Read Ten Ways to Make My Sister Disappear for Free Online Page B

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.
    â€œNo 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.
    â€œWhere’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?”
    â€œHello?” 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?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen why are you doing it?”
    â€œThis is part of the stuff I do for my allowance.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œDo you get paid for breathing, and eating, and sleeping?”
    â€œThat’s really funny,” Thomas says. “I guess I should laugh.”
    â€œOh, don’t bother,” Sprig says.
    â€œOkay, 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.
    â€œJust wondering if you ski.” She nods. “Downhill or cross-country?”
    â€œBoth.”
    â€œSo … what about your sister? Does she like to ski?”
    Okay, Sprig gets it now. “Yes, she does.”
    â€œCross-country or —”
    â€œBoth. Like me.”
    Thomas shushes back and forth on his skis. “So … where is she?”
    â€œWorking.”
    â€œOh. 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.

S UNDAY morning, Dad calls early. “Baby,” he says, when he talks to Sprig. “Mom tells me you’re upset about my going to Afghanistan.”
    â€œOh, no,” she says, wanting to sound brave.
    â€œThis trip is a chance for me to do some real good,” he says, “something that counts.”
    â€œYou’re always doing good things, Dad.”
    â€œThis 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.”
    â€œI googled Afghanistan the other night, Dad.