Ten Ways to Make My Sister Disappear Read Online Free PDF

around her sister.
    Dakota jumps out of the way, her white shirt billowing out over her green pants. Green and white, same colors as the cucumbers she cut into their salad. Is it possible that Dakota is a cucumber in disguise? Sprig rolls this idea around in her mind. With just a touch of imagination, she can see it. Yes, she can definitely see Dakota as a cucumber, one of those juicy, crunchy cucumbers. A cucumber fit for the salad bowl. Crunch, crunch. Yum, yum. Down the hatch. Bye, bye, cucumber. Bye, bye, Dakota.
    Crunching up Dakota puts Sprig in a good mood again, and when it’s her turn to talk to Dad, she greets him exuberantly. “Dads! Here I am. Last, but not least!”
    He laughs, and says, “You are so right, my baby.” Which makes her feel even better, and they have a really good conversation. Just before they hang up, he asks her if she knows anything about Afghanistan.
    â€œA little,” Sprig says. “Didn’t they have those people called the Taliban, who were so bad they wouldn’t even let girls go to school? And, uh, they had a lot of war there, but it’s over now. I think it is,” she adds.
    â€œGood beginning,” Dad says approvingly. “That’s my girl. Look up Afghanistan in the atlas,” he goes on. “The one I keep on my desk in Mom’s and my study. Read about the country, or you can go on the Net. Check out their food, architecture, things like that.”
    â€œWhy do you want me to do that, Dad?”
    â€œIt’s one of my interests,” he says. “A fascinating place — the art, the people — great people. We’ll talk about it again.”

G OING home on the school bus, Sprig is trying to remember everything she ever read or heard or saw on the news about Afghanistan, so she can tell Dad when he calls. Last year, Miss Ruthie made that afghan for Mom’s birthday, squares of purple and violet and green. Mom keeps it on the foot of her bed. Do they make afghans in Afghanistan? It sounds like a riddle. She’ll have to look that up too, and tell Dad.
    The bus lumbers slowly through the snow-clogged streets. In the seat behind her, Dakota and Krystee are whispering about boys. Doesn’t Dakota care about anything else? She probably never even talks to Krystee about Dad and Afghanistan. “He’s a ten,” she hears Dakota saying.
    â€œI’d only give him an eight,” Krystee says. “Or maybe a seven and a half.”
    â€œYou’re crazy, Buckthorn is at least a nine.”
    Sprig twists around. “Will you two please shut up? I’m trying to think here.”
    â€œThe child is trying to think,” Krystee says. “I am so impressed.”
    Next Krystee will cross her eyes. Why doesn’t she try that lovely trick on Thomas Buckthorn? The cutest boy on the moon is sitting on the back bench in the middle of a tangle of his friends, who are taking turns giving each other shots in the arm.
    â€œWe are having a private conversation,” Dakota says. “Turn around, please.”
    â€œTurn, doggy,” Krystee says.
    â€œArf. Arf,” Dakota chimes in, elbowing Krystee.
    How mean. It’s Krystee’s fault! She’s a total bad influence on Dakota. To Sprig’s dismay, her eyes fill. She doesn’t really care that they’re being mean, and she’s sure she wouldn’t care at all, if Dad was home.
    â€œDoggy,” Dakota says, sounding just like the Bad Influence. “Are you going to cry?”
    Is she going to cry? In front of them ? No! Sprig blinks hard, blinks furiously to hold back the tears. She blinks and blinks and blinks, until Dakota blurs in front of her wet eyes and disappears in a puddle of shimmery dots.
    That night, waiting for Dad to call, and already in her pj’s, Sprig is looking out the bedroom window at the snowy field behind their house. The waxing moon is almost full, and the field is so bright that she