A Summer to Die Read Online Free PDF Page B

I lose. I thought about it once, about what makes the difference, when I was feeling stupid and childish because I had cried after I lost a game of gin rummy, and said, "You cheated!" to Molly, even though I knew she hadn't. I think it's because Molly has always won at important things, or the things that are important to her, like making cheerleader, and having the best-looking boyfriend; so the little things, like Monopoly games, don't matter to her. Maybe someday, if I succeed at something, I'll stop saying "It isn't fair" about everything else.
    It's also a nuisance, Molly being sick. She's grouchy, which isn't like her, because she's missing school—which means missing Tierney McGoldrick, even though he calls every day—and because she worries about how she looks. She can't be feeling
too
bad, because she spends a lot of time in front of the mirror in our room, trying to fix her hair which has gotten kind of scroungy looking, and putting rouge on her face, because it's so pale.
    Sometimes, when Molly is messing around with a hairbrush and bobby pins, making herself even more beautiful, which isn't necessary, I kind of wish that she would notice
my
hair and offer to do something about
it.
I can't quite get up the nerve to ask her to. I'm almost positive she wouldn't laugh 40
at me, but I can't bring myself to take the chance.

    "Molly, don't get up," sighed Mom, because Molly was about to charge across the room to examine the piece of her bra. "Your nose will start up again."
    Molly's flu consists mainly of nosebleeds. Mom says that's because she's an adolescent; Mom says that about almost everything. The doctor from the village says it's because of the cold weather, which damages the nasal membranes. Whichever it is, it's downright messy. Even though her side of our room is still nasty neat, the rug is spattered with Molly's dumb nosebleeds, which to my mind is a good deal more disgusting than anything I leave lying around on my side.
    It was time for dinner anyway. Mom put the quilt away, which ended the argument they were about to have about the bra, and served pork chops and applesauce at the kitchen table. I had to move my salad plate over to the side to make room for Molly's box of Kleenex. Dad didn't say anything, even though he likes a tidy-looking table at dinner, because we've had a couple of unpleasant meals when Molly
didn't
bring her Kleenex.
    It was a quiet meal, with Molly eating very carefully because of her nose, and Dad and I both a little preoccupied because it isn't all that easy to tuck something into your subconscious and keep it back there. Mom kept starting conversations that ended because nobody joined them. Finally she put down her fork, sighed, and said, "You know, much as I love this place, even in winter, I'll be glad when summer comes. You'll be feeling better about the book, Charles, because it'll be almost finished, and you girls can go to camp and you won't be so bored—"

    "Camp," I said suddenly. "
Camp.
" My mother stared at me. Molly and I have gone to the same camp every summer since I was eight and she was ten.
    "
Camp,
" said my father suddenly, looking at me with a grin starting.
    "How much does camp cost?" I asked my mother.
    She groaned good-naturedly. "Plenty," she said. "But don't worry about that all of a sudden. Your father and I have always felt it was important enough that we've kept the money put aside each month. You girls will be able to go to camp."
    "Mom," I said slowly, "do I
have
to go to camp?"
    She was amazed. I've won the Best Camper Award for two years running for my age group. "Of course you don't have to go to camp, Meg. But I thought—"
    "Lydia," announced my father. "I'm going to Boston tomorrow. I have to see my publisher, and I'm going to do some shopping. Meg and I are building a darkroom in the storeroom by the barn, if
Will Banks doesn't mind. I'll call him tonight, Meg."

    My mother was sitting there with a piece of lettuce on the end