Free Things We Didn't Say by Kristina Riggle Page B

really hard, “put it out to the universe” like the book says, then my mom will come home.
    She didn’t smell like drunk today, so that’s good. That’s really good.
    But if Dylan doesn’t come home, it doesn’t count.
    I stretch out my hand and touch his face in the picture, and think of him giving me a horsey ride, so I go ahead and cry on my pillow.
    Someone’s shaking my arm.
    I open my eyes, and it’s dark in my room and it feels like night. But it can’t be. I’m not in pajamas. My dad is there, and the hallway light is on. He’s still wearing his work clothes. I must have been napping.
    “Hey, babe. Come down and get something to eat.”
    “Where’s Dylan?” I stretch. My neck is all kinked up because I slept weird. “And what time is it?”
    “It’s six o’clock. He’s not home yet.”
    “Why isn’t he home?”
    “I don’t know, baby. Did he . . . Did he say anything to you? About school, or anything?”
    I shake my head. I know Dylan loves me and stuff because he’s my brother, but it’s not like he tells me secrets. He’s way older than me.
    I put my hand on Dad’s arm before he gets off the bed. “Are you worried about him?”
    He stops, and he’s got his thinking face on for when he’s trying to think how to answer me. I hate that. But then he drops that face and he sighs. “Yeah,” he says, and he pulls me in for a hug. “Yeah. I am.”
    He stands up and takes my hand and I let him hold it even though I’m a big girl and I don’t need his hand to get down the steps. “We got pizza,” he says. “No one wanted to cook.”
    “Do you have any leads?”
    He stops on the steps and gives me this funny half-smile. “Leads? Where did you pick that up? You’re not reading murder mysteries, are you?”
    “Not yet. I saw it on CSI .”
    “CSI ? Your mother lets you watch—”
    He interrupts himself and bites his lip, looking away, and my stomach pinches up because I did it again, tattled on Mom, but I didn’t mean to. He starts back down the steps. “Anyway. No, not yet.”
    My mom rushes up to hug me when I get downstairs. She tries to smooth down my hair. “Baby, are you okay? Are you feeling sick?”
    I shake my head. I’ve learned my lesson about admitting to stomachaches.
    “Hi, kiddo,” says Casey.
    I almost didn’t see her because she’s sitting on a high barstool in the corner of the kitchen, balancing a paper plate on her knees. She looks like she could be as young as Angel, especially with her hair in a ponytail. And I’m not sure exactly why, but that really makes my mom mad, and Angel, too.
    Well, I do know why it bugs Angel. She’s told me before that Casey tries to be her friend and she doesn’t want to be Casey’s friend. That just because she wears high-top Converse doesn’t make her “cool,” and it’s embarrassing to think that Casey might be our stepmom when she looks like a kid instead of like the other moms. One time at the mall a lady thought Casey was our big sister, and I thought Angel was going to barf.
    I sneak Casey a little smile, then look quick at my mom, who was talking to my dad and didn’t see it.
    The adults are talking again, so I pretend to be invisible so maybe they’ll forget I’m here and stop changing what they say around me.
    My dad is talking about how he must have some other friends they don’t know about, someone who knows what’s going on, maybe he’s sneaking around with a bad crowd or something, since none of his band friends know anything, and since his best friend Jacob isn’t his friend anymore. That’s news to me, and it’s a bummer. I liked Jacob.
    They all look at Angel, and she goes, What? Stop looking at me, I told you I don’t know anything about it. Angel is ripping apart the pizza with her fingers, pretending to eat it. She’ll throw it away, later, when none of the adults are looking.
    My mom starts talking to my dad about why he doesn’t know all his friends and we need to break into his