Paige Rewritten Read Online Free PDF Page A

Raisin Bran. I should not take my rage out on my temporomandibular joint.
    The doorbell rings and I stop, midcrunch, and just sit there like if I didn’t move, whoever is outside will go away. I am wearing a pair of pink plaid pajama shorts, a gray T-shirt, and my hair is in a low sloppy bun. I have mascara smudged all over my face.
    Whoever is outside my door does not want to see this.
    I creep over to the door all stealth-mode-like and peer through the peephole, half hoping it is a big box from UPS that contains all sorts of birthday gladness, even though my parents’ check arrived two days ago and is already finding a happy new home in my savings account and I can’t think of anyone else who would send me a birthday gift.
    It is a girl about my age. She is wearing sunglasses and standing about three feet away from the door. Her hair is almost halfway down her back in dark brown curls, and she is wearing white shorts and a black fitted shirt, from what I can tell. Peepholes don’t always tell the whole truth.
    I don’t recognize her, which means she likely has the wrong apartment.
    I flip my pajama shirttail inside out, swipe it under my eyes to gather up most of the mascara, and open the door. “Hi, sorry, I think you might have the wrong apartment. Jeremy lives in 27 C . This is 27B.”
    â€œPaige?”
    Every single fiber of my being freezes.
    I stare at the girl as she pulls her sunglasses off her face and am shocked into complete silence.
    It is Preslee.
    She is old. That is the first thought that hits me. Four years ago, the last time I saw her, she was a kid. Now Preslee is a woman.
    I don’t know what to do. Or say. So I just stand there in my pajamas, gaping at her.
    â€œCan I come in?” Preslee points to my apartment.
    I nod mutely at her, feeling mechanical as I step back into my living room to open the door wider to let her in.
    She walks into my apartment, looking around. I follow her gaze. The couches that used to be Mom and Dad’s. The picture on my wall of our parents and me last year at Christmas, the fourth Christmas in a row that we didn’t even get a phone call from Preslee.
    I finally look back at her. She is thin. Much thinner than she was when she lived at home. Her hair is a lot longer, too. I knew she’d gotten a tattoo on her shoulder blade when she first was threatening to move out, but there is a small brown bird traced onto her ankle now as well.
    Finally we just look at each other.
    My stomach feels like I’ve just finished competing in a hot dog–eating contest. The nerves in the backs of my eyeballs tingle. I keep waiting for her to talk, hoping she will say something and then praying she won’t say a word and she’ll just leave again, sort of like she did four years ago.
    She just looks at me. Half smiling. Half pained.
    â€œHere.” She shoves a gift bag I didn’t even notice at me. “Happy belated birthday.”
    Somehow, I speak. “Thank you.”
    She smiles another sad smile at me and then nods. “Okay. I just wanted to give you your birthday gift. Bye, Paige.”
    She opens the door and leaves. I watch Preslee walk down the steps and out of sight wordlessly.
    Part of me is relieved. Part of me wants her to come back. Most of me is just still in shock.
    I look down at the cream-colored gift bag with the brown tissue paper in it. Boring colors. My favorites. I feel a little twinge in my stomach that she remembered.
    I sit on the couch and carefully pull out the tissue-wrapped blob. It is a tiny brown jewelry box and I open it, biting the inside of my cheek.
    A very delicate silver chain holds a tiny charm that says Sister . An even tinier little ring holds my birthstone next to it.
    A note card falls out of the tissue paper and I just stare at it.
    Then I start getting angry.
    Preslee left us . There was none of this “let’s kick her out of the house and see if that turns her around”