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wants to sleep.”
    “I know that,” you whisper back. “And I know Mrs.
    Kalman will be mad if I give you the notebook. She said it’s for me to write my private thoughts. She made me promise to do that.”
    “Promise? Oooh. O!” Fancy sighs deeply. “Mrs.
    Sokolow my teacher says promises are, are—”
    You say, “Important?” She shakes her head. “Precious?”
    She shakes her head. You think, and then you say,
    “Sacred?” which was a spelling word last week, which you didn’t get right, you put in an extra c , but you know what it means, and guess what, that’s the word Fancy is thinking of.
    “Yes! Sacred. That’s what Mrs. Sokolow my teacher says. Promises are sacred, which means you have to keep them. You must, you must, you must.”
    “Yes,” you say, “Mrs. Sokolow is right,” and you lean closer and you say in your most serious voice, “If you keep that notebook, Fancy, it will be your fault that I break my sacred promise.”
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    Slowly, slowly, she brings the notebook out from behind her back. “Good girl,” you say, and you reach for it, but she snatches it back and puts it behind her again.
    “Fancy!” you say in a mean voice. “Give it!”
    “If I give it to you,” she says, “you have to tell me a story tonight.” You nod okay. “You have to promise sacred,” she says, “and no saying you’re too sleepy for stories.” You nod okay again. You’re breathing hard. She’s driving you crazy !
    “I will make you keep your promise,” she says, and she still doesn’t give you the notebook. She’s got that look on her face again, her mouth pursed up tight as if she’s biting a smile, and her eyes jumping all around. You hate that look.
    “I’m your big sister,” she says, “I am bigger than you, I am one and one-half years older than you, and if you don’t keep your promise, I will beat your butt.”
    You would like to beat her butt. You reach around her, shoving her and wrestling for the notebook, and she yells,
    “Okay, take it, mean sister. See if I care, you mean, mean, mean sister!”
    You leap to your feet. “I am not mean,” you yell. You’ve got the notebook, but your feelings are so hurt, you’re ready to cry. “I am not mean!”
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    “Autumn!” Stevie leans over the side of the bunk bed.
    “For the last time, shut up .” She reaches out and pulls your hair hard, like she wants to pull it right off your head, and you can’t stand it, and you scream, “I hate you, Stevie,” and sink down on the floor, crying.
    And then Mim is there, in her pj’s. You didn’t hear her come down the stairs, you didn’t hear her in the hall, you didn’t hear her pad into the room, she’s just here, standing on her toes to pat Stevie’s head and whispering to her, like Stevie is the one who needs comforting.
    “Mim,” you sob, “Stevie pulled my hair, and it’s not my fault, and Fancy took my notebook, and—”
    “I just borrowed it for one minute.” Fancy doesn’t even let you finish. “And I gave it back. I gave it back, Mim, I was good. I’m good ,” Fancy says, “I’m a good girl!” She tilts her head and smiles like she’s looking at herself in a mirror and loving herself.
    “Come here, you two,” Mim says, “let’s have a talk.”
    “Oh, yes, I love a talk,” Fancy says, and she sits right down on the floor near the window next to Mim, who crooks a finger at you.
    After a moment you crawl over and sit down on the other side of Mim, and you say, “What do you want to talk 60

    about?” You know you sound sulky, but you can’t help it.
    Why isn’t anybody on your side?
    “You can each tell me what happened,” Mim says in her soft voice that you practically have to lean forward to hear,
    “but only one at a time can speak. The other one has to wait for her turn, okay?” She looks at you, and her look isn’t anything like her voice; it’s a hard look.
    So you say, “Okay,” even though you know it’s impossi-ble to keep still