The Sisters Club Read Online Free PDF Page A

laugh. Then we all couldn’t help laughing, too.
    “Mom, what is it?” I asked, flinging a handful of suds back into the sink.
    “I just couldn’t help thinking,” Mom said in between laugh gasps, “our kitchen hasn’t been this clean since Hepzibiah McNutty herself lived here!”

     

     

     

 
    I was more than ready to get back to school on Monday. After the Macaroni Disaster, even cafeteria food was starting to look good to me.
    Only one problem. I had nothing to wear.
    “Nothing to wear,” I said out loud to my closet.
    I was standing flamingo-style (on one foot) in my blue jeans and favorite flannel pajama top (covered with cupcakes), staring at a bunch of hangers.
    Joey wrinkled her nose at me. “You’re starting to sound like A-L-E-X.”
    “And you’re starting to sound like M-O-M.”
    I stared at the hangers some more. “You just don’t understand, Little Sister.” Joey wrinkled her nose again.
    “Stop wrinkling,” I told her. “You look like a rhinoceros.”
    I went down the hall to Alex’s room. I could hear her downstairs banging away on the piano. Only Alex would play Mozart at seven o’clock in the morning.
    “You better not go in there without asking!” Joey warned. “Alex said!”
    I went in anyway.
    Joey stood with her toes just outside the doorway, so technically she did not step into Alex’s room. “It’s your life!” she told me.
    I had another idea, a much better idea, and one that did not involve trespassing. I headed straight for the laundry room, where I could hear the whump, whump of the dryer.
    I quietly click-opened the dryer and took out Alex’s soft, fuzzy red chenille sweater with the big pink star — her favorite. I used to have the same sweater in green, but I washed it with the red one and it came out looking like spaghetti in a blender.
    A part of me knew Alex was drying the sweater so she could wear it today. But I told myself she had a million other sweaters. I told myself I was sick of being invisible. I told myself the lump of guilt in the pit of my stomach was just the protein bar I’d eaten for breakfast.
    I yanked the sweater from the dryer. Perfect! All cozy-warm and soft as kitten fur, with an apple-clean smell. I shrugged it on. The pink star grinned up at me.
    For once, I would be the star, not Alex. I hurried and covered it up with my coat before anybody could see. I grabbed my backpack and ran down the street to my friend Olivia’s house, hoping to catch a ride.
    I tried not to think about Alex or what would happen after school when I got home. Nothing mattered except for that moment. What a great morning. And it was going to be a great day.
    I, middle sister Stevie, had the power of the sweater.

 
    During Language Arts, Ms. Carter-Dunne gave us ten minutes to pick a famous poem in our book. “I want everyone to choose a poem you like, then use it as a model to write one of your own. Look at the poem’s style. Think about how it’s written. Let the poem inspire you.”
    I flipped back and forth through the pages as fast as I could.
    “This is an in-class assignment, people. I’ll give you time to write, then we’ll read some of them out loud.”
    Out loud! A.k.a. in front of the whole class ! I broke out in a sweat just thinking about it.
    I flipped some more. First I saw a Russian poem, but it had the word breast. No way was I going to say “breast” in front of a bunch of fifth-grade boys (half the class!). I almost picked a haiku about trees, but nobody gets a good grade for a haiku. It’s only three lines.
    Olivia picked “We Real Cool” right off the bat.
    “No fair!” I told her. “What if I want that one?”
    “Pick this one.” She opened to a page and pointed.
    “No way. The guy says he feels like an eggplant.” That’s when I saw the plums. Plums beat eggplants any day! (Just ask Joey.) So I picked a poem by a plum eater, a Mr. William Carlos Williams.
This Is Just to Say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the