The Secret Hum of a Daisy Read Online Free PDF Page A

out of the pantry like peanut butter and Marshmallow Fluff. The next part of the plan was “misplacing” things like the can opener and toilet paper. Plus I’d be obnoxious all the time. Lacey thought it was brilliant.
    â€œI hope so,” Lacey said. She flipped my knotted hair. “Nice touch. Where are we going?”
    â€œOver there,” I said, pointing. “That’s the shed.”
    Lacey’s eyes opened wide as she took in the rusted metal roof covered in dead pine needles, the faded green sides and cracked glass window. She looked from the shed to me to the shed again. “Well, if that doesn’t make Mom want to take you home today, I don’t know what will.”
    But she didn’t sound so sure.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Lacey was pretty in all the ways I wasn’t. There were those perfect ringlets, plus she was the shade of brown most people worked for all summer. She complained, though, because it made her feel in between the white of her father and the black of her mother, like she didn’t know which side to land on. Not that her father hung around long enough to know what color she’d turn out. We had that in common. She liked to remind me that my father wasn’t a deadbeat like hers, and so it was different. But then I’d tell her that her father was still out there, so there was a chance she’d know him someday. We’d agree to disagree on who had it worse until it came up again.
    I was jealous of her long-legged, graceful ways after eight years in ballet, because I still managed to fall over my own dumb feet from time to time. When we’d hang out in her room, I’d make her lace up her pointe shoes so I could watch her dance and I’d clap and carry on, since that’s what Lacey needed. But more than the pirouettes, I liked the
thunk, thunk, thunk
sound the slippers made as she came down off her toes and waddled across the floor in fits of giggles. She had a great sense of style, too, but fretted that nothing ever looked right. I swear, she’d try on all the clothes she owned, every single morning, often leaving us the option of running all the way to school or being late. It annoyed me that her curls survived intact while mine would frizz somewhere along Whimley Road, so every once in a while I’d suggest that, for heaven’s sake, pick your clothes the night before! Until I realized no matter how great she looked, that wasn’t what she saw in the mirror, so I’d forgive her until the next time I got too annoyed to keep it to myself.
    What I thought about most, though, when I thought about Lacey, was how she liked to write awful poems on purpose so we could laugh about how silly they were, or balance a spoon on her nose and sing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” How she was certain I’d be a famous writer one day, and she would be a famous ballerina. Then we would perform together—her dancing, me reading my words—and people would pay us millions of dollars.
    No matter how many times I told her that I never intended to show all kinds of people my writing, she’d just give me a
pfft
and remind me that I had never intended to talk to Denny Thompson either, but I did.
    â€œThat’s because you forced me,” I’d said.
    â€œSomeone had to. Besides, it’s not like you’re getting married or anything.”
    She’d twirled around the room singing some kind of crazy song about Denny and his cute earlobes and then flopped onto the bed, fanning herself. “Come on. Just say it. ‘I love Denny Thompson.’”
    â€œNo,” I’d said, arms crossed. But later that night, I wrote it in tiny letters on a smidge of paper and showed it to her. Then we burned it in the fireplace.
    Lacey didn’t really care if I said things out loud, wrote them down, or kept them hidden. Being quiet was a part of me, and she liked it just as much as she liked my complimenting