Then I Met My Sister Read Online Free PDF

it, by the way.” I absently twirl a piece of hair in my fingers. “I’m going to read Shannon’s journal.”

Six
    My birthdays have always had weird undercurrents, but this year’s are the weirdest. The Japanese dinner is full of pinched smiles and sad eyes. Yeah, it’s my birthday, blah blah blah, but all that the relatives can think about is Shannon. This is the year I turn her age. Her last age. The age that’s frozen in time. Nobody says her name out loud, but you can see it in their faces. Grandma keeps leaning in to whisper to Grandpa on her right and Aunt Nicole on her left. She finally stops after Aunt Nic shoots her a patient but firm glance. By the time the chef is making a volcano out of onion rings, I feel like I’m at a wake.
    “How’s school going, Summer?” Grandma asks me primly. She’s that desperate for conversation.
    “It’s going well,” Mom responds, intertwining her fingers.
    “So you’ll be on the honor roll this term?” Grandma asks hopefully.
    Term. Such a Grandma thing to say.
    “She’s doing very well,” Mom says, the slightest bit of crankiness seeping through the false cheer.
    Dad catches the waiter’s eye and points toward his empty beer bottle. Mom notices and raises an eyebrow.
    “Uh, another for me, too?” Uncle Matt tells the waiter, sotto voce.
    “I’d love to see your name in the paper for the honor roll,” Grandma says, stubbornly perpetuating the charade that I’m playing any role in this conversation whatsoever.
    “She may not have quite made the honor roll,” Mom says, now undeniably testy, “but her teachers rave about how bright she is. Next year. That’s when Summer will hit her stride academically.”
    Gibs is trying to catch my eye, but I resist, knowing I’ll giggle uncontrollably if I look at him.
    “She’ll be a senior next year,” Grandpa observes dryly, pointing out that Mom is always banking on an honor roll daughter “next year” and that the buzzer’s about to sound.
    The waiter comes back and hands Dad and Uncle Matt their beers. Dad takes a long swallow and looks blankly at the chef dicing vegetables in a pound of lard, which will look much more harmless when it melts.
    “Shannon was always on the honor roll,” Grandma says.
    Aunt Nic sucks in a breath. “Mother!” she whispers.
    “What?” Grandma asks defensively. “Weren’t we talking about the honor roll? Is it a crime to even mention her name?”
    “I’m sure the last thing Summer and Gibson want to talk about on a Saturday night is school,” Mom says. The edge in her voice is now downright unmistakable. Grandma’s on notice.
    “Gibson,” Grandpa says. “What kind of name is that?”
    He’s not asking Gibs, who might actually know what kind of name he has. Grandpa’s addressing all of us, as if we’re a committee tasked to reach a consensus on what kind of name Gibson is.
    “It’s a family name,” Mom says decisively, then looks to Gibs for verification. “Right, Gibson?”
    “Uh … ” Gibs says.
    “It may be a family name, but it’s a last name,” Grandpa says grumpily. Why Grandpa would feel grumpy—indignant, really—about the name of someone he barely knows is beyond me.
    “Fred!” Grandma scolds him.
    “It’s a lovely name!” Mom chirps. “I admire family names. They have such presence.”
    Aunt Nic and I share a quick conspiratorial smile. She’s only three years younger than Mom, but her easy-going personality makes her seem eons younger.
    “Well, I never understood why you wanted to name Summer after a season,” Grandma is saying to Mom. “Of course, it’s grown on me.” She looks at me and says loudly, “It’s a lovely name, dear.”
    I smile sweetly, biting the inside of my lip to avoid exploding in laughter, particularly since Gibs keeps nudging my knee.
    The chef begins tossing oversized spatulas of food onto our plates.
    The food orgy has begun. The piles on our plates soon resemble earthquake debris. There’s no longer