Ten Ways to Make My Sister Disappear (7 page)

“M
R. JULIUS,”
Sprig says, standing by his desk.

“Yes, Sprig?” He doesn't look up from the form he's filling out.

“My father —” She stops, clutching her books to her chest. “My dad,” she starts again. “Um, I thought you might want to know —” She glances at the bulletin board with the picture of Megan McKenna, the helicopter pilot, still pinned on it. She is so pretty, sitting at the controls, safety glasses pushed up on her forehead, smiling into the camera, as if it's Sunday in the park and she's off for a picnic. You wouldn't know from looking that the picture was taken in Afghanistan.

“What is it, Sprig?” Mr. Julius makes a mark on the form, then puts down his pen. “What can I do for you?”

“My father's in Afghanistan.”

Mr. Julius looks up. Now she has all his attention. “I didn't realize your father was an Army man.”

Sprig shakes her head. “He isn't. Remember my essay? He's an engineer and an architect, and he's there to consult about building schools. For everyone. I mean, schools for girls too. You know they wouldn't let girls go to school, I mean those people, the Taliban, and my father says the schools he's going to build, they will definitely admit girls.” The words pour out. “When he went there, I mean, when he flew over last week, it was Friday, and we were watching a movie, and my sister and I didn't even know he was gone. He couldn't tell us, it was a security thing.”

“I understand,” Mr. Julius says. “So how long will he be gone, Sprig?”

“Too long,” she blurts.

“How long is that?”

“I don't know exactly. Last night when he called, he said it could be six weeks or even two months.”

“That probably does seem like a long time to you.”

“It
is
a long time,” Sprig says, and then, checking herself, she asks politely, “When will Miss McKenna be home?”

Mr. Julius drums his fingers on the desk. “Not for another year. Actually fourteen months.”

“Oh! Why is she going to be away so long?”

“Lieutenant McKenna signed up for another tour,” Mr. Julius says. “She felt it was her duty.”

“Oh,” Sprig says again. Fourteen months! “Mr. Julius.” She leans forward. “Maybe she can come home sooner. Maybe things will change there, and they'll send her home.”

“That's a good thought, Sprig. I'll hold on to it.” He looks up at the clock. “You better go back to your desk now.”

As soon as she sits down, Sprig leans over to Bliss and whispers, “I told him about my dad being in Afghanistan. I was stupid to say anything! His girlfriend isn't going to be home for
fourteen months.
He probably hates me now.”

“Oh, please! I do not agree!” Bliss grabs Sprig's arm. “You wanted to tell someone about your dad —”

“Well, why didn't I just tell you?”

“Because I already know, dodo! Maybe Mr. J. was happy to talk to someone about his girlfriend,” Bliss whispers. “I bet he was really glad someone else understands.”

“That's a good thought,” Sprig says. “I'll hold on to it.”

“P
EOPLE!”
Mr. Julius calls. “Will everyone please pay attention?” He raps on his desk. “Russell has an announcement to make. Bliss and Sprig, could you two quiet down? I know it's Friday, but we need to stay on task, people. We still have work to cover today. Okay, Russell, you're on.”

Russell pulls his shirt straight, clasps his hands, and bows. “You're all invited to a party at my house Sunday night, starting at five
P.M
.,” Russell says in his deep voice. “In fact, the whole school is invited, 'cause of my sister, Lara, who's in Sprig's sister's class.” He points two fingers at Sprig, and everyone turns and looks at her. “It's Lara's birthday. She's going to be thirteen. There'll be lots of food — stuff kids like, not real healthy stuff, so don't worry.” Everybody laughs, and Russell takes another bow. “
My
parents say be sure to tell
your
parents that
my
parents will both be present, so
your
parents don't think it's some wild, unsupervised, party-animal thing.” More laughter. Another bow. “And you're invited too, Mr. Julius.”

“Thank you, Russell,” Mr. Julius says. “Okay, everybody —”

“Mr. Julius —” Russell puts up his hand. “I have something else to say, okay?”

“All right, Russell, but let's make it snappy.”

“Well, besides being Lara's birthday, it's also a sort of winterfest party to celebrate the new year, that's what my dad says, even though it's already February, but we don't always do things on time in our family, plus my mom says it's to be happy that we've made it safely through last year and this year so far.”

“Amen,” Mr. Julius says, and he turns for a moment to look at the picture on the bulletin board.

 

“The way Russell just gets up in front of everybody and talks and is so, so
all together
,” Bliss says later, as she and Sprig walk toward her bus. Sprig is staying overnight with Bliss. “I mean, he doesn't stumble or anything. I don't think I could do that. I know I couldn't.”

“Oh, that's just Russell. You know how he is. He's a show-off.”

“I do not agree,” Bliss says. “You don't give him enough credit, Sprig. It's a talent, what he does. I think he's great.”

“You know what, Bliss, you never agree with anything I say.” Sprig means that to be funny, but it doesn't come out that way.

Bliss looks at her and shrugs. “It's my dad's turn to cook tonight,” she says, after a moment. “Are you prepared for falafel?”

“What's that?”

“It's this stuff made from chickpeas that you put on pita. You'll see. It's really good. Russell loves it.”

“When was that?” Sprig says. “Why didn't I know?”

“Know
what
?”

“When did Russell eat at your house?”

“He didn't,” Bliss says.

“You just said —”

“All I said was —”

“Never mind! I can see what's going on.” Those sharp dog teeth are snagged in Sprig's belly, and the words tumble out before she can stop them. Maybe she doesn't want to stop them. “You like Russell better than you like me. I see the way you look at him.”

They're standing face-to-face, Sprig's hot face up close to Bliss's hot face. “How do I look at him?” Bliss says. “I mean, besides with my eyes?”

“
Adoringly,
” Sprig says. “You laugh at everything he says, and you ask him about things you know better than he does. You act stupid on purpose around him, just so he'll be your friend!”

Bliss takes a step back. “I act
stupid
? Is that what you think? Well, let me tell you something, Sprig Ewing. You were right the other day, when you said
you
were dumb to tell Mr. Julius about your father and get him all upset. It was really dumb, a really dumb, dumb,
dumb
thing to do.”

“If that's the way you feel,” Sprig gets out, “maybe you don't want me to come home with you.”

“Maybe I don't,” Bliss says.

Sprig turns and, without another word, stomps off toward her bus, kicking lumps of snow aside.

“What happened?” Dakota says, when she sees Sprig getting on the bus. She's already seated with Krystee. “I thought you were going home with —”

“Nothing happened,” Sprig says. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“A
RE
you sure you don't want to go shopping with Dakota and me?” Mom says Saturday afternoon, as they're finishing lunch.

“I'm sure,” Sprig says. She doesn't feel
at all
like shopping. She doesn't feel like doing anything. It's the fight-with-Bliss thing, plus Dad didn't call them last night, and now she's having all kinds of worried thoughts.

“Well, what are you going to do this afternoon?” Mom asks.

Sprig doesn't know what she's going to do, she only knows she doesn't want to trail after Dakota! If things weren't all messed up, she and Bliss would be together, talking about Russell's party tomorrow night. “Maybe I'll just take a nap,” she says.

“I hope you're not getting sick.” Mom puts her hand on Sprig's forehead. “No fever, that's good.” She looks at her watch. “Dakota, go get ready, hon. The stores are going to be jammed if we go too late.”

“I am ready,” Dakota says.

“I think you should change your shirt.”

“You don't like this one?” Dakota looks down at her pink blouse.

“I don't like it,” Sprig says. “I don't like that color with your red hair.”

“I don't like your ten-year-old opinion.”

“The shirt's nice,” Mom says, “and the color is fine for you, but it has too many buttons. It'll be a nuisance when you want to try things on. Didn't I get you one just like that, Sprig?”

Sprig nods. “Mom,” she says, once Dakota goes to change, “do you remember what I told you last night?”

Mom has all her credit cards out on the table and is sorting through them. “What, honey? Ah, here it is, the one I was looking for.”

“Mom.” Sprig's throat is tight. “Bliss and I had a fight.”

“Oh, right. I'm sorry, honey. Don't brood over it, okay?” She's putting all her cards back into her purse now. “I'm sure the two of you will make up.”

“Mom, I'm ready,” Dakota says. She's changed into a green pullover.

 

Sprig stands at the window and watches as Mom backs down the driveway. Outside, the sky is gray, and wind whirls the snow up into flurries. Inside, the house is quiet, except for the rumble of the furnace. “Good,” she says out loud. “They're gone.” But at once she feels lonely and presses her forehead against the cold window.

What now? She could do her vacation homework and get it out of the way. She could clean up her side of her room. She could think about what she'll wear to Russell's party tomorrow night. No, none of that.

She goes on the computer and plays solitaire and bores herself. She eats chocolate ice cream out of the carton, and it's too cold and makes her sinuses ache. She punches in Bliss's number on the phone, but as soon as she hears the ring, she hangs up. Finally, she puts on her boots and her fleece, crosses the yard, and goes up the stairs to Miss Ruthie's apartment.

The door is locked. Sprig knocks and calls, “Miss Ruthie, it's me!”

When Miss Ruthie opens the door, Sprig is shocked to see that she's still in her old blue bathrobe. She squints at Sprig, almost as if she doesn't know her. Her gray hair is wild, uncombed. “What's the matter, Miss Ruthie? Are you sick?”

“I don't know.” Miss Ruthie's voice is slurred, like she's
drunk
or something. “Sprig …” Her voice falls away. “Come … in.” She sits down abruptly at the kitchen table, pressing her hands slowly to her neck. “I'm a … I'm … dizzy.”

Cora whines and puts her head in Miss Ruthie's lap. “Oh … don't,” Miss Ruthie breathes, as if she can hardly get out the words.

“Come here, Cora,” Sprig says. “Miss Ruthie, do you want me to call the doctor?”

Slowly, she shakes her head. “No … no … it'll pass,” she says, in the same slurred voice. She rises and shuffles unsteadily toward her bedroom, holding on to the wall. She makes it to the side of her bed, then just stands there, swaying.

“You better lie down,” Sprig says anxiously. “Do you want me to cover you up?” She pulls up the quilt, tucking it around the old woman's shoulders.

“Cora …” Miss Ruthie says, her voice fading. “Foo …” Her eyes close.

“What about Cora, Miss Ruthie?” The old woman doesn't answer. She's breathing heavily.

In the kitchen, Sprig sees that both Plucky's and Cora's food bowls are in the sink, along with some dishes and pots. “Cora, did you get fed or not?” Sprig takes a can of dog food from the cupboard. At the sound of the can opener, Cora comes over, sits down expectantly, and grins at Sprig.

“Gotcha,” Sprig says. She fills the food bowls and the water bowls, and calls Plucky, who slinks into sight from behind a chest of drawers. While the animals are eating, Sprig punches in Mom's cell number. What she gets is Mom's mailbox. “Please leave a message….”

“Mom, Miss Ruthie's sick. She has a virus or something,” Sprig says. “She really doesn't feel good, I mean she looks terrible, Mom, and she's in bed now, and I'm taking care of Cora and Plucky and —” She pauses for breath. “The thing is, she doesn't want me to call the doctor, but do you think I should call anyway? Who is her doctor, Mom? Do you know? Call me back when you get this message. Miss Ruthie is sleeping, and I don't want to wake her up. Call me! Okay?”

Cora has eaten all her food and is sitting down near Plucky, who's still picking at his food. “Go ahead, it's okay,” Sprig says to the cat. “Cora's not going to eat your food, even if she is looking at it like that.”

Sprig sits down at the table and tries to think what to do next. She's sure she shouldn't leave Miss Ruthie alone, but shouldn't she do something else? Why isn't Dad here! He would know what to do. She goes to the bedroom and tiptoes over to the bed. Miss Ruthie is lying there, her mouth open. Her skin is damp and she looks really, really pale.

When Sprig is sick, Mom brings her magazines to read, and lets her lie on the couch and watch TV and eat special food, like baby pear sauce. None of that is any good for Miss Ruthie, so Sprig straightens the newspaper on the table next to her bed, centers the little lamp with its bluebird lampshade, and checks to make sure the window is tightly closed. Miss Ruthie's black lace-up shoes are in the middle of the floor next to a crumpled pair of slacks, as if she tried to get dressed and couldn't. Sprig hangs up the slacks and puts the shoes in the closet. Then she tiptoes out.

In the kitchen, she watches Cora and Plucky, who both watch her. Cora plants herself directly in front of Sprig and gazes at her with half-blind eyes. “What?” Sprig says. “You want me to do something else? What, Cora? You want me to wash the dishes? Okay, I'll do them.”

She runs hot water in the sink and thinks about how she'll tell Dad this whole story when he calls later. He
will
call later, won't he? “He will, he will, he will, he will call,” she says out loud, but quietly. “Yes, he will,” she tells herself again, placing another clean dish carefully in the rack. After she finishes washing the pots, she tiptoes back into the bedroom. Miss Ruthie hasn't moved. Her breathing is thick and rapid, as if she's gasping for each breath.

Sprig dials her mother's cell again, punching the numbers in hard.

“Please leave a message….”

“Mom! Why don't you have the cell phone on? Why aren't you answering? Call me!” Nearly an hour has passed since she called the first time. “Mom, hurry up and call me. Please!”

Who else could she ask for advice? Bliss?
No.
What about Mr. Julius? “That's a good idea,” she says out loud. She finds the phone book on the bottom shelf of one of the cupboards. She peels away the thin pages, looking for his name. She finds M. Jukes and Patryk July, but no Thomas Julius.

“What do I do now? What do I do now?” She paces back and forth, peeks into the bedroom again, then looks out the kitchen window and across the field, where she saw Thomas Buckthorn skiing away on that other Saturday. If he were here now, she would even ask
him
what to do.

She cartwheels across the kitchen, just to do
something
. When she stands up, Cora is gazing at her again. Sprig kisses the dog. “You're really worried too, aren't you? Do you want me to call the doctor, Cora? I don't know her name! I could call 911, but that's for emergencies.” She looks into Cora's eyes. “What if it's just a cold or something ordinary like that, wouldn't it be stupid of me to call, Cora?”

Sprig sits down on the floor and puts her arms around the dog's neck. “I know what you're thinking. You're thinking what if it's something really bad, like the Ebola virus, the one that kills you. That's what you're thinking, isn't it, Cora?”

Cora keeps her blurred gaze on Sprig.
Yes,
she's saying,
that's exactly what I'm thinking.
Sprig stands, goes to the phone, and punches in the three numbers.