The Stepsister (10 page)

Packing It In

“N
o!” Emily tried to scream, but no sound came out.

“Shhhh. It's me,” said a familiar voice. He let go of her shoulder.

Emily squinted in the darkness, her heart pounding. “Rich?”

“Yeah.”

She turned and sat up. The nightmare still hovered over her like a heavy cloud. It had seemed so real. She could still see the bloodstained knife blade, so red, so deadly red.

“Rich—what's the matter? What do you want?”

His face moved out of the shadows, pale gray in the dim light from the window. He looked very nervous.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you.”

“But what do you want?” she insisted. This was so weird. Rich never came into their room. What was he
doing here now, shaking her like that, waking her up in the middle of the night?

“I didn't kill your dog,” Rich said in a loud whisper.

“What?”

“That's what I wanted to tell you. I didn't kill your dog.” He moved even closer. His eyes peered into hers as if trying to determine whether or not she believed him.

“Rich, please. It's so late.” The room was spinning. His face, so close to hers, was spinning with it.

“I didn't kill Tiger. I liked him. Really. Please believe me.”

He had tears in his eyes. It seemed so terribly important to him that Emily believe him. “I believe you,” Emily said wearily.

She wasn't really sure whether she believed him or not.

The nightmare flashed through her mind once again. And once again she saw Jessie holding the bloody kitchen knife. “Go back to sleep, Rich. I believe you.”

“Thanks,” he said, turning his head so she wouldn't see the tears.

That's an odd thing to say, she thought. Thanks? He's so grateful to me for believing him?

“Thanks,” he repeated, and disappeared into the darkness.

Emily sat up, hoping it would make the room stop spinning. It helped a little. Why was it so cold in the room?

She looked over to Jessie's bed. Jessie was such a light sleeper. Any little sound would wake her. Why hadn't she awakened when Rich had come into the room?

Hey—wait. “Jessie?”

Emily thought maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her. She climbed out of bed, feeling even colder away from the covers. She took a few steps across the room toward Jessie's bed.

She
was
seeing correctly.

The bed was empty. Feeling a gust of wind, Emily turned. The window was wide open. No
wonder
it was so cold in the room.

The window was wide open. And Jessie was gone.

Sneaked out. She probably climbed down the big old maple outside their window. But where did she go?

♦ ♦ ♦

Feeling the bump under her pillow, Emily remembered the diary. She pulled it out and, yawning, carried it over to the desk and turned on the desk lamp.

It took a while for her sleep-filled eyes to focus on the tiny, precise handwriting. She kept thumbing backward through the days, not finding anything revealing.

Then a section caught her eye. It seemed to jump off the page because Jessie's handwriting suddenly changed, as if this particular passage had been written rapidly, heatedly.

Emily moved the desk lamp closer and started to
read.
Had a fight with Jolie,
the section began.
A big fight. I can't believe I trusted her. She is not a friend. She's the lowest. I hate her!

Jolie. The name rang a bell with Emily. It was the name Jessie had mentioned the night of the shampoo incident.

Emily skimmed a few pages, then gasped as she started to read again.
They think I did it. They think I killed Jolie,
the diary said.

Killed Jolie?

Jolie isn't here anymore. They found us—just me and Jolie at the bottom of the slope. I told them I didn't do it. Jolie fell. It was an accident. It wasn't my fault. But Jolie is dead.

The handwriting became very sloppy at this point, the letters all jagged and run-together.
They think I killed Jolie. I guess I didn't handle it well at first. I couldn't answer their questions when the rest of our group found me next to her body. I guess I didn't make much sense. But it wasn't my fault! I kept saying that over and over. I could see that no one believed me. But I know the truth.

I can tell that everyone thinks I killed her. I can tell by the way they look at me, by the way they whisper when I go past.

But you know what? I don't care. I really don't. I don't care what they think! Jolie is dead
—
nothing can change that. I have to go on with my life. I'm alive!

Emily slammed the book shut. She had read enough.

So that was the trouble Jessie had been in.

Jolie had died.

First, Jolie and Jessie had had a fight. And then Jolie was dead.

And everyone believed Jessie had killed her.

Was Jessie telling the truth in her diary? Did Jolie fall? Was it an accident? What really happened?

Was Jessie a murderer?

Her head spinning, Emily put the diary on the exact spot where she had found it.

I don't care what they think,
Jessie had written.

Jolie was dead. And Jessie didn't care.

And where was Jessie now? Where had she run to?

Emily realized she was too tired to think straight. She climbed back into her bed and, seeing Jessie's scrawled words before her eyes, fell immediately into a troubled sleep.

♦ ♦ ♦

“Pass the milk, please,” Mr. Wallner said, scooting his stool up close to the counter. The whole family grabbed breakfast every morning around the kitchen counter, gulping down orange juice and milk, a quick bowl of cereal, or a couple slices of buttered toast. But it seemed different this morning, quieter without the clicking of Tiger's paws over the linoleum.

Emily, feeling as if she hadn't slept at all, thought of poor Tiger, lying lifeless out on the back stoop. She kept looking down to the floor, almost expecting to see him there, begging for crusts of toast. Since it was Saturday, everyone was still in pajamas and bathrobes, except for Emily, who had quickly pulled on jeans and a T-shirt.

Rich, looking very sleepy, kept giving Emily meaningful
looks, which she didn't know how to interpret. Finally, she just stopped looking over at him.

What a weird kid, she thought. What a sad, weird kid.

“How are you feeling this morning, Em?” Mrs. Wallner asked, gripping her coffee cup tightly as if it might escape from her if she let go.

“I don't know. Okay, I guess,” Emily answered.

“I know,” Mrs. Wallner said cheerily, “why don't you and I spend the day together. We can go shopping and then have lunch like real ladies and—”

“Sorry, Mom. I'm going over to Kathy's. Then we're going to school. There's a special computer lab at school this morning, and—”

“On Saturday?” Mr. Wallner interrupted.

“Yeah. We get to try some new word-processing program. So Kathy and I thought we'd—”

“Morning, everyone.” Jessie entered the kitchen quietly and climbed up onto the empty stool on the end, a pleasant smile on her face. “Pass the orange juice, please.”

I wonder when she got in, Emily thought. Emily had been awakened by a garbage truck on the street at seven, and Jessie still hadn't returned to the room.

She was out all night, and look how perky she looks, Emily thought, staring as Jessie gulped down a tall glass of juice. I guess I underestimated Jessie's acting ability, Emily thought.

“You look very pretty today,” Mrs. Wallner said to Jessie.

“Really? Thanks, I didn't sleep very well last night,” Jessie said.

She's a good actress. And a good liar, Emily thought.

No one was talking about Tiger, Emily realized.

No one wanted to talk about the fact that a murder had been committed in this very kitchen the night before.

Maybe I'll tell everyone that Jessie sneaked out and was gone all night, Emily thought. Maybe I'll let them know what a sneak Jessie is.

But she didn't have the strength for a screaming confrontation this morning. She decided to save this little secret, save it for a time she really needed it.

“Maybe I'll help you clean the garage out this morning,” Jessie said enthusiastically to her dad.

“Great!” he replied, his mouth full of cornflakes. “Too bad you won't be here, Emily,” he said, leaning over the counter to see her better. “Then the whole family could pitch in. I like family activities.”

Some family, Emily thought glumly.

A murder was committed here last night, and everyone's acting as if this is just another normal day.

She glanced at her watch. “Oh. I'm going to be late.” She hopped down off the stool and hurried up to her room to get her backpack and her down jacket.

“Where are you going so early?” Nancy called, just coming down to breakfast.

“Out of here!” Emily shouted, slamming the door behind her.

When she picked up Kathy, she was still feeling really down. “What's your problem?” Kathy asked, noticing it immediately.

“If I tell you, you won't believe it,” Emily told her friend bitterly.

“Wow,” Kathy said. “What did your stepsister do this time?”

By the time they got to the computer lab in school, Emily had told her the whole story. She was reluctant at first. Why should Kathy have to hear the whole horrible tale? But it felt good to unburden herself—and it felt good to get some sympathy and understanding for a change.

“You poor thing,” Kathy said as they found places at the long table in the lab. “If I had a wacko stepsister like that, I don't know
what
I'd do. Run away, probably.”

“Well, I'm not running away,” Emily said, pulling off her jacket. “I was there first.”

She sighed loudly and plopped down in the chair. As the instructor entered the room, she pulled her backpack up onto the table and unzipped it.

She started to reach into the backpack—stopped—and screamed.

“Emily—what on earth!” Kathy cried.

Emily couldn't answer. Instead, her hand trembling, she pulled open the backpack.

“Oh, no. I don't believe it,” Kathy groaned.

Someone had stuffed Tiger's corpse into the backpack.

The Silent Treatment

“N
o. We've barely said a word to each other in three days,” Emily said into the phone in a low voice. “No, it isn't silly, Josh. She's crazy. She really is. And she's evil. She could do anything.

“I think I hear her coming up the stairs,” Emily whispered, huddled over the phone on her desk. “Are you coming over later? Good. Bye.”

She hung up just as Jessie walked into the room.

Her arms loaded down with books and papers, Jessie didn't glance at Emily, but walked straight to the back of the room and dropped everything onto the white counter that served as her desk. She sat down, humming very quietly to herself, and began sorting through the papers.

Emily didn't turn around. As she had been doing ever since Saturday morning, she ignored Jessie entirely. She opened her government textbook and sifted through it until she found the chapter she had to read.

She read a few minutes, then stopped. It was impossible to concentrate. The silence in the room was overwhelming.

How long can we go on like this? she wondered, sneaking a peek at Jessie, who was writing furiously in a notebook.

Sooner or later, Emily figured, the silent tension would lead to some kind of explosion. And of course, Emily thought bitterly, everyone would side with Jessie, as usual.

“Girls—come down for dinner!” Emily's mother shouted, her voice making Emily nearly jump out of the desk chair.

Chill out, girl, she warned herself. Or else Jessie's going to win this battle of nerves without even trying.

Jessie brushed past Emily, her nose in the air, as they left the bedroom. The aroma of roast lamb, Emily's favorite, drifted up the stairs. But Emily didn't care. She wasn't very hungry.

As Emily took her seat next to Nancy, she saw that Rich's cheek was cut, and he had a black eye. “What happened to you?” she blurted out.

Rich looked away, embarrassed. “Nothing.”

“He got into a fight after school,” Mr. Wallner said through clenched teeth.

“It was nothing,” Rich repeated.

“A black eye and three stitches,” Mr. Wallner grumbled.

“Really, Hugh. Let's talk about it later,” Mrs. Wallner said, a forced smile on her face. “We should talk about more pleasant things at the dinner table. What did
you
do today?” she asked, turning to Nancy.

“Oh. The usual.”

“Fascinating!” Mr. Wallner grumbled, chewing enthusiastically.

They ate in silence for a while. “I made all your favorites tonight,” Mrs. Wallner said, smiling across the table at Emily.