The One That I Want Read Online Free Page B

forgot.”
    “I didn’t forget,” I lie. “I had a busy day. You know that thefair is the school’s big fund-raising opportunity.”
Not to mention the Arc de Triomphe. Why focus on her birthday when there is the Arc de Triomphe?
I think. “And I’m busy with the school musical,” I add after a pause, like that might impress her, like I should even attempt to impress her.
    “Whatever,” she says, unimpressed. “It’s not as if it’s Mom’s birthday every day or anything.”
    I flop my shoulders, unwilling to take Darcy’s bait, as Tyler unlocks the front door and goes inside, abandoning me to mop up the mess. The screen bangs shut, and Darcy bites her cuticles while she waits for me to amend my wrongdoing. A pang of sympathy for my baby sister assaults me.
    “Look, it’s still light out. Let me run to the bathroom, and we’ll go, okay?”
    “Okay.” She pouts, reminding me of how petulant she was as a child, how quickly her mood could turn from sunny to cloudy to completely tornadic with no warning at all.
    “I’ll be in your car.” She rises, her dirty blond ponytail swaying back and forth, and I notice how skinny she’s gotten while she’s been in L.A. Her shorts drip off her hipbones; her breasts are no bigger than buds; her legs are gawky and slim, like a baby deer’s.
    The car door thumps shut behind her, Darcy symbolically shouting,
“Screw you!”
and I plod inside to the front hall bathroom and tug down my underpants to check the giant-sized maxi pad, which is still clear, unmarred.
    I stand upright and glance in the mirror, and then look closer because something seems off. The pallor of my skin has a hint of gray underneath it, and the shadows under my eyes are an ominous shade of yellow.
Heatstroke
, I think, leaning over the sink to splash water on my peaked cheeks. I wipe off the lingering drops,dab my face with a towel, and when I gaze anew at my reflection, I see something even odder, something really out-of-body, freaking-me-the-hell-out strange: Ashley Simmons, with her coffee-colored eyes and layered black hair, staring back at me.
    Jesus Christ!
My heart nearly detonates inside my chest, and I squeal, jumping back, the hinges of my knees colliding with the toilet. I step toward the mirror once more, then double-bat my lashes, and,
poof
, with that blink, she’s gone, just a figment of the memory of my afternoon. I stare again, just to be sure, but no, no, it’s just me, grayish, sickly me, with a pissed-off sister in her SUV and her stomach churning at the thought of a failed conception. I shake it off with a quick flutter of my head.
Heatstroke hallucinations
. I remind myself to Google the symptoms later.
    The car horn honks, snapping me to, and I picture Darcy sitting out there, impatient, her left leg bouncing, her irritation skyrocketing.
    “Ty,” I shout to his den. I know he’s already absorbed in the Mariners game and won’t notice my absence for at least an hour. We fall into this pattern every April and stretch it out until at least September, maybe October if the playoffs look like a possibility: Ty retreating to the TV to catch whatever game he can find, me enjoying the solitary bit of quiet time after a day of demands that are never once reciprocated, surfing over online picture galleries, pretending like I might actually pick up a camera again, my photography career derailed much like Ty’s baseball aspirations, though for very different reasons.
    “We’re leaving!” I shout even louder, hoping to make it above the fray of the Mariners crowd. But I hear nothing, so I grab the car keys from the entryway table, close the front door firmly behind me, and join Darcy in the car. We are off to visit our mother.

    Westlake, population 81,000, has forever been a town on the cusp, a town whose sparkly name always belied its more dilapidated reality. Ask most residents, and they’ll tell you that our city is only one lucky break away from prosperity. One great