Free Twisted by Laurie Halse Anderson Page A

Mom accelerated to make it through an intersection as the light turned red. “I e-mailed him directions to Gunnarson’s, too.”
    “Why can’t we just use your camera and take the picture in the kitchen?” Hannah asked.
    “Or use your studio?” I added.
    “No way,” Hannah said. “It smells like dog poo.”
    Mom did most of her pet photography in clients’ homes, but she rented a small, climate-controlled garage for people who wanted to pose their pooch in front of a fake backdrop of a Hawaiian beach or the Egyptian pyramids. And no, I am not making that up.
    “The studio does not smell like dog poo.” Mom’s eyes darted left and right as she coasted through a stop sign. “It’s perfectly clean. But my equipment isn’t good enough. I’d need better lights, the right filters.”
    I rolled down my window for some air. “You should buy them, then. You take good pictures. Better than this guy, I bet.”
    “You think?”
    “Hell, yeah. It’s time to give up the doggies and kitties.”
    “Don’t swear,” she said automatically. She hit the turn signal, checked the rearview mirror, and sped past a taxicab. “I’ve thought about it.”
    “If you don’t kill us in the next five minutes, I’ll help you find the space.”
    “That would be nice.” Mom made a hard left into a parking lot and hit the brakes. “We’re here.”
     
    Dad wasn’t.
    We waited for an hour, but he didn’t show.
    Mom had a fit, then rescheduled.
     
    If Dad ever explained why he didn’t show up or call, I didn’t hear about it. When the mail arrived the next day, it had interim notices from all of my teachers. He came out of his lair long enough to ground me until the end of time. Again. He also confiscated the power cord to my computer.
    I spent Sunday combing through the real-estate listings and found two properties for Mom to look at. She didn’t sign a lease for either one, but she asked me to please work a little harder at bringing my grades up, and bought me a new power cord.

33.
    On the last day of September, we had to attend a senior assembly about college. I sat next to Yoda, who slept. He had already filed his applications. Now it was just a matter of seeing who wanted to throw more financial aid at him.
    Chip Milbury and his minions were sitting two rows behind us. I stayed alert in case they decided to lob hand grenades. Chip hadn’t retaliated yet, and that made things worse.
    The speaker said that college deadlines were firm, correct spelling was important, and choosing a college was a serious decision.
     
    After the assembly, I walked with Yoda to Hannah’s field-hockey game. Her team had sort of adopted him as a community-service project after he’d quit football. They thought his glasses were cute. Whenever he kissed my sister (horrifying, yes) the team would all say, “Awwwww!” the way girls do when they see puppies, ponies, and baby ducks.
    The coach liked his ability to spot weaknesses in the opposing team. They hadn’t lost a game since Yoda sat at the end of the bench, stat tracker in hand.
    Hannah was playing center forward with astounding brutality. The referees didn’t care, and the other team quickly learned it was less painful to stay out of her way. By halftime she had taken four shots and scored twice.
    The second half opened with another lightning-fast breakaway by Hannah and Sue-Jen Parks, giving-and-going all the way to their enemy’s goal. Sue-Jen caught a stick to her shin just above the pad and crumpled, but the play continued, with Hannah sprinting across the field just as a defender wound up to fire the ball as hard as she could.
    She shot a fraction of a second before Hannah’s stick made contact. The ball lifted off the field and traveled in a direct line to my sister’s face.
    Yoda was off the bench before the ref blew the whistle. I was right behind him.
    She was only knocked out for a second. She demanded to be put back in the game, even though the ball had snapped the