”
Aaaahhh, Shannon. I’m tempted to tell him that I’ve been too busy with finals to think much about her, but the truth is, I’m nothing short of obsessed. Did you kill yourself, Shannon? Please tell me you didn’t kill yourself. I can’t quite bear that thought. And what other secrets might you harbor? Anything that might, oh, I don’t know, totally screw with my mind?
Every morning on the way to school, I drive past the tree she hit—three blocks up the street from our house, a few yards past the stop sign after the right turn, past three ranch-style houses and around a little curve, right before a park just half a mile from the high school …
I’ve always known which tree it is (Mom and Grandma still place flowers there), but I never thought much about it until I started reading Shannon’s journal. Now, that stupid giant oak tree practically taunts me, casting its gnarled branches like an arthritic Satan, looming over me like a gray, wizened wraith. It creeps me out to see kids playing near it on the swings and merry-go-round.
Thank God school will be over in a couple days and I won’t have to drive past the tree again until senior year starts. But I can’t avoid Shannon’s journal. I haven’t read any more of it since the night I opened it; finals actually feel like something of a godsend for once, an excuse to stay busy. But I can already feel her words luring me back, like the branches of that tree.
“Have you read any more of the journal?” Gibs asks.
“No,” I say. “And maybe I won’t.”
He considers my words, then nods sharply.
But he knows. I can see in his eyes that he knows.
I’m not fooling anybody.
You’d figure I’d have big plans tonight, since I’ve just finished my last day of school. But you’d figure wrong. Gibs is at a Habitat for Humanity meeting (should I admit how much I miss him?) and I have to work at Aunt Nic’s shop tomorrow, so I am actually calling it a night at the embarrassingly respectable hour of ten p.m. But not before I take a deep breath and reach for the journal I’ve tucked under my mattress. “Hi, Shannon,” I say sleepily, then turn to her next entry.
Saturday, June 5, 1993
I sneaked out last night to see Chris. I’ve perfected my system: Dad checks the locks at ten o’clock every night, then goes to bed. Mom stays up to watch another hour of TV, then starts the dishwasher and calls it a night.
The
“Summer?” Leah says, and I realize she’s repeating herself.
“Oh, sorry,” I say. “What?”
“I asked what you’re studying.” She’s inching closer, to peer at the history book I’m holding.
“History,” I say.
“Yeah, but which one?”
Snothead. She loves rubbing my C-list academic standing in my face.
“Ms. Pilcher’s class, right?” Kendall volunteers helpfully, making it clear that yes, that’s the class one tier up from remedial.
“Right,” I say evenly.
“Isn’t Brice Casdorph in that class?” Kendall asks.
Touché. He’s the one who was just arrested for vandalism.
“Mmmmmm,” I reply.
“So your final is today?” Leah asks.
“Mmmmm.”
“Well … good luck with that.”
I manage a fake smile as they walk away. “Bitches,” I murmur under my breath.
“What?” Gibs asks earnestly. “What did they say?”
I roll my eyes. “You don’t get girl vibes at all, do you?”
He studies my face for a few seconds, then pulls a knee against his chest. “So,” he says, changing the subject, “what’s the latest with Shannon?”
Aaaahhh, Shannon. I’m tempted to tell him that I’ve been too busy with finals to think much about her, but the truth is, I’m nothing short of obsessed. Did you kill yourself, Shannon? Please tell me you didn’t kill yourself. I can’t quite bear that thought. And what other secrets might you harbor? Anything that might, oh, I don’t know, totally screw with my mind?
Every morning on the way to school, I drive past the tree she hit—three blocks up the street from our house, a few yards past the stop sign after the right turn, past three ranch-style houses and around a little curve, right before a park just half a mile from the high school …
I’ve always known which tree it is (Mom and Grandma still place flowers there), but I never thought much about it until I started reading Shannon’s journal. Now, that stupid giant oak tree practically taunts me, casting its gnarled branches like an arthritic Satan, looming over me like a gray, wizened wraith. It creeps me out to see kids playing near it on the swings and merry-go-round.
Thank God school will be over in a couple days and I won’t have to drive past the tree again until senior year starts. But I can’t avoid Shannon’s journal. I haven’t read any more of it since the night I opened it; finals actually feel like something of a godsend for once, an excuse to stay busy. But I can already feel her words luring me back, like the branches of that tree.
“Have you read any more of the journal?” Gibs asks.
“No,” I say. “And maybe I won’t.”
He considers my words, then nods sharply.
But he knows. I can see in his eyes that he knows.
I’m not fooling anybody.
You’d figure I’d have big plans tonight, since I’ve just finished my last day of school. But you’d figure wrong. Gibs is at a Habitat for Humanity meeting (should I admit how much I miss him?) and I have to work at Aunt Nic’s shop tomorrow, so I am actually calling it a night at the embarrassingly respectable hour of ten p.m. But not before I take a deep breath and reach for the journal I’ve tucked under my mattress. “Hi, Shannon,” I say sleepily, then turn to her next entry.
Saturday, June 5, 1993
I sneaked out last night to see Chris. I’ve perfected my system: Dad checks the locks at ten o’clock every night, then goes to bed. Mom stays up to watch another hour of TV, then starts the dishwasher and calls it a night.
The
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