Sprig looks down at her feet. Was calling Russell ‘supersize’ one of those stupid things? Probably. “I don’t call you that anymore,” she says.
“How come you’re just wearing socks?” He swings his booted foot into her foot.
“Hey, that hurts! You always do things like that, and you know what,” she says, surprising herself — she hadn’t planned to say this — “I’m really sick of it.”
“I always do things like what?” Russell says.
“Like hitting me and pinching me. And shoving. You just don’t leave me alone. You’ve been doing that stuff since forever.”
“What? I don’t hit you!” Russell looks at her, his eyes bulging. “I hit you?” he says, as if the idea is brand-new and astonishing, and he gives a kind of sickly laugh, a laugh so un-Russell-like, so, well, pathetic, that Sprig takes pity on him.
“The good thing is, you haven’t done it in a while,” she says. “Maybe you’re reforming, but you just had a slip. You forgot, right?”
“Forgot what?” he says.
“Not to hit me, bozo!” She claps him on the side of the head.
“Wait a second. You just hit me.”
“Well, I didn’t mean to,” Sprig says. “But, anyway, that’s a reminder never to hit me again. Got it? And here’s another reminder,” she says, and with both hands she shoves him off the window seat.
Russell looks up at her from the floor. “You know what?” He grins. “I like you.”
Wooof. Wooof…. The little dog barks softly in her ear, More than Bliss? Sprig holds out her hand to Russell. “Help?”
“Nope.” He jumps up. And then he kisses her, first on her left cheek, then on her right cheek. He smells like chewing gum.
“Whoa,” Sprig says. “What’s that?”
“Don’t you know? That’s the way the French and Italians say hello and good-bye.”
“Hello and good-bye,” Sprig repeats, trying to decide if she hated those kisses — or liked them. “Well, which is it? Hello or good-bye?”
“Guess,” Russell says.
RUSSELL Ezra-Evans kissed Sprig, and this is too strange, almost too delicious to keep to herself. She doesn’t know how she feels about those kisses, but she has to tell someone! As she runs, almost tumbles, down the stairs, giddy from the kisses, the thought of Bliss passes through her mind. Bliss, who won’t even look at her.
She could tell Dakota, but as sure as the sun rises in the morning, Dakota would tell Krystee. In the crowded living room she checks out the kids dancing, the girls off in a corner singing, and a group on the couch doing a sudoku puzzle. No one looks reliable enough to tell.
“Isn’t this party cool?” Mandy Halverson says. She’s a plump blond girl who’s always talking in class. She holds out a pack of gum. “Don’t you hope Russell’s parents do this every year?”
Sprig looks at Mandy’s open blue eyes. Mandy’s here, she’s ready, she’s listening. “Russell was showing me the house,” Sprig begins.
“It’s great, isn’t it? Guess who I saw dancing real tight? You’ll never guess!” She squeezes Sprig’s arm, names two of the kids in their class, and darts off to tell someone else.
As the music stops and the floor clears a little, Sprig sees Bliss across the room talking to a girl who towers over her — Russell’s sister, Lara, the birthday girl. Is Bliss telling her how nasty, mean, and jealous Sprig can be? It’s all true. It’s also true that it hasn’t been much more than forty-eight hours since they had their fight, but it’s been as lonely as forty-eight days. “Enough is enough,” Sprig says out loud. That fight was her own fault. She started it, and now she’s going to end it. “’Scuse me, ’scuse me.” She moves through the crowd of kids milling around waiting for the next dance song. Her eyes are on Bliss. She’s on a mission. First, make up with Bliss. No need for words. Just give her a hug, the way she did that afternoon when they had the almost-fight. Next, say something corny to make Bliss laugh, like Fancy meeting you here, my dear. Then say you’re sorry. After that, tell about the kisses. And after that — well, whatever.
Just then, Lara moves off, and Bliss turns and sees Sprig. Bliss nods and raises her chin. Somehow, it doesn’t feel like the right moment for a hug.
What is it the right moment for? Surely not the next thing that comes out of Sprig’s mouth. “Are you hungry? I’m starved!” Maybe it’s those kisses, or maybe it’s all these emotions, but she’s still ravenous and, although this isn’t a very promising make-up line, she marches right on with food information. “The little hot dogs are really good. I ate five of them.”
“I don’t like hot dogs,” Bliss says.
Sprig digs her hands into her pockets and comes out with the chocolates kisses she’d tucked away. Maybe it’s a sign. Kisses. A stand-in for the hug? She offers them on her open hand to Bliss. “Chocolate kisses?”
Bliss’s face says No, but her hand doesn’t agree. Her hand takes one kiss, hovers as if it’s going to take another, then moves away. Delicately, Bliss picks open the silver foil. Delicately, she puts the chocolate in her mouth. “Have another one,” Sprig urges.
“Mmm, I don’t think so,” Bliss says. Her voice is like a wall.
Not a very big wall, but still, one that Sprig has to climb. She takes a breath. “The other day? In the parking lot? I shouldn’t have said those things.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” Bliss says. “But … I said things too.”
Sprig holds out the rest of the chocolate kisses. “Three for you and two for me.”
“Three for me?” Bliss says. “That’s not exactly fair.”
“Yes, it is, because I started things.”
“Oh,” Bliss says, and then she says, “Oh!” again, takes the three chocolate kisses, peels them, and puts them all in her mouth.
Sprig peels the last two kisses and puts them in her mouth. They give each other chocolate-flavored smiles and, just like that, the wall is down. They’re friends again. “So!” Sprig says. “I have something interesting to tell you.”
Before she can say another word, tall Lara Ezra-Evans is hurrying toward her, calling her name. “Sprig! Sprig! Your sister doesn’t feel good. I think she’s sick or something.”
“Dakota?” Sprig hastily wipes her mouth. “What do you mean? What’s wrong with her?”
“I don’t know,” Lara says. “I went in the kitchen for a glass of water, and she was in there, crying, and she wouldn’t talk to me.”
“Dakota was crying?”
“I know,” Lara says. “That’s not like Dakota. You better go talk to her. You better go right away.”
IN the kitchen, Sprig and Bliss look around, but they don’t see Dakota anywhere. It’s not that the kitchen is dark — in fact, just the opposite, the light is almost too much. It bounces off two gleaming refrigerators, a huge stove covered with dials, and a long, shining stainless-steel table.
“She’s not here,” Sprig says. “Didn’t Lara say —” She breaks off, as she sees her sister. Dakota is huddled under the table, her arms wrapped around her legs, her face buried on her knees, and her shoulders shaking. “Dakota!” Sprig cries. “What are you doing! Are you sick? Do you want me to call Mom?”
“Don’t,” Dakota says in a muffled voice.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t talk to me!”
Sprig looks at Bliss, who opens her hands in a helpless, don’t-ask-me-what-to-do gesture.
“Dakota,” Sprig says, bending down to her sister, “whatever it is that’s making you feel bad, it’ll look better in the morning, and then you’ll deal with it.”
“Don’t talk like Mom,” Dakota chokes out. “You’re just a kid, you don’t understand. You don’t understand anything,” she cries. “Leave me alone, I hate you. I hate everybody.”
Sprig stands up. “Suit yourself,” she says. She tried, didn’t she? It’s not her fault if her sister is stubborn as a donkey. She motions to Bliss, and they go out and close the door behind them.
“What a stinker,” Bliss says. She squeezes Sprig’s arm. “Am I ever glad she’s not my sister.”
It’s weird what happens next. Sprig practically yanks her arm free of Bliss’s hand. Bliss’s clutching hand is what she thinks, although, even as she thinks it, she knows it’s totally unfair. Still, what gives Bliss the right to say those things about Dakota? Not that Sprig doesn’t say the same things and lots worse, but that’s different. Dakota is her sister, she can say whatever she wants about her. She can imagine baking Dakota into a cookie or sending her off on an ice floe forever, but that doesn’t mean Bliss should do it. At least, not without Sprig’s permission.
“You okay?” Bliss says, peering into Sprig’s face.
“I guess so. You know what I was just thinking, Bliss? That ten ways thing I did, the list?”
Bliss smiles. “That was so fun.”
“Actually … it was kind of juvenile,” Sprig says. “Don’t you think it was kind of juvenile?”
“Maybe,” Bliss says, “but I liked it. I thought it was funny and cute. It was really cute. You thought so too,” she adds.
Sprig turns and looks back at the closed kitchen door, and for a moment she thinks she can hear Dakota crying. That’s when it hits her. Dakota’s in the kitchen under the table. Something is definitely wrong, and what did Sprig do? She walked out on her sister, just left her there?
SPRIG kneels down to talk to Dakota, who’s still under the table. “Dakota, can you tell me why you’re crying?”
Dakota lifts a blotchy face. “You can’t help me,” she chokes. “Nobody can help me.”
“Did you hurt yourself?”
“Nooo.”
“Did someone say something mean to you?”
“Nooo.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“Nooo.”
“Are you sure you can’t tell me? I know I’m being a pest, but —”
“Yess!”
“Yes I’m being a pest, or yes you can tell me?”
“Stop, stop talking, stop talking so much! I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you what happened! I saw Thomas Buckthorn and Krystee kissing.”
“Oh. Is that all?”
“Is that all! She’s my best friend, he’s supposed to be my boyfriend, and Dad is in Afghanistan, and that’s so far away, and he hardly talked to me last night because it was all about you, and I miss him, and I’m just miserable.” The last word comes out on a sob, and Dakota buries her face against her knees again.
Sprig is speechless. She has never heard such an outburst from Dakota, but what really hits her is that Dakota misses Dad too. “You miss Dad,” Sprig blurts. “You really do miss him.”
“Duuh,” Dakota cries, lifting her head. “What do you think! I miss him something awful.”
“But I thought — I mean, you never say anything about Dad being away, and you never cry.”
“Of course I don’t,” Dakota says fiercely. “I’m the older sister, I can’t do that! Mom depends on me. I have to set an example.”
“But —” Sprig starts, then closes her mouth. She doesn’t know what to say. So many things are happening in ways she doesn’t expect — like the kisses, and how different Russell acted, and the way she made up with Bliss, and now her sister. It’s almost as if Sprig didn’t even know Dakota, didn’t know anything about her. Dakota isn’t a hard-hearted stinker. Not. At. All. She cares. She really cares.
Sprig scooches under the table and puts her arms around her sister, and Dakota lets her. She leans against Sprig and sighs. After a moment, she says, “How long has Dad been away now?”
“Three weeks and two days,” Sprig says. “And five hours,” she adds.
“I knew you’d know.” Dakota sniffles up a few tears and swipes the back of her hand under her nose. “Do you have a tissue? I’m a mess.” She is too, tears and snot are all over her face.
Sprig checks her pockets. Empty, not even a single chocolate kiss left. She could get up and find a napkin, but she just doesn’t feel like leaving Dakota. She pulls off her socks and hands them to her sister. “Just use the top part,” she advises. “One for the eyes and one for the nose.”
“I can’t blow my nose on your cute socks,” Dakota says.
“Yes, you can,” Sprig says. “It’s either that, or your new glitter shirt.”
AFTER Sprig and Dakota decide to leave the party early, Dakota calls Mom on her cell, and they go outside to wait for her. “Are your feet cold without your socks?” Dakota asks.
“Not much,” Sprig says. The socks are balled up in her jacket pocket. She looks up at the sky. Clouds are passing over the moon. “Do you think Dad is seeing the same sky we are?”
“I hope so,” Dakota says.
They’re silent for a few minutes, then Sprig says, “You know what, Dakota. I forgot to tell you something. I don’t think it was Krystee’s fault about kissing Buckthorn.”
“Oh, please!”
“No, listen, Dakota. He was kissing everyone, any girl he could get. Krystee was just one of many.” Wow, she’s defending the Bad Influence! It’s the right thing to do, though. She’s sure Dad would approve. “Buckthorn was trying to set a record, Dakota, like it was for the Olympics.”
“A record?”
“He probably just grabbed Krystee before she even knew what was happening. He wanted to kiss me too.”
“You? I don’t believe it. You just made that up to make me feel better about Krystee.”
“Dakota, I didn’t. On my honor. I was going to be number seven.”
“Euuuw, I hate him! But he’s so cute,” she sighs.
“Lots of boys are cute,” Sprig says. “Buckthorn is a kissing machine.”
Her sister takes her arm. “So are you saying I ought to forgive Krystee?”
“Yes, if she’s your true, best friend, then you should make up with her. But, first, you should talk to her. Don’t just keep your feelings to yourself. Other people can’t always tell what you’re feeling, especially if you don’t talk to them. Oh, and it helps if you have something to share, like chocolate kisses.”
“Wow, you really are smart.” Dakota squeezes Sprig’s hand. “In case I forgot to tell you, you’re really a great sister.”
MOM orders in Chinese take-out from Su Lin’s on Friday night for the dinner party. Sprig and Dakota empty all the paper cartons into serving bowls. “Much prettier,” Mom says, arranging the bowls on the dining room table. The two girls set out plates and silver and glasses, and put music on the stereo, and by the time the guests arrive, Sprig and Mom are ready to greet them at the door. They’re all going to eat and then look at the DVD Dad sent home about his first two weeks in Afghanistan.
Mr. and Mrs. Hampler, Krystee’s parents, are much smaller than Sprig expected. And nicer too. Can Krystee really be their daughter? “Dakota’s still combing her hair,” Sprig tells her, and Krystee bounds up the stairs. Bliss’s mother kisses Sprig, and her father ruffles Sprig’s hair and calls her “Buddy,” as in, “How ya doin’, Buddy?”
“Daaad,” Bliss says, but Sprig just laughs. She likes bearded Mr. Gardner.
Dakota and Krystee go over to help Miss Ruthie, who’s just home from the hospital. Her niece Roberta will be coming to stay with her, but meanwhile, she needs help going up and down stairs. As soon as Miss Ruthie comes in, she holds out her arms to hug Sprig. “My little hero,” she says, and she starts telling the Hamplers and Gardners the whole story of that Saturday when she had a stroke. “And guess who saved my life!”
“This is so embarrassing,” Sprig whispers to Bliss.
“Oh, come on, you love it,” Bliss says.
“Everyone, sit wherever you want to,” Mom says. “We’re not formal here. Girls, if you don’t want to stay at the table, that’s fine.” Krystee and Dakota immediately take their food and leave, but Bliss and Sprig decide to stay. What a mistake! The grown-ups can’t stop talking about how good Miss Ruthie looks, and what they’ve read about Afghanistan, and how marvelous it
is that Dad is keeping a documentary record for the family.
“Let’s leave,” Sprig whispers to Bliss, and they retreat upstairs to the bedroom. “That was so boring,” Sprig says.
“Tell me about it!” They sit on the floor, backs against the bed, plates on their outstretched legs. “Now we can really talk,” Bliss says.
“So what do you think?” Sprig asks, picking up a thread of a previous conversation. “Is Russell just a friend, or is he something else?”
“Friend to me,” Bliss says. “Good friend, but you’ll always be my best friend.”
“Same here,” Sprig says. “But you know, those kisses —”
“I think they were friendly kisses.”
“Me too. I hope so, anyway, because, well, like my mom says, we’ve got plenty of time for boys —”
“Boys?” Dakota says, walking in with Krystee. She goes over to her bureau and opens the top drawer. “Are you talking about boys?” She takes out a scarf and wraps it around her hair.
“Never mind what we’re talking about,” Sprig says.
“Yeah, it’s boys,” Krystee says. “Look at their faces, they’re all red! Come on, you two, tell! What boy is it? What’s his name? Huh? Huh?”
“Oh, let’s leave them alone,” Dakota says, and the older girls leave.
“You know what,” Bliss says. “We should have a code for talking about you-know-who, so other people don’t get in on our private conversations. We could call him —” Bliss thinks for a moment “— the giraffe, and every time we want to talk about him, we’ll say, ‘the giraffe’ —”
“Russell, a giraffe?” Sprig says. “We might as well call him a blue mouse.”
“Perfect,” Bliss says. “Do you think blue mouse has been different since the party?”
“Different how?”
“Well, blue mouse was so nice that night —”
Ten Ways to Make My Sister Disappear Page 7
