Do You Know the Monkey Man? Read Free Page A

heard. But I’m not complaining. When cats purr, they’re telling you they love you.
    I set Sherlock down on the floor and he followed me down the hall. One whole wall in our hallway is lined with pictures. Pictures of me, pictures of Mom, pictures of me and Mom, pictures of me and Mom and Grandma and Grandpa Sperling. But the other wall only has two pictures on it—an 8 × 10 of my eighth-grade school picture and an 8 × 10 of Sarah from when we were three.
    There were other pictures of Sarah in albums somewhere, but this was the only big one we had of her. And it was the only one that was out where people could see it. She’s got on a frilly white dress with a matching ribbon in her hair. She looks kind of shy because she’s not smiling very big and she’s got her hands folded neatly in her lap.
    Somewhere there was a picture of me that looked almost the same (like I said, we were twins), except I was wearing a frilly blue dress instead of a frilly white dress. At one time, that picture probably hung right next to the picture of Sarah. But Mom puts up my new school picture every year. Sarah’s picture always stays the same.
    Why was I still obsessing about my sister? There was no way she could still be alive. She’s out at Lakeview Cemetery right by the big oak tree. End of story.
    I headed to my room. Man, was I tired after all that biking. As I flopped down on my bed, I caught a glimpse of my hair in the mirror. It looked like someone had taken a mixer to it. I reached for my brush and immediately went to work.
    Sherlock jumped up beside me and meowed. He turned around a couple times, then settled down right next to my favorite stuffed monkey. It’s just an old, floppy brown thing. I don’t even know where I got it. But it seems like I’ve always had it. I tickled Sherlock under the chin with the monkey’s tail and he purred. Silly cat.
    Then I went back to my hair. I’m not sure whether the trip to the psychic was worth this much damage. I don’t even know what I was thinking going to see a psychic in the first place. About all I can say about it is it worked in
Who Is Victor Marsh?
which is a really good book that I read last week. It was about a woman who was looking for her long-lost brother. The police were looking for him, too, because they thought he was a serial killer. But the woman thought they were wrong. She wanted to find her brother before the police did, so she hired this psychic. The psychic not only found the brother, she also found the real killer.
    I love books like that. I love all books, but I especially love mysteries. In fact, I think I’d like to be a mystery writer when I grow up.
    My mom says I’m dreaming if I think I can make a living as a writer. She loves to say stuff like that. She can be just as negative as Angela sometimes. I once asked her what was so bad about having dreams and she said, “You can’t live on them.” Maybe not, but I still think dreams are important.
    Slam!
    Speak of the devil.
    “Hello?” my mom called out. “Sam? Are you home?”
    “Yeah,” I called back. I put the finishing touches on my hair, then took a quick glance around my room. There wasn’t much she could complain about. A few books on the floor. And my nightshirt. I stacked the books on my desk next to my flute case and kicked the nightshirt under my bed.
    “Sam!” Mom yelled again from the main part of the house.
    “What?” I trotted down to the kitchen.
    Mom stood by the sink with her hands on her hips. She had on her nurse’s uniform—white pants, a pastel blue flowery shirt, and white shoes. She looked tired. “Why are the breakfast dishes still sitting in the sink?” she asked.
    Oops. “Um, I guess I didn’t get around to putting them in the dishwasher,” I said.
    “Why not?”
    I shrugged.
    “What did you do all day?” She frowned at the pile of empty boxes that were still stacked up in the corner. She had asked me to start boxing up stuff that we weren’t likely to