Ten Ways to Make My Sister Disappear Read online

  COMING 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.

  EXTENDING 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 m
ean. 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!

  “SPRIG,” Mom calls from her bedroom. “Come here, please.”

  “I’m almost ready, Mom,” Sprig yells. She yanks at her blue shirt, clattering the hanger to the floor.

  “Oh, please, make some more noise,” Dakota says. She’s at her desk. “I’m only trying to study here.”

  Sprig pulls on the shirt and sticks her feet into her clogs. Tonight is the monthly Mother-Daughter Reading Club meeting at the library, a special thing she and Mom do together. “These buttons are wicked tiny,” she says, fumbling with the last two.

  “C’mere,” Dakota beckons without looking up. Sprig goes over to her, and Dakota finishes the buttoning. “There you are.” She pats Sprig on the cheek, a little too hard. “Now go, will you?”

  Sprig picks up her book, a fantasy called Water Shaper about this princess named Margot. She has ten more pages to read, but she’s been putting it off, not wanting the story to end. That’s what she’ll say in Reading Club tonight. When I read a really good book like this one, it’s as if I’m not even here anymore. I’m in the story. Everything disappears, like my house, my room, my sister … she totally disappears, and that’s just great! Well, maybe not that last part about Dakota, not with Mom right there.

  She clops across the hall. Mom’s lying on the bed, her hand over her eyes, the afghan Miss Ruthie made for her pulled up over her shoulders. “Mom,” Sprig says. “Are you sleeping? I’m ready.”

  Mom half sits up. “I have a terrible headache. It’s been coming on all day, but it just hit me.” She falls back against the pillow. “I’m sorry, honey,” she says, covering her eyes again. “I don’t think I can make it tonight.”

  For a moment, Sprig is so disappointed she can hardly speak. “Do you want me to bring you anything?” she asks finally. “Like tea or something?”

  “No. I just need … sleep….” Mom murmurs. “Thanks, sweetie.”

  Sprig tiptoes out and closes the door. “Mom has a headache,” she tells Dakota. “We’re not going to the Reading Club.”

  “Crap,” Dakota says. “I wanted some privacy. What are you going to do now?”

  “Work on my essay, I guess. I have to hand it in tomorrow, and I’m only half done.”

  “When did you think you were going to finish it?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  Dakota shakes her head. “Great planning. You better go do it.”

  “Can I have the desk?”

  “No, you can’t have the desk. Go work on the dining room table. Go on. Go.”

  Sprig sits down on her bed and crosses her arms. “If I want to stay here, you can’t kick me out.”

  Dakota spins around on her chair. “I know, I know, I know! Do you think the parents will ever buy a house with another bedroom, so I can have my own room?”

  “Mom says it’s hard to find the time to look when they’re both working, and Dad’s away and everything.” Sprig falls silent, thinking of Afghanistan. After a while, she gets up. “Okay, I’m going to work in the dining room. You can have your privacy. I bet you’re going to IM your beloved Krystee.”

  “I might,” Dakota says. She already has the computer turned on.

  Later, Sprig is nearly finished with her essay when Dakota appears and flings herself into a chair. “Sprig. What do you think about boys?”

  Is this a trick question? “Boys? They’re okay. They’re, you know, boys.”

  “I love them,” Dakota says. “Guess who Krystee and I think is the cutest boy in the whole school!” Dakota’s cheeks are very pink. “He’s probably the cutest boy in the whole United States. If we lived on the moon? He would be the cutest boy on the moon, no contest. So can you guess? It’s someone you know.”

  Sprig pushes her paper aside. Talking to Dakota like this is much more fun than writing an essay. “I know a ton of boys. Give me a clue.”

  “It’s someone you see every day.”

  The name that pops into Sprig’s head is Russell Ezra-Evans. Which is ridiculous. Cutest boy? Not even in the running.

  “Give up?” Dakota asks. “Okay, it’s Thomas. Buckthorn.” Thomas Buckthorn is in Dakota’s class. He has dark curly hair and long eyelashes, and a group of noisy boys are always around him on the school bus.

  “I know Thomas,” Sprig says.

  “Of course you do. Duh.” Dakota springs up. “So is he the cutest or —” She stops, looking over Sprig’s shoulder. “What are you writing there?” She snatches up the paper and reads aloud, “‘My sister, Dakota, is obsessed with her hair. She combs it for at least an hour every morning.’ That is crap! And who gave you permission to write anything about me? Cross that out right now.”

  “Dakota, I can’t mess it up with cross-outs.” Sprig smooths out her paper. “I told you, I have to hand it in tomorrow.”

  “No way you’re going to hand in that I comb my hair for an hour every morning. That is an utter, total lie.”

  “You comb it for a long time.”

  “Not an hour.”

  “How long? I mean, exactly how long?”

  “Ten minutes, tops.”

  “I’m sure it’s more. I’ll time you tomorrow morning.”

  “Not unless I give you permission. And I do not. And I do not give you permission to write about me.” Dakota’s hands come down on Sprig’s shoulders. “No permission.”

  “Stop breathing on my neck. And get your creepy hands off me.”

  “Will do,” Dakota says, and reaches for Sprig’s paper.

  “No!” Sprig yells. For a moment, they’re both tugging on the
paper. The inevitable happens — it rips.

  “Sorry, Sprig,” Dakota says, letting go.

  “Now I have to start all over,” Sprig wails.

  “Well …” Dakota pats her shoulder. “Think of it this way. When you rewrite, you’ll do an even better essay. Especially leaving my hair out of it,” she adds.

  Sprig stares at the torn, wrinkled mess in front of her. If only Dakota were a piece of paper! She’d crumple her up. Litter the floor with her. And sweep her into the wastebasket, before Mom even noticed that her darling daughter was gone.

  Sprig Ewing

  Personal Essay for Mr. Julius’ class

  My Family

  Hello! I am Grace Blue Ewing, but I am called Sprig by everyone. I espechally like my middle name, since blue is and always will be my favorite color. My family is me, my sister and my parents, and they are mostly great, but when I think about it, I realize everyone has a problem.

  My father’s problem is that he really doesn’t like to be away from us, but he loves his job, and he has to travel for it. He’s an engeneer and architect, and right now, he’s in Washington, D.C., consulting with the government. When he’s home he can be litehearted and a lot of fun.

  My mother is a more sereous person, except when we all go on vacation together [last year we went to Gettysburg], and then she can get silly and be a lot of fun. She’s a bank manager, which is a responsible job, so her problem is she never has enough time for everything.

  My sister’s problem is that she thinks she has no problems. She thinks because she’s older that she’s superor to me, which is extremly annoying. She is always correcting me and saying she knows what I should do and that she is smarter because she’s older. Which I think is basically ridiculus.

  Can you tell that my problem is basically my sister? I’m usually a happy person, except when she’s bothering me. I love to read, it’s almost my hobby. I also love to ski in winter, swim in summer, daydream and make lists. I love animals, but my mother is highly allergic, so we can’t have any pets, but our friend Miss Ruthie has Cora, who’s a very lovable dog. Miss Ruthie is like an honorary member of our family. We all love her. I don’t think she has any problems, except that she’s getting old, which is Cora’s problem, too, besides being half blind. I worry about Cora. Sometimes I worry that I worry too much.