Amy Chelsea Stacie Dee Read Free Page B

this time. Anyone with information about the case is asked to call 1-800-555-9192.
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    The next morning, I’m wrapped in a towel in Amy’s bedroom. My hair smells like apples. Mom offers me her clothes, jeans and a T-shirt. She stares at the scar on my left arm that goes halfway from my elbow to my shoulder, the one from when Kyle threw me into the kitchen counter. Her mouth moves like she wants to ask, like she’s already asking, even though she can’t say the words.
    â€œIt looks worse than it is,” I say.
    She keeps staring, holding the clothes.
    â€œI have clothes,” I say.
    Mom takes a breath, then holds up my jeans. “These need to be washed,” she says.
    â€œI only wear purple,” I say. I take the jeans out of her hand.
    â€œLet me wash them,” she says. She takes them back. She puts them in a pile with the rest of my clothes, which I’ve already worn several days in a row. I guess she still washes herclothes after just one wearing. She doesn’t realize what a waste it is, how you wear out your clothes faster that way.
    â€œDo you have anything purple?” I ask.
    She hesitates, but doesn’t question me. “Sure. I think so. Let me check.” I wait, and she comes back with a pair of purple jogging shorts and a ratty old sweatshirt, which isn’t purple, but it’s white with purple letters. I’m not comfortable, but I know she’s going to wash my clothes. At least the purple letters are big. They say “Grey Otters.” The Otters were the Grey Wood High School mascot back when Mom went there, but it changed to the Grey Wood Turkeys when I was a kid. Mom used to say otters were a lot better than turkeys. She used to strut around town wearing this sweatshirt, like she was making a huge statement, defying the oppressive overlords of the school board.
    â€œThanks,” I say. I take it from her. “You sure? What if I spill something on it? You can’t get a classic like this anywhere.”
    She bursts into tears.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I say.
    She grabs me and hugs me. My towel starts to fall, and I grab it, dropping the clothes.
    â€œYou remember,” she says.
    â€œThe big Otters versus Turkeys battle? Of course I remember,” I say.
    â€œI wasn’t sure,” she says, pulling away from me again.
    I’m
not even sure. I remember, but it wasn’t me who listened to Mom and Dad talk about the glory days of the Mighty Otters and how they defeated the Pleasant Valley Lions in thebig game. It was Amy. Amy saw Mom walking around town in that sweatshirt, not me. And it wasn’t Amy who came back. But no mom wants to hear that. She wants to hear that her Amy is back and she’s all right.
    â€œI never forgot,” I say.
    The story I used to tell pops into my head.
Once upon a time, there was an otter and a turkey. An otter is an animal that lives in the water. It has slick brown hair and whiskers, and it slides around faster than water going down the drain. A turkey is a big bird with lots of feathers and a wattle hanging down from its neck. A wattle is like a lot of skin, right here. Well, even though the turkey had wings, he couldn’t fly. So when he saw the otter whizzing down the river, he thought, I want to be just like that.
I can’t think about that now. I shouldn’t think about that ever.
    â€œI’ll let you get dressed,” Mom says. She stops at the door and turns around. “We kept all your things. We can get them out of storage if you want. Your dad and I, we just couldn’t . . .” She closes her eyes, and it’s like when I put my hand over my face yesterday. It’s like she wishes she could go away. Tears are still leaking out, and I can see her struggle, how she wants to stop them.
    â€œI can get them later,” I say. “I don’t care about that stuff.” And I don’t. I just