Read Then I Met My Sister for Free Online

it up. I take a deep breath, open it, and start thumbing through the pages.
    Shannon’s plump, bouncy handwriting scrolls from top to bottom, from margin to margin, page after page after page. Jesus. What exactly did she have to write about? Was she attempting a cure for cancer in between volleyball practices?
    No … the random words my eyes settle on eliminate the possibility of intellectual heft, her perfect grades notwithstanding. Cheerleading … mall … boyfriend … Jeez. Did my sister have anything in common with me at all?
    But I keep thumbing through the pages, smiling in spite of myself. I feel … connected. I mean, Shannon wrote these very words right down the hall from where I’m lying right now. Granted, she was in a puffy pink bedroom while I’m surrounded by Death Cab posters, but still, there she was … just a few feet away. Did she hear Mom gossiping on the phone with Aunt Nic while she was writing? Was she lulled by the same hum of the dishwasher that I listen to every night? By the ancestors of the same crickets, chirping in the back yard?
    A chill works its way up my spine, but a gentle chill, a cozy chill, like a familiar finger lazily grazing my back. None of Shannon’s pictures or certificates have ever had this effect on me. In fact, they’ve had the opposite effect, making her soulless and one-dimensional. Her handwriting, in all its juvenile glory, is adding shades and dimensions.
    A lump suddenly settles in my throat. I wish I could run down the hall and shake her awake.
    Stupid. You can’t miss somebody you never knew.
    I swallow the lump, shake my head impatiently, and keep thumbing through the journal.
    Like I said, most of the pages are packed with words, so when I reach a page toward the end, it’s noticeable for its sparseness. Just a few words, written in heavy black ink, all capped, centered on an otherwise blank page.
    I press my thumb against that page to hold it open and narrow my eyes for a closer look. At first, the words don’t quite register in my brain. I still even have that same silly half-smile on my face. But then I read the words again, and the smile fades. My lips mouth the words as my eyes widen:
    I want to kill myself.
    I want to kill myself.
    I want to kill myself.
    Breathe, I remind myself as my mind keeps processing the same five words in an endless loop. I inhale, then hold my breath. Exhale .
    I close the journal, then grab the cell phone from my bedside table and fumble over the keypad. But just as I’m about to press Gibs’ number, I snap my phone shut.
    What would I say? Gibs, remember the car accident I mentioned that killed my sister? Accident being the operative word? Yeah, well, maybe not …
    Tears sting my eyes.
    “Did you kill yourself, Shannon?” I whisper to nobody. “Did you drive into that tree on purpose?”
    A tear rolls down my cheek. What do I really know about this sister of mine? Was her life not so perfect after all?
    My head is spinning, but there’s one thing I know for sure—the only way to find out is to keep reading. And the beginning, I decide, is the best place to start.

Eight
    I turn to the first page of Shannon’s journal, fluff a pillow, sit up a little straighter in my bed, and settle in for my first real introduction to my sister.
Thursday, June 3, 1993
Mom gave me this book so I could “journal” this summer. I swear to God, that’s what she said. I wonder if her book club verbed the word journal. Gotta love Mom’s book club. Gotta love Mom for giving me a summer assignment to remind me that I’m never quite good enough. Apparently, straight A’s in honors courses don’t earn you the summer off.
Oops! Here I am, busting Mom’s chops knowing full well that five minutes after I put down my journal, she’ll be reading every word of it. Right, Mom? You’ve snooped around long enough to find it, right? Keep up the good work. Your PTA friends don’t call you Sue the Sleuth for nothing.
    I peer closer at the words