Free The Unquiet by Mikaela Everett Page B

supposed to be in your business.” I wave back at the fishermen by the river who are readying their boats. The river is only a few minutes from the orchards, easily visible to those passing by on the road and often filled with fishermen who have done this job all theirlives. Some afternoons they bring back something for us. “For your grandmother,” they’ll say.
    â€œWell, I’m old enough to mean what I say,” announces Cecily. She sticks out her tongue, licks her sweaty upper lip, and I laugh again. Her hair is matted to her forehead, and I slow down. For my efforts, when she reaches me, she rides her tricycle directly into me. We both go flying into the grass on the side of the road, apples and apricots sprayed everywhere. “No, no, no,” I groan. I jump up and immediately begin picking them up in case a car comes. If Da were here, he would cry. “An apple is worthless,” he would say, “if it has a single bruise on it. I am the best orchardist for miles, Lirael. People respect me. People expect the best from me.” His thumbs would press against his eyes to hide the tears; he would clear his throat as if it were itchy. And I would remember how small he is, how stooped his back gets when he walks, how old and wrinkly and breakable he is.
    I squint over at Cecily. “You saw that on television, didn’t you?”
    â€œOf course not. If I did half the things I saw on the television, Lira,” she says cheerily, “you would be dead. Race you.” And then she is gone, dust from the road billowing up in her wake. I wipe the fruit carefully on my dress beforeputting it back inside the boxes. Cecily pedals as fast as she can. She couldn’t beat me if I was walking, much less riding my bike, but she doesn’t let that stop her. She turns back to grin at me, eyes wide, voice squeaky. “I’m winning, I’m winning. Oh, my God, I’m actually winning.”
    â€œNo, you’re not. I’m coming to kick your butt,” I yell.
    But I let her win. Not just because she is my sister but also because there is no sorer loser in this world than Cecily. I let her win because it is the thing to do and because suddenly I am tired of having to smile, having to make conversation. It happens. Sudden moments like these when I am heavier than usual. Despite myself, I turn my eyes up to the sky much more frequently these days. I am waiting for something. I just don’t know what. But then I think that maybe I am remembering what I did, not waiting, and my head hurts.
    I let her win because I have never forgotten that I am not really her sister.
    A lot can happen in a year. A body can grow taller, bonier; eyes become bigger, grayer; hair darker, longer. I am her but harsher around the edges in a way I am convinced she would never have been. This , I tell myself, is not weakness . It is the subtle reintroduction of myself, the old me, in a way noone but I will know. My old self wasn’t enamored with food, didn’t care about her appearance so much, didn’t care about pleasing everyone else. That is what I tell myself when I look in the mirror. Secretly I am afraid that I might be about to fall apart.
    Each dawn the same robin sits on the same wire fence, singing the same song. Night hands over morning in the exact same state it was given. There have been no rearrangements of the clouds, of the stars, no big surprises. Everything in the world is a whisper, and now more than ever, I understand what it means to be a sleeper. Counting time, counting days, always on edge, yet doing nothing. I was trained for much more, but my orders haven’t come yet. The worst that has happened is that my grandmother is sick, my grandfather is unhappy with his apricot trees this year, and he is blaming the nippiness of the weather at night, the lack of workers because all the boys over fifteen have run off to the city to sign up to become soldiers, to become