Annabeth Neverending Read Free Page A

the room.
    If only I could confide in my parents what happened at the flea market. Yet I don’t dare. Even though it’s what I’d like to do, what I should be able to do. But it would help confirm their worst fears — that I’d inherited some horrible health problems from my birth mother. As if the sleepwalking isn’t bad enough.
    “You’re home early,” my mom says, sounding alarmed.
    I’m doing both my parents a favor, really, by omitting the truth. I’m sparing my mother the hassle of worrying about me and my father the hassle of worrying about my mom, who’s incapable of handling much in the way of stress.
    “Mrs. Lansing wants me to start off gradually. Ease into it.”
    I lie through slightly clenched teeth. I hope she can’t see the corner of my mouth twitching. It’s my tell. It usually happens when I’m nervous, but it also happens when I’m bending the truth. Which is why I never play poker.
    “How’ll you save up for college with a schedule like that?” asks my father with dismay.
    “You sure she didn’t send you home sick? Because you look a little flushed. Doesn’t she, Paul? Annabeth, are you running a temperature?”
    My mother presses her hand against my forehead.
    “She’s OK. Aren’t you, honey?” my dad asks in a way that makes it seem less like a question and more like a command.
    I nod, not having much choice in the matter.
    “Sometimes, you just need to let this stuff go, Norma,” he says softly.
    My mom drops her hand and pulls away. Apparently she’s decided to follow my father’s advice because she puts on her double - breasted trench.
    “We’re going to the grocery store. Want anything?” Dad asks as he jingles the keys in his pocket.
    “How about some beer?”
    My parents look at each other and laugh. I join in. But it’s forced. Because I’m not kidding. Ever since the flea - market vision, I’ve been insanely parched. For some reason, I feel like the only thing that will quench my thirst is beer. Even though I can’t stand the stuff, or its smell.
    “I’ll pick you up some Moxie instead,” says Dad.
    “I do love the Moxie,” I admit.
    But Moxie — my favorite, a regionally brewed soda — won’t do the trick. It tastes more like flat sarsaparilla than beer. I need something sour, bitter…full of hops.
    “I think I have a coupon for it!” my father, extreme couponer extraordinaire, brags.
    “A coupon? Then you have no choice.”
    My mom mentions that Howie will be home any minute, but I’m only half listening. My younger brother’s whereabouts are the least of my concerns. My parents are moving out the door at a snail’s pace. I’d love to prod them along gently, but that would raise some red flags, and then they’d never leave.
    Do I go on a fact - finding mission by holding the ankh again and risk another blackout? Are blackouts really that bad? They’re basically the same as sleeping, right?
    Though even the seemingly simple act of sleeping is a problem for me. I need some time to think. By myself. Uninterrupted.
    After what feels like an eternity, they’re finally gone, and I take the stairs two at a time, the box containing the ankh in one hand and a Milwaukee’s Best in the other. I enter my bedroom and shut the door behind me ever so carefully. On the off chance that Howie is home, I don’t want to awaken the beast.
    I’ve never needed to be within the lavender confines of my bedroom so much. I look around at the oversized teddy bear that’s missing an eye. The worn Amish toy chest, now reimagined as a hope chest. The four - poster bed with the sleepwalking restraints attached to the posts. Finally, I have some privacy in a familiar place. One that’s straightforward, lacking in mystery; one that allows me to contemplate something dripping with it.
    I’d latch the door if I could, but my folks won’t allow us to have locks. They seem certain that the threat of entry at any given moment will result in good behavior. Of course, in