Read That Night for Free Online Page B

us know where you are, and when you’re coming home.” She was grasping, still trying to find something to control.
    “That’s fine.” I pushed past her and went to the bathroom. “Are we done? I’d like to have a shower now.”
    She shook her head. “There’s no talking to you.”
    “I don’t know why you even try.” I closed the door.
    “Don’t use all the hot water!” she shouted.
    *   *   *
    When I got out of the shower, Nicole was studying in her room, books spread out on the bed. Our rooms were on the same side of the house, with a shared bathroom in the middle. My mom also had an office on the upper floor, but our parents’ bedroom was on the lower floor, at the opposite end of the house. My bedroom walls were decorated with posters of rock stars: Nirvana, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, Alice in Chains. My bedspread was dark purple, the walls the darkest gray my mom would let me paint them, and there were usually piles of clothes on the floor, jeans, some of Ryan’s T-shirts I liked to wear, one of his jackets. I also had a collection of notes and letters from him, things he’d given me, little keepsakes like movie stubs or a decal from his motorbike. I kept those in an old tool kit my dad had given me with a padlock, the key around my neck.
    Above my desk, a corkboard was covered with photos of Ryan and me. My favorite one, taken last summer at the lake, was on my night table. It was the two of us sitting on his tailgate and kissing. Sometimes when I couldn’t sleep I’d rest the photo on my chest, feeling like Ryan was there with me. We’d never spent a whole night together and couldn’t wait until we had our own place, where we could have the privacy and freedom to do whatever we wanted.
    Nicole’s room was tidy—no clothes on the floor—and painted in a light shade of buttercup-yellow, with sheer curtains and pretty pillows on her sage-green bedspread. Her room looked springtime fresh, which suited her sweet, cheerful personality. Right now she looked serious, though, chewing on the end of a pencil as she studied. She was probably trying to make sure she got an A + on her next test—I’d seen her cry when she got a B once. She never let that happen again. I got annoyed with her a lot, mainly because I wished she didn’t need to be so perfect all the time. I also wished she had more backbone and stuck up for herself. It pissed me off seeing her give in to what Mom wanted, doing her chores right away, always telling her exactly where she was going and who she was with, then calling a million times, never late.
    She was pretty, my sister, and looking at her now I could see that she’d become even prettier over the last couple of months. She’d lost that soft, baby roundness to her face and was getting cheekbones, which made her eyes look bigger—she’d gotten Mom’s brown ones, I got Dad’s green ones.
    She was also starting to fill out in the top, like she might get bigger boobs than me, and her hips were definitely curvier. But she still dressed young and girly—lots of pink and peach shirts, nice jeans, never showing any skin, barely any makeup although she was allowed. The most I’d see her with was some lip gloss and a light coat of mascara. She had black hair like mine, but she usually wore hers in a ponytail and didn’t tease it up with hair spray. We looked alike when she wore it down, similar features, hair, and small build, but up close we didn’t at all. Nicole’s expression was sweet, open and inviting. And me? Mom said I looked at the world like I was daring it to mess with me.
    Nicole was a bookworm, always reading something, often swapping books with Mom. She tried to get me to read some of her books, V. C. Andrews, Anne Rice, or Jean M. Auel, saying, “Try it, Toni, you might like it,” but reading just wasn’t my thing. I never could focus long enough.
    She put down her book and smiled. “How was your date?”
    “We just hung out at Ryan’s. It was