Read Online This Is How I Find Her by Sara Polsky - Free Book Online Page A

pause.
    The words come out sounding formal rather than grateful, but Uncle John doesn’t seem to expect anything else. He nods and stands up.
    â€œWe can start tomorrow,” he says gently. He pulls the door closed behind him.

Eleven
    When the alarm rings early the next morning, Saturday, I open my eyes to see the bright red numbers on the clock glaring at me as if they’re as angry about the time as I am. I slam the heel of my hand against the snooze button and turn over, cocooning myself in the pale guest room sheets. I don’t fall back asleep. I just work my fingers into the weave of the blanket, pulling it out of shape. Soon there’s a thumb-sized hole in the cream-colored knit.
    At home I get up as soon as the alarm rings because I’m afraid the noise will bother my mother, lying in her bed on the other side of the room. The times she actually goes to sleep, I don’t want anything to wake her up before she’s rested. But this morning I hit snooze again and again and again. I’m half hoping it will wake up everyone else in the house.
    Until eventually even I’m sick of the alarm’s enh-enh-enh , and I shut it off and unroll myself from the blankets. When I trudge downstairs and into the kitchen in my pajamas, Leila’s already there. And she doesn’t look like my blaring alarm woke her up. She’s dressed and the counter is strewn with ingredients. As I stand in the doorway, she levels off a cup of flour from a canister and dumps it into a mixing bowl.
    She turns and sees me. “Morning,” she says, almost cheerfully, like we’ve always lived in the same house and greeted each other at breakfast.
    I don’t say anything, and after a minute of prickly silence and another cup of flour, Leila speaks again.
    â€œI was late to rehearsal last night, so I got stuck having to bake for the whole band.”
    Late because I kept everyone at the dinner table to talk about my mother? But Leila doesn’t say that.
    I step into the kitchen, the floor creaking under my bare feet, as if I can somehow step into this, an actual conversation with my cousin. “What happens if you don’t bake for everyone?”
    Leila adds sugar to the mixture in her bowl, cracks an egg rhythmically against the side.
    â€œI have to sing in the hallway at school, between every period, for a whole day. That’s James’s rule.”
    â€œAnd that’s worse?”
    Leila looks at me, a look that says of course . The Leila in my head is loud, willing to be wild, up for anything. I’ve forgotten that the real Leila can be just as cautious as I am.
    â€œJames probably just wanted the free food,” I say, even though I’m not sure I know James that well anymore. “He wouldn’t have made you sing.”
    â€œOf course not,” Leila agrees with me. “But I wanted cookies anyway. This is just an excuse. Actually, the whole singing thing reminded me of those notes your mom used to give you—you know the ones where she’d tell you to pretend to be someone else for the day? I’m surprised she never told you to be a singer.”
    I nod mutely, but Leila can’t see me, because she’s busy fiddling with the measuring cups on the counter. There’s a lump in my stomach and I have no idea what to say. Leila and I don’t talk about my mother.
    Leila has no idea my mother still gives me those notes.
    â€œHere,” Leila says abruptly, pulling a mixer out of its box on the counter. “Hold this.” The real Leila has no trouble ordering me around. That’s something she shares with the Leila in my head.
    I could say no, but I actually like being asked, having something to do with my hands. So I take the mixer from her and stick the beaters in, pushing until they click into their slots.
    â€œI need to add these in while the mixer’s going,” Leila says, pointing to more measuring cups full of chocolate chips