My Sisters Keeper | Page 3

twists her hair into a knot and holds it in place. On
her bed are three other dresses--one slinky and black, one bugle-beaded, one that seems impossibly
small. "You look . . ."
Tired. The word bubbles right under my lips.
My mother goes perfectly still, and I wonder if I've said it without
meaning to. She holds up a hand, shushing me, her ear cocked to the open doorway. "Did you hear
that?"
"Hear what?"
"Kate."
"I didn't hear anything."
But she doesn't take my word for it, because when it comes to Kate she doesn't take anybody's
word for it. She marches upstairs and opens up our bedroom door to find my sister hysterical on
her bed, and just like that the world collapses again. My father, a closet astronomer, has tried to
explain black holes to me, how they are so heavy they absorb everything, even light, right into their
center. Moments like this are the same kind of vacuum; no matter what you cling to, you wind up
being sucked in.
"Kate!" My mother sinks down to the floor, that stupid skirt a cloud around her. "Kate, honey, what
hurts?"

Kate hugs a pillow to her stomach, and tears keep streaming down her face. Her pale hair is stuck to
her face in damp streaks; her breathing's too tight. I stand frozen in the doorway of my own room,
waiting for instructions: Call Daddy. Call 911. Call Dr. Chance. My mother goes so far as to shake a
better explanation out of Kate. "It's Preston," she sobs. "He's leaving Serena for good."
That's when we notice the TV. On the screen, a blond hottie gives a longing look to a woman crying
almost as hard as my sister, and then he slams the door. "But what hurts?" my mother asks, certain
there has to be more to it than this.
"Oh my God," Kate says, sniffling. "Do you have any idea how much Serena and Preston have been
through? Do you?"
That fist inside me relaxes, now that I know it's all right. Normal, in our house, is like a blanket too
short for a bed--sometimes it covers you just fine, and other times it leaves you cold and shaking;
and worst of all, you never know which of the two it's going to be. I sit down on the end of Kate's
bed. Although I'm only thirteen, I'm taller than her and every now and then people mistakenly
assume I'm the older sister. At different times this summer she has been crazy for Callahan, Wyatt,
and Liam, Campbell Alexander. It's a stupid name, in my opinion. It sounds like a bar drink that
costs too much, or a brokerage firm. But you can't deny the man's track record.
To reach my brother's room, you actually have to leave the house, which is exactly the way he likes
it. When Jesse turned sixteen he moved into the attic over the garage--a perfect arrangement, since
he didn't want my parents to see what he was doing and my parents didn't really want to see.
Blocking the stairs to his place are four snow tires, a small wall of cartons, and an oak desk tipped
onto its side. Sometimes I think Jesse sets up these obstacles himself, just to make getting to him
more of a challenge.
I crawl over the mess and up the stairs, which vibrate with the bass from Jesse's stereo. It takes
nearly five whole minutes before he hears me knocking. "What?" he snaps, opening the door a
crack.
"Can I come in?"
He thinks twice, then steps back to let me enter. The room is a sea of dirty clothes and magazines
and leftover Chinese take-out cartons; it smells like the sweaty tongue of a hockey skate. The only
neat spot is the shelf where Jesse keeps his special collection--a Jaguar's silver mascot, a Mercedes
symbol, a Mustang's horse--hood ornaments that he told me he just found lying around, although
I'm not dumb enough to believe him.
Don't get me wrong--it isn't that my parents don't care about Jesse or whatever trouble he's gotten
himself mixed up in. It's just that they don't really have time to care about it, because it's a problem
somewhere lower on the totem pole.
Jesse ignores me, going back to whatever he was doing on the far side of the mess. My attention is
caught by a Crock-Pot--one that disappeared out of the kitchen a few months ago--which now sits
on top of Jesse's TV with a copper tube threaded out of its lid and down through a plastic milk jug

filled with ice, emptying into a glass Mason jar. Jesse may be a borderline delinquent, but he's
brilliant. Just as I'm about to touch the contraption, Jesse turns