Ten Ways to Make My Sister Disappear

by Norma Fox Mazer

  “Then eat it?” Bliss can’t stop laughing. “Now that is sick. Do you really have ten things like that?”

  “I’m still working on it. Want to see?” Sprig roots around in her backpack, then pulls out her list and hands it to Bliss.

  “I just thought of one for you,” Bliss says after she reads the list. She grabs her knees and rocks excitedly. “Put your sister on a raft and float her out to the ocean!”

  “That’s good. I’m going to write it down.”

  “Here’s another one I just made up. Send her around the world in a hot-air balloon! Do you like that one?”

  “I love it,” Sprig says, scribbling.

  “It’s really not original,” Bliss says apologetically. “We all watched Around the World In Eighty Days last weekend.”

  “Sprig,” Mom says, coming in. “How are you doing, honey?” Mom’s in her working clothes, a dark skirt and a gray pleated blouse. “Bliss, hello,” she says, in that way Sprig loves. She bends over and kisses Sprig. “I see you two are all settled. The beds are okay?”

  “Totally! They’re supercomfy,” Bliss says enthusiastically, the way she says almost everything, the way she said, Put her on a raft and float her out to the ocean!

  For Bliss, Sprig realizes, her ten ways list is just another game, and in a way it is for Sprig too — but it’s also more. Every time she thinks of a new way, it’s like letting out a breath that she’s been holding.

  And now, with Bliss’s two great ideas, she has nine ways of making Dakota disappear. Too bad she didn’t think of them herself. “Do you think it’s sort of cheating to take your ideas?” she asks Bliss, after Mom leaves.

  “No,” Bliss says. “Everyone has different ideas. That’s how inventions and discoveries happen. My mom says that being open to new ideas makes your life juicy.”

  “Juicy,” Sprig repeats. “Cute! That gives me another idea.” She smooths out the paper and writes, then shows it to Bliss.

  “Euuuw,” Bliss says. “Poor Dakota!”

  Ten Ways to Make My Sister Disappear

  Dakota steps onto an ice floe in the Antarctic... and drifts off.

  Put her in prison for stealing my question.

  A cucumber she is... and I crunch her...

  If she were made of paper... oh, so many choices! Crumple! Rumple! Tear and toss!

  Like smoke, she rises into the air, and, poooof.....

  I blink her into a watery puddle.

  Bake her like a cookie...

  Float her out to the ocean on a raft.

  Put her in a hot air balloon and send it around the world.

  Juice her like an orange and drink her down.

  SATURDAY morning, Krystee’s mother comes for her right after they finish breakfast, so she can go to her flute lesson. Fifteen minutes later, Bliss’s father picks her up to take her to gymnastics class. And at nine o’clock, Mom drives Miss Ruthie to the bus station, and Dakota takes Cora for a walk.

  Sprig is shoveling a path to Miss Ruthie’s steps. It’s one of those cold, blue winter days. A squirrel tunnels through the snow, disappears, then pops up, cheeks pouched and face splatted with white. “I see you’re gathering nuts,” Sprig says.

  “No way,” someone says behind her. It’s Thomas Buckthorn on cross-country skis, a pole in each hand, a red ski cap pushed to the back of his curly black hair.

  “Where’d you come from?” she says.

  Thomas points to the wooded hill behind their house. “I live over there, on the other side of Poke Hill. So, what’re you doing?”

  “Hello?” She holds up the shovel, then scrapes up a shovelful and tosses it to the side. “See Sprig. See Sprig shovel snow.”

  Thomas is not amused. No sense of humor. Or maybe it wasn’t funny? Maybe she was channeling sarcastic Krystee — bad thought. She rests her chin on the handle of the snow shovel and looks Thomas over. Maybe no sense of humor, but Dakota is right — definitely cute.

  He slides back and forth on his skis. “You getting paid for doing that?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you doing it?”

  “This is part of the stuff I do for my allowance.”

  “I get paid for everything I do,” he says. “My father is a businessman, and he says getting paid for what you do is the way to learn the value of money.”

  “Do you get paid for breathing, and eating, and sleeping?”

  “That’s really funny,” Thomas says. “I guess I should laugh.”

  “Oh, don’t bother,” Sprig says.

  “Okay, I won’t.”

  For a few moments, the only sounds are the scrape of the shovel and the slippery swiiish of Thomas’s skis, as he poles back and forth. Why is he hanging around? “Do you want something?” Sprig finally says.

  “Just wondering if you ski.” She nods. “Downhill or cross-country?”

  “Both.”

  “So … what about your sister? Does she like to ski?”

  Okay, Sprig gets it now. “Yes, she does.”

  “Cross-country or —”

  “Both. Like me.”

  Thomas shushes back and forth on his skis. “So … where is she?”

  “Working.”

  “Oh. She’s getting paid?” Sprig guesses that this is points in Dakota’s favor. “Like, what does she do?”

  He keeps saying she. “Buckthorn,” Sprig says. “My sister has a name.”

  He gives her a smile. “So, Sprig, where is Dakota?”

  She points downtown, toward the park. “Walking our neighbor’s dog.”

  He gives her another dazzling smile and pushes off.

  Sprig watches as he skis smoothly across the field, arms and legs working in a steady rhythm. He is definitely cute. He was nice enough too. And he knew her name. “Hey, Thomas!” she calls. “Thomas Buckthorn!”

  She’s not sure why she calls him. She packs a snowball and turning to the side (the way Dad taught her), she throws it as hard as she can at Thomas’s retreating back. By then, though, he’s so far into the field that the snowball never even gets close.

  SUNDAY morning, Dad calls early. “Baby,” he says, when he talks to Sprig. “Mom tells me you’re upset about my going to Afghanistan.”

  “Oh, no,” she says, wanting to sound brave.

  “This trip is a chance for me to do some real good,” he says, “something that counts.”

  “You’re always doing good things, Dad.”

  “This is a special opportunity. Listen, once there were six thousand schools in Afghanistan and probably not enough, even so, but most of the schools have been destroyed in the last couple decades.”

  “I googled Afghanistan the other night, Dad. It’s not safe there. I want you to be safe.”

  “Sprig. Girls couldn’t go to school under the Taliban. They had to stay in the house, and their mothers couldn’t work. Think about it, honey. The only things women and girls were allowed to do were cook, clean, and take care of the children.”

  “That’s so stupid,” Sprig says.

  “Right! And that’s exactly why you can be glad that I’m going to be involved in planning schools. Schools for girls. Schools that won’t exclude girls.”

  “But what if they do?”

  “No, that’s not going to happen, or I won’t have anything to do with this project. That’s a promise from me to you. I want you to be proud of your father.”

  “I am,” she says. “I am proud of you.”

  “Okay, then we’re on the same page about this trip, aren’t we? Will you give me that, honey?”

  “Okay, Dad,” she says, loving the approval in his voice. “Same page.”

  But later, scooping up the last soggy cornflakes from her bowl, she wonders how she came to agree that it’s a good thing he’s going to Afghanistan. She didn’t mean to say that!

  “Sprig?” Dakota comes galloping into the kitchen, her ski boots laced over her shoulder. “Sprig, you have to help me. I totally forgot that Krystee and I were going skii
ng this morning and —”

  “Where’re you going?” Sprig says. “Can I go?”

  “No you can’t go! Sorry,” she adds, not sounding sorry at all. “Krystee’s mom is picking me up in five minutes.” Dakota’s voice rises. “And I have to take Cora out for her walk and feed her.”

  Sprig waits a beat, and then says, “I’ll feed Cora and take her for a walk.”

  “You will! Oh, good sister!” Dakota hands her the key to Miss Ruthie’s apartment. “Don’t forget to wash Cora’s dish,” she says. “And rinse out the dog food can and put it in the recycle bin under the sink.”

  “I know, I know.” Sprig tosses the key into the air and catches it, the way Mr. Julius catches the orange chalk.

  Dakota pours a glass of milk and gulps it down. “There! Tell Mom I had breakfast. Oh, and would you sort of clean up Miss Ruthie’s kitchen, like sweep the floor and wipe the counters? We don’t want her to come back to a mess.”

  “Dakota, you’re supposed to do all that. It’s part of your job.”

  “I was going to do it, but now I might not be back until too late. Please, Sprig.” A horn honks outside. “There they are!” She kisses Sprig on the head the way Mom does, and says, “Please, honey.”

  “Okay,” Sprig says.

  “Great!” Dakota zips up her jacket and pulls on her ski cap. “I have my cell, Sprig.” She pats her jacket pocket. “You can always call me if you have any problems. You won’t forget anything, will you? You won’t forget to fill Cora’s bowl with fresh water and take her out, and —”

  “Dakota, if you say one more thing, I’m not going to do it.” Sprig pushes her sister through the kitchen, into the glass-enclosed porch, and out the door. It’s a perfect day for skiing, cold and clear. At the foot of the driveway, Krystee is leaning out the window of her mother’s car. Dakota waves. “Here I come,” she calls out and springs down the steps.

  “Dakota,” Sprig yells. “Wait. You forgot something.” She can’t help smirking as she hands over Dakota’s skis.

  A little after four that afternoon, Sprig is in Miss Ruthie’s apartment, sweeping the kitchen floor, when Dakota walks in, her face shining. “Hi! I’m here,” she says. “Where’s Cora?” At the sound of her name, Cora, who’s been lying on her rug near the heater, thumps her tail. “There you are!” Dakota cries. “Did Sprig take good care of you?”

  “Yes, Sprig took good care of her,” Sprig says. “Sprig walked Cora two times, once this morning and once this afternoon.”

  “Great!” Dakota beams as she peels off her jacket. “She did her business?”

  “Yes, but she had a hard time pooping. And then she did it on someone’s property, and it was kind of yucky.”

  Dakota sprawls into a chair. “Do I have to know all the details? That’s so gross.”

  “It’s not gross, Dakota, it’s natural. I couldn’t just leave it there. I wanted to just throw snow over it, but I thought that was cheating, so I cleaned it up with a plastic bag.”

  “Whatever,” Dakota says, looking up at the ceiling and smiling.

  Sprig’s eyes follow Dakota’s. What she sees is what she expects — the ceiling. “What is that weird look on your face?”

  “Cora! Do I have a weird look on my face? Come on, tell me the truth.” Cora lumbers to her feet and lies down near Dakota.

  “Cora’s worried about you,” Sprig says. “She thinks you’re weird.”

  “Is that what you think, doggy dog?” Dakota slings her feet onto Cora’s back.

  “Hey! Take your feet off Cora,” Sprig says. “You’re being disrespectful. Cora’s old. Like Miss Ruthie. How do you think Miss Ruthie would feel if you put your feet on her and called her doggy dog?”

  “Are you nuts? I would never do that. Anyway, Cora likes having my feet on her.”

  Sprig takes Cora’s head in her hands. “Is that true, Cora?” She kisses the dog’s nose.

  “You like kissing her, don’t you?” Dakota says, and that same peculiar smile crosses her face. She leans forward. “Want me to tell you a secret?”

  “Take your feet off Cora, and you can tell me.”

  “But can I trust you?” She grabs Sprig’s chin. “If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell anyone.”

  “Okay, I promise. What’s the big secret?”

  Dakota puckers up her lips and air-kisses Sprig. “I’ll give you a hint. Thomas Buckthorn was at the ski lodge too.”

  “Okay, I get it! He followed you.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Because he came here yesterday to find you.”

  “What? He didn’t!”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Shut up! Thomas Buckthorn was here, right here?”

  Sprig nods. “It was when I was shoveling the walk. He was on his cross-country skis. And he knew my name,” she adds.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” Dakota pulls at the little silver rings in her earlobes. “I can’t believe this! Wait until I tell Krystee. You should have called me.”

  “Dakota. You were out walking Cora.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me when I came home?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I forgot.”

  “Swear you’re not making it up. This is really true, Sprig? On your honor?”

  Sprig nods. “He skied over from his house, and then he asked me all these questions, like, did I like downhill or cross-country better.”

  “He asked you that? Why?”

  Sprig shrugs. “Maybe he wanted me to go skiing with him.”

  “In your dreams, honey. What did he say about me?”

  “He wanted to know if you like cross-country or downhill better.”

  “I hope you didn’t say anything stupid.”

  “I told him I thought you liked both.”

  “Okay. That’s okay.” Dakota fiddles with her hair, piling it on top of her head, then letting it drop. “Which way do you like best?” she asks.

  Sprig crosses her arms and considers. “You look pretty both ways, but you look older when it’s up.”

  “I do?” Holding her hair up, Dakota checks her reflection in the slightly spotted mirror on the wall. “Did Thomas say anything else about me?”

  “Not really. I told him that you were working. I think he liked that.”

  “He’s so cute,” Dakota says. “I can’t believe I was gone when he was here.”

  “But you saw him today,” Sprig says. “So that makes it even.”

  “True, true.” Dakota pushes aside Sprig’s hair and speaks into her ear in a half whisper. “This is the secret. Thomas and I skied ahead of Krystee, and when we got over on the other side of the hill? He kissed me.” Dakota sits down and tilts back in the chair. “What do you think of that!”

  “WELL, class,” Mr. Julius says, unhinging himself from behind his desk and standing up, “I want to thank you all for your personal essays.”

  Sprig notices that he’s wearing his orange tie again, the one with pumpkins on it, but somehow she doesn’t mind as much as she did just a few days ago. So many other things seem more important, or maybe just one other thing — the news that Dad is going to Afghanistan.

  “You’re going to correct your essays right now, folks. I saw quite a few careless mistakes and a lot of misspelled words.”

  Is he looking at Sprig? She was in such a hurry when she copied over the essay Sunday night. Which seems like a thousand years ago. A thousand years before Mom told them about Dad and Afghanistan. Mr. Julius starts through the aisles, handing back the essays. When he gets to Russell, he says, “Skimpy on the details there, Russell. Your family in four lines?”

  Sprig turns around. Russell is laughing along with everyone else. He grins at her and holds up four fingers, as if he’s proud of his four-line essay.

  “Class, one more thing before you start working,” Mr. Julius says, as he goes back to his desk. “Any questions about what I wrote on your paper, consult the person sitting behind you.”

  Oh, te
rrific. That means Russell. But never mind, she’s not going to ask him anything. Look what Mr. Julius wrote across the top of her paper: Nicely done introduction to your family, Sprig. She’s pretty sure he didn’t write that for Russell’s skimpy four lines! She deflates a little as she looks at her essay and counts the number of misspelled words Mr. Julius circled in red. She’s never been a super speller, but seven misspelled words at one blow might be a record. What was she thinking of when she wrote lite hearted? Dumb mistake. She corrects it. Next, engeneer, a totally careless mistake. Dad taught her to spell that word before she even knew what it meant. Ridiculus is another careless mistake — leaving out one letter in her haste to finish the paper. But what about espechally, sereous, superor, and extremly?

  Russell taps her on the back. “Hey, Ewing. I’m done with mine. Six more sentences. You having any problems?” Without waiting for an answer, he peers over her shoulder. “Aha! I zee you have zee trouble with zee spelling.”

  “Russell, stop bothering me!” Sprig flaps her hand at him. “Go away.” She has to concentrate. Is it supperier? Or souperier? Or neither?

  Russell slides a note onto her desk.

  To Sprig Ewing — This is a serious note. I am especially good at spelling. I hope you don’t think I am acting superior for saying so. I am here to help you.

  Your extremely friendly speller, Russell Ezra-Evans

  “That was so sweet of Russell,” Bliss says, as they sit down in the cafeteria.

  “I don’t know why I’m such a bad speller,” Sprig says. “I read, I read all the time, but I guess I don’t look at the way words are spelled. I’m just reading them! I forget that they’re even words. I’m just seeing the pictures that — oh, there’s Russell now, coming straight for us.”

  “Hey there,” Russell says, sitting down and opening his lunch bag. He takes out a plastic container full of salad.

  “Is that all you’re having for lunch?” Bliss asks.

  “That’s it. I’m trying to lose the flab. Did you see Mr. Julius’s essay? He put it up on the bulletin board with a picture of his girlfriend. She’s so hot. He writes all about her; his whole essay is just about her, practically. Mr. Julius is a cool guy.”