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too. She’s Taylor’s older sister, and Erika is the youngest. Taylor has warned me about Dr. Destrie, though my mom thinks he’s super.
    Grandpa isn’t saying anything. Maybe he doesn’t know what Chlamydia is either; I had to look it up the first time Taylor told me about it.
    â€œThat’s a bacteria,” I tell him.
    â€œOf course it is,” says Grandpa. He clears his throat. “You know, Pipsqueak, what I said about living it up and enjoying life while you can . . . well, there are limits.”
    â€œOkay,” I say uncertainly. I don’t know where this is going all of a sudden.
    â€œWhen I was young . . . .” He has to stop for a bout of coughing. I hope he isn’t getting pneumonia. This is how my dad says most old people die.
    â€œGrandpa, are you okay?”
    â€œOh hell,” he says. “What were we talking about? Never mind. And I shouldn’t have said hell. What do I know? Let me know how it goes with the horse.”
    â€œOkay, Grandpa. And thank you for sending him,” I say, but as usual Grandpa has hung up before I finish.
    I turn around and Dad is watching me. His hair is wet from the shower. His eyes are kind of buggy. “You were telling Grandpa about Chlamydia?” he says.
    He sounds so perplexed that I figure he doesn’t know what it is either.
    â€œIt’s a bacteria,” I tell him.
    â€œI know that,” says Dad. “How do you know about it?”
    He’s making such a big deal of this. “Stephanie had it. Dr. Destrie thought she had an allergic reaction to fabric softener. It’s an STD,” I tell him, because that’s how Mom talks about these things—very matter of factly, preferably with acronyms. His Adam’s apple bobbles up and down. I think it’s time I changed the subject. “Dad, do you think I might have an anxiety disorder?”
    â€œJesus Christ,” says Dad.
    I decide to ignore this. “Because Mom thinks my headaches might be from anxiety, but I think they’re from the growth hormone.” Surely I can get someone on my side about this issue.
    â€œI don’t know, Shorty,” he says. He hasn’t called me Shorty in a long long time so I know he’s exasperated. He checks his watch. “Shit,” he says.
    â€œDad!”
    He apologizes.
    â€œAnd you said you wouldn’t call me Shorty any more.”
    He puts his great big hand on top of my head. His face looks so sad, I regret reminding him. “I’m sorry, Sylv. I’m really sorry. I’ll try harder. It’s just I’m so busy right now, and I’m stressed about work, the economy’s a mess, all those sub-prime mortgages . . . .”
    I sigh. “It’s okay, Dad. Don’t worry about it.”
    He grabs his briefcase. “Look, Munchkin, I really have to run. We’ll talk more tonight.” And he dashes for the door.

CHAPTER FIVE
    I cook a piece of toast and smear it with extra-crunchy peanut butter, but can’t eat it. I know if I put it in my mouth I’ll throw up again. Last night I somehow managed to eat dinner so maybe I’ll have enough nourishment on board to take me through the morning. I grab an apple from the refrigerator and cut it into thin slices and put all but one of them in a zip-lock bag in my backpack. The extra slice I slip between my teeth and suck it carefully, drawing out the juice and swallowing a teeny bit at a time.
    The phone rings, startling me into chewing and swallowing. I’m spluttering as I say hello.
    â€œSylvia? Is that you? You sound funny. It’s me, Taylor. How’d it go yesterday? Did your horse arrive?”
    Miraculously the apple stays down in my stomach where it’s supposed to be. “Yeah,” I say.
    â€œAnd . . . ? You don’t sound very excited. Is he okay? What’s he look like? ”
    I’m reluctant to tell Taylor that the new pony has a striking