Free Brooke by Veronica Rossi

you know how lucky that makes you. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I don’t hate you. You never deserved that. So . . . that’s all.”

11
    T hat night, Clara sleeps next to me again.
    She doesn’t cry and my mother doesn’t cry either. I wake up feeling rested and cheered. It’s a feeling I recognize. It’s how I used to always be. Maybe we’re all adjusting to being reunited.
    “Take me outside, Brooke,” Clara pleads after a breakfast of boiled oats and a handful of dates.
    I can’t see why not. Wylan isn’t a threat anymore, and I won’t take her far. Just right to the cove outside. “Sure,” I say. “Let’s go.”
    Talon and Willow skip up as we pass the platform. Willow’s constant shadow, her mutt, Flea, prances up as well. When they learn where Clara and I are going, they ask to come along.
    “Fine,” I say. “Sure.” Nothing can spoil my mood. “Anyone else?”
    “Straggler!” chirps Willow. “You have to come!”
    “I’m busy, Willow,” he calls over.
    He’s on his back on the platform. It looks like we interrupted his nap.
    “You’re not busy!” Talon shouts. He and Willow scuttle over to Straggler and grab him by the arms. As I watch, they yank him off the platform and tow him over.
    I don’t know any adults as persuasive as children.
    A race begins before we have even emerged from the mouth of the cave. Willow darts across the beach, Flea barking as he lopes alongside her. Clara breaks into a run, kicking up sand behind her. She’s fast, but Talon is all heart and determination. I wonder who will win.
    I plop down to watch, their shrieks and hollers ringing in my ears. Willow trips first and tumbles onto the sand, and then Clara does. Talon throws himself down, I think, because everyone else has done it.
    The morning is fearsome—a storm is gathering strength above us—but I don’t care. The sound of my sister’s laughter is louder than the crash of the waves. How can this day ever be anything less than perfect?
    “Don’t feel like racing?” Straggler asks as he sits next to me on the sand.
    “Maybe later.” I look at him. “How about you?”
    “Nah.” Straggler shrugs. “I mean I would. But I twisted my ankle this morning and it’s a little sore.”
    “What happened?”
    “Oh . . .” He smiles. “It’s my birthday.”
    Like that explains everything. “For your birthday you got a twisted ankle ?”
    “Yeah, it’s a family tradition. Whoever’s birthday it is gets pinned down first thing in the morning and roughed up a little. It’s something my brothers and I do to remember.”
    “Remember?” I ask.
    “Our father. When we were younger, he used to wake us up by tickling us. Eventually the whole lot of us got in on it, even our mother. You always knew you’d wake up pinned down and tickled to the point of crying when it was your birthday. Mom and Dad passed on, but we still do it. Every birthday. Except we changed it from tickling, you know, since we’re not little kids anymore.”
    “So you beat each other up.”
    “Yeah . . . not badly, though. You think it’s strange, don’t you?”
    I shake my head. Their tradition doesn’t bother me. In fact, I think it’s sweet. But I feel bad for Straggler. Hyde and Hayden are well over six feet—more than a head taller than Straggler, who hasn’t hit his growth spurt yet—and they’re strong . It seems like they have an unfair advantage, but Strag must be used to it. As the youngest and smallest, he’s the butt of everyone’s jokes, and he’s forever lagging behind, which earned him his nickname. A shame since his given name, Haven, is so beautiful.
    “How old are you today?” I ask.
    “Sixteen.” He grins proudly, like he’s automatically become a man. Then he glances away, and a giggle slips out of him that’s all boy. “My brothers said if I ever kissed you, they’d beat me unconscious.”
    Well. All right, then. “They told you?”
    “No. They’d never talk. It’s