Then I Met My Sister Read Online Free PDF Page A

died,” I say. “My aunt gave it to me today. She said, you know, ‘Read it if you want to, don’t read it if you don’t want to,’ so I figure …”
    Gibs’ doe-shaped eyes are locked with mine. “Your aunt is just now telling you about it?”
    “Yeah. Who would figure—my aunt the florist, woman of mystery.” I finger my chin. “You think I should read it?”
    Gibs considers my question.
    “Yeah,” he says. “I totally think you should read it.”
    I nod. “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.”
    Gibs shakes his head. “Why are we having this conversation? Why is this even an issue? Who could suddenly be presented with their dead sister’s journal and not read it?”
    “You’d think, right?” I say earnestly, leaning closer to him. “When my aunt gave it to me, I thought, ‘I’ll lie on my bed for the next four hours reading it cover to cover.’ But it didn’t happen.”
    Gibs looks mystified. “Why not?”
    “I don’t know. But I should . I should totally read it … right?”
    Gibs leans into his elbows. “What’s making this a trick question?”
    I sigh and toss my head backward. “I dunno. I’m kinda creeped out.”
    Gibs is silent, then says quietly, “I’ll read it with you if you want.”
    The sweetness of the gesture catches in my throat. I’ll seriously have to track Gibs down five years from now.
    “Thanks, but … I don’t think that’s the solution. I think I have to get inside her head. By myself. You know?”
    “Mmm. Don’t be creeped out. It’ll be okay. Maybe it’s filled with recipes, or bad poetry like Priscilla Pratt’s.”
    His eyes flicker toward mine for a post-facto sensitivity check.
    “That’s kinda what I was expecting,” I say. “But I skimmed it, and … Gibs, it’s like War and Peace or something. Whatever was going on in my sister’s head that summer was weighing on her like a ton of bricks.”
    “Then you have to read it. It’ll weigh on you like a ton of bricks if you don’t. Just take it slow, I guess.”
    I nibble a fingernail and stare into space. “What if I find out more than I want to know?”
    Gibs shrugs. “Then … you’ll know. It’s like science. Not knowing doesn’t make it not so. If there’s something to know, you should know.”
    He studies my expression for a moment. “Read it,” he says simply. “Or stick it in the bottom of your sock drawer and forget about it. Me? I’d read it.”
    We hear footsteps coming down the stairs, and in walks Mom with a bowl of popcorn.
    “Gibson looked hungry,” she murmurs, placing the bowl on the oak coffee table.
    I wrinkle my nose.
    “Mom, why don’t you ask Gibson what he got me for my birthday?” I tease, and Gibs’ cheeks turn fuchsia. I’m messing with him. It would never occur to him in a million years to get me a birthday present.
    “What did you get her?” Mom asks brightly, and now the fuchsia drains from his face, leaving him deathly pale.
    “Uh …” Gibs looks at me for a lifeline, but I just grin at him.
    He flounders, grasping for words. Then I come to his rescue. “Advice,” I answer. “He gave me advice for my birthday.”
    Mom looks puzzled, then smiles. “Isn’t that nice. You must come from one of those families that gives gifts from the heart rather than material things. Things like poems or sketches.”
    Gibs winces.
    “I think that’s lovely,” Mom says. “You’re so sensitive, Gibson. No wonder you and Summer are such good … friends.”
    She walks back upstairs and I sputter with laughter. Gibs buries his head in his hands. “You’re brutal,” he moans.
    “I know, but you forgive me. Right?”
    He sneaks a look at me, then stares at his hands. “I should have brought you a present.”
    I shrug. “Maybe next time. I’d love a poem. Or a sketch. Or maybe you can whip together a sculpture out of twigs …”
    He blushes again.
    “You did give me a present, goofball,” I say. “I was serious about the advice. And I plan to follow