Ten Ways to Make My Sister Disappear (2 page)

T
UESDAY
night, Mom and Dakota are making supper — a big salad with yummy blue cheese dressing, grilled salmon (which means delicious, crusty pieces of fish), pan-fried potatoes, and garlic bread. A perfect supper — Sprig's mouth waters, just thinking about it — but it would be more perfect if
she
was the one cooking with Mom. She can do everything Dakota can do, and mostly Mom lets them take turns, but sometimes, if she's in a rush, like tonight when she has knitting group, she gives Dakota extra turns.

Sprig finishes setting the table and Dakota pours dressing over the salad and puts it in the middle of the kitchen table. When Dad is home, they eat in the dining room. “Sit down, girls, fish is done, and I'll be right back,” Mom says, running up the stairs. “I have to get my knitting stuff.”

Dakota sits down and rearranges her silverware. “Fork on the left, knife and spoon on the right,” she instructs.

“I like putting them all on one side,” Sprig says. “Mom doesn't care.”

“
I
care.”

“Well, I don't,” Sprig says.

“And I don't care that you don't care.”

Does Dakota always have to have the last word? Sprig takes the salad tongs and claps them together, a nice crisp sound — the way her voice should be when she talks to her sister. “Dakota,” she says. “Tonight when Dad calls,
I
talk to him first.”

“Guess what! You're wrong.”

“Nooo! Last night you talked to him first.”

“That's right, because I'm older, and because you'll probably cry. Guess what, I'm giving you time to pull yourself together.”

Sprig isn't sure which is more infuriating, Dakota's saying
guess what
or saying she'll cry. True, she did cry last night when she talked to Dad, but only a little and only because she's not yet used to his being away. Every time he goes on one of his work trips, it's kind of like that. It's an
adjustment
.

Mom is back, and they sit down and start passing around the food. Almost immediately, the phone rings. Mom looks at the clock. “Too early for your father. He said he'd call around nine. Must be Marcy to tell me she's going to miss our knitting group.”

“No, Mom, I'm sure it's Vicki Winters,” Dakota says. “To borrow my math homework.”

Guessing who's calling before anyone answers the phone is a family game. When Dad's home, he makes up really funny stuff, like the caller is a movie star, or someone to say he's won fifty-six million dollars in the lottery and does he have his ticket in a safe place?

Sprig wants to guess Dad, but Mom is probably right. As the phone rings again, and Mom stands to get it, Sprig says, “Um, Bliss Gardner.” Her new best friend.

Mom winks at her, picks up the phone and says, “Hello?”

Sprig loves the way Mom says that, two notes and three syllables. Hel-low-oooh. Up the scale, then down. “Hel-low-oooh,” she echoes after Mom.

“You're mimicking Mom?” Dakota says.

“No!”

“You're mocking her.”

“I am not!”

“Don't try to wriggle out of it. I heard you.”

“Girls,” Mom says, smiling, “it's your dad.”

Sprig pushes back her chair. So she was correct! She should have stuck to her guns. That's what Dad says —
Girls, stick to your guns
. Means, don't give up on what you know is right. Dad is so smart!

While she's thinking this, Dakota has taken the phone. Sprig makes fists and taps herself on the jaw.
Wake up!
she tells herself. Too late! Dakota is telling Dad
everything
— what they're having for supper, and how the school bus had to turn around this morning because the wind blew down a tree at the end of the street, and how, for a few minutes, they thought the school bus wouldn't be able to get through, and everybody was cheering.

Sprig was going to give Dad all that news! Now what does she have for him?
This morning, it was zero degrees. I saw the full moon last night. We have a substitute teacher. This is his second day. His name is Mr. Julius.
Ugh, so boring! Besides, she already told him about Mr. Julius.

Dakota's holding out the phone. It's her turn. “How are you, Baby?” Dad says.

“Good, Dads. How about you?”

“Terrific! I'm playing tennis every morning at the clubhouse in this building.”

“Oh. That's good. Dads?”

“Yeah, sweetie?”

“I — I —”

“What is it?” He's laughing. “Don't make me guess.”

“I miss you.” Just three little words, but her throat clogs up.

“Hey, I've only been gone two days.”

Sprig laughs with Dad, but it's a wobbly laugh, a
pathetic
laugh. So pathetic she could cry — and she does, but at least she's able to hold it off until she's in bed with the lights out and the blanket pulled over her head.

C
OMING
off the school bus, Sprig stamps her feet, which are cold, cold, cold, even though she's wearing fur-lined boots. All up and down Baylor Street, the trees sparkle with their load of snow, and chimneys pour white smoke into the frosty air, smoke that rises into the sharp blue of the sky. She starts across the street, but Dakota grabs the back of her jacket.

“Whoa there!” Dakota says. “I didn't see you look both ways.”

Sprig jerks free of her sister's grip. “Mr. Arnett has the
STOP
sign out. Look!” She points to the line of cars in front and in back of the bus.

“You still have to be careful.”

“I know that! You tell me the same thing every day.”

“I'm responsible for you when Mom is working, and guess what?” Dakota stays on Sprig's heels as they cross the street. “I don't want to be the one scraping you up off the pavement.”

“Scraping me up off the pavement,” Sprig mutters. “Nice!” She stamps up the driveway, crushing the icy ruts under her boots.
She
should be in charge of Dakota! Maybe she worries over a lot of things, but
she
is not boy-crazy. She does not and never will change her clothes a million times, as if she's going somewhere, and then end up in bed.
And
, if
she
had a younger sister, she would be much nicer to her. Which would be super-sensible, because then, guaranteed, her little — no, her
younger
— sister would love her to pieces.

As it is, Sprig has to lavish all her love on Miss Ruthie's Cora, who, right this minute, is stumbling down the driveway toward her. Sprig runs to meet her. “Cora, my sweetheart.” She bends down to kiss her, and in return Cora kiss-licks Sprig's face all over with her soft tongue. Cora is nine, sixty-three in dog years. “I'm sorry you're so old,” Sprig whispers into her ear. Cora still has four shining white paws to go with her brown coat, but she's also got arthritis in her joints and eyes dimmed by glaucoma.

“Hello, Sprig,” Miss Ruthie calls down from her little square porch. “Hello, Dakota.” Miss Ruthie has lived in the apartment over the Ewings' garage all of Sprig's life and, Sprig thinks, she's like a good old auntie with a little hearing problem and some funny habits. “Come up here, darling girls, and talk to me,” she says. Leaning on the railing, her elbows plunked into the cake of snow, she's knitting, working away at her latest project.

“Sprig, leave Cora alone,” Dakota says, giving her a push, “and go say hello to Miss Ruthie.”

“You too.” Sprig takes her sister's arm. “It's so cold out today, Dakota. Do you think Miss Ruthie's hands are warm enough?”

“Stop worrying about things that don't concern you,” Dakota says, echoing Mom. “Miss Ruthie knows what she's doing. Don't forget, the older you get, the smarter you get. I'm older than you, and I'm way smarter.”

“Yeah, right,” Sprig says. “Ha-ha.” She starts up the stairs, with Cora panting warmly behind her. “Miss Ruthie,” she calls, pitching her voice high, “that scarf you're knitting is so pretty. The colors look like trees in the fall.”

“You're adorable.” Miss Ruthie beams at her. “So young and so smart.”

“I'm not that young. I'm
ten
, remember?”

“Hello, Miss Ruthie,” Dakota says, behind her. “That
is
a pretty scarf.” And without missing a beat, she adds, “Are your hands warm enough?”

Sprig drops her backpack with a thump. That was her question! Dakota just flat-out stole it.

“Oh, I'm fine.” Miss Ruthie puts down her knitting needles and holds out her hands to show that she's wearing half gloves. “But thank you for asking, dear. That's very thoughtful.”

So! Not only did Dakota steal Sprig's question, she stole the praise for asking the question. It's a crime, a double crime! What would Judge Judy say about
that
? She'd lean forward over her high desk and pound her gavel.
Dakota Ewing, you're a common question thief. I'm putting you away in the slammer.

“Girls,” Miss Ruthie is saying, “what do you hear from your father?”

“He's good, Miss Ruthie,” Sprig says hastily. “He's playing tennis every morning at this clubhouse —”

“He's working hard,” Dakota interrupts. “He has tons of meetings.”

“He calls us every night,” Sprig says.

“And she” — Dakota points to Sprig — “cries every time.”

“Dakota!” Sprig glances at Miss Ruthie, then turns on her sister and says, low-voiced, “You shouldn't say that here. It's not …
loyal
.”

Dakota shrugs, but her cheeks turn a bright red.

E
XTENDING
one of his long, spidery arms, Mr. Julius writes
HOMEWORK
on the blackboard in bright orange chalk. “Ugly color,” Sprig says, under her breath. Her regular teacher, Mrs. Foote, always used either white or pale blue. Orange is
such
a bad choice but, anyway, what can you expect of a substitute, stand-in, not-the-real-thing teacher? Last week, Mrs. Foote had her baby. From the day Mr. Julius took over their class, it's been clear that he does
nothing
the way Mrs. Foote does. He talks too much, ends just about every sentence with “
okay?
,” and his handwriting is weird, floppy, and loose, just like his arms.

“
Presenting My Family,
” he scrawls on the blackboard. More orange chalk. Maybe someone should tell him Halloween is long gone. “This is going to be a personal essay, kids. It will help me get to know you guys, okay? I'm going to give you plenty of time. Today's Thursday, okay? It won't be due until after the weekend, let's say on Tuesday. That's six days.”

“Five,” Russell Ezra-Evans calls out from behind Sprig.

“Good call.” Mr. Julius throws the orange chalk up in the air and catches it. “No computers or printers, okay? Everything the old-fashioned way, so make sure I can read your handwriting. Any questions?”

Silence.

“No?” Mr. Julius sounds disappointed.

Sprig raises her hand. “Will you write a personal essay also?”

A few people in the room giggle, but Mr. Julius says, “That's an interesting idea, uh” — he looks down at his list of student names — “Grace.”

“Sprig,” she reminds him. “Remember? Everybody calls me Sprig.”

“Oh, right. And, yes, Sprig, I'll write a personal essay.”

“And will you read it out loud?”

“Don't mind her, Mr. Julius,” Russell Ezra-Evans says from the seat behind Sprig, in his deep, man's voice. “She always asks questions.” A moment later, Russell's foot makes contact with Sprig's leg. Maybe it's accidental. Yeah, right. He's always knocking into her. Thanks to their last names — Ewing and Ezra-Evans — ever since kindergarten Russell has been a pesky presence in Sprig's life.

“Actually, that's another excellent suggestion from Sprig —” Again, Mr. Julius looks down at his list of names.

“He's Russell Ezra-Evans.” That's tiny Bliss Gardner, Sprig's friend, who sits across the aisle from her.

“Yes, I am,” Russell booms to class laughter. “Last time I looked, that was me.”

 

“He's so cute,” Bliss says later, as they walk out of school together toward the parking lot. The buses are lined up like yellow animals panting clouds of blue breath into the cold air.

“Who's cute?” Sprig asks.

“Russell.”

“
Russell?
” Sprig says. “Please tell me you didn't say that.”

“No, I mean it. Really, he's sort of adorable.”

“About as adorable as a giant mosquito.”

“Come on, think about it. The way he's always teasing on you? You can tell he doesn't mean anything bad by it. He likes you.”

“Russell does not like me. He hates me.”

They stop by Sprig's bus, number 380. It's carrying a layer of wind-blown snow on the roof. “He probably wants to be your boyfriend,” Bliss says.

“Ewww, no! If I wanted a boyfriend, it would not be Mr. Supersize, Mr. Giant Mosquito, Mr. Huge, Mr. Humongous, Mr. —”

“Stop,” Bliss says, but she's laughing. “That's so mean. Don't you feel the least bit sorry for him? It must be hard to be so much bigger than everyone else.”

“I have no pity for that bozo.”

“Well …” Bliss shifts her backpack. “Maybe you should. I know what that feels like, being different from everyone.”

“You do not,” Sprig says.

“I do! I'm always the shortest one, the smallest one, and you know what? There's always someone who's gonna pat me on the head, like I'm a baby or a dog or something.”

Sprig can't resist. She pats Bliss on the head. “You mean, like this?”

“Hey!” Bliss pushes her hand away. “Don't do that!”

“Sor-ry.” Sprig back-steps. “You really don't like that, do you?”

“I
seriously
don't like it.” Bliss's face is scrunched up tight. “It makes me really —” She takes in a breath. “Oh, forget it.” She looks past Sprig toward the other side of the parking lot. “There's my bus, I have to go.”

“Wait a second,” Sprig says. “Are you mad at me?”

“No,” Bliss says, sounding like
yes
. “Bye. See ya.” She walks off, her hands supporting the weight of her backpack.

“Bliss? Bliss!” Sprig runs after her. “I didn't mean to hurt your feelings or anything. I wouldn't want to hurt you!”

Bliss looks at her for a moment as if she's deciding something, then she says, “I know that.”

“So is it okay?” Sprig says and, without waiting for an answer, she throws her arms around Bliss. They hug for a moment. One of the bus drivers is sitting on his horn.

“Gotta go,” Bliss says, and she runs for the bus.

“What was that all about?” Dakota strolls up, arm in arm with Krystee Hampler, her best friend this year, a tall girl with a sarcastic tongue and bright green eyes, which she can cross at will.

Krystee tugs on Sprig's ponytail. “Little girls having a fighty-fight and kissy making up?”

“None of your business,” Sprig says. “Get your hands off my hair.”

“What a charming child,” Krystee croons and crosses her eyes at Sprig. With a little effort, Sprig manages to cross her eyes back at Krystee. “Dakota,” Krystee shrieks gleefully, “your little baby sister is funny.
Not!
”

All the way home, on the smelly, overheated bus, that phrase,
little baby sister,
repeats itself in Sprig's mind. Three words that taken separately are, well,
okay,
but put together? Totally annoying!