Falling Stars Read Free

had never talked about anything political in front of us before. Now he was off like a storm, asking Mr. Thompson if he knew the details of the financial dealings between the anti-Soviet rebels of the 1980s, the Central Intelligence Agency, and the State Department.
    Mr. Thompson was pale. “I really can’t talk about any of that sort of thing,” he said. “I’m sure you know it’s classified.”
    “But why is it classified? That was a long time ago. And it’s in the public’s best interest to know,” Sean asked at almost the level of a shout, because that’s just the way he talked.
    I’m pretty sure poor Mr. Thompson, who never spoke above a low, cultured tone, had no idea how to handle this loud, monotone, strange teenager.
    “Come on, Sean,” I said, because it was clear Mr. Thompson was finished with this discussion.
    Mr. Thompson stepped back, not even attempting to hide his annoyance, but his words were as smooth as a raspberry lime rickey. “I hope you’ll forgive me if I can’t join you all for lunch. I’ve got an important phone call coming in.”
    I’d been intimidated by Richard Thompson before. I’d been annoyed by his snobbish attitude, his disapproval. I’d been made to feel small by the way he looked down his nose at me. But I’d never felt blind rage. Not until now. Because when he said those words, Julia shrank just a little, her shoulders falling even as she gave him a counterfeit smile and responded, “No problem, Dad, I know you’re busy.”
    The old bastard slinked back into his office and we were enveloped in chaos again as Carrie stumbled to the main floor and bumped into her mother, who was just walking in from the kitchen.
    “Carrie,” Mrs. Thompson scolded, “watch where you’re going!”
    Carrie straightened, but I could tell it was an effort. By all appearances, she was as hungover as I was—hair a mess, eyes bleary, skin pale. Last night at the after party, she’d done more drinking than was a good idea for any seventeen-year-old. Apparently she regretted it this morning.
    Mrs. Thompson turned to Julia only after she’d chastened her next eldest daughter. She spoke in a breezy, almost friendly tone. “Julia, I’m so happy to see you. I’ve been at my wits’ end with worry this summer. You must tell me everything.”
    Okay, that was just weird. Really weird. Julia has nightmares about her mother and here she was being super friendly.
    Whatever. I followed them into the dining room, preceded by Andrea and Alexandra and flanked by the twins, my own little honor guard. Carrie was just putting a plate on the dining table when we walked in. It was already set with plates adorned by dainty little sandwiches cut into triangles. I eyeballed the sandwiches. Turkey and Swiss? I thought about my stomach for a second, trying to decide if I’d be able to manage eating, and decided that yes, I would.
    When we walked in, Carrie’s eyes went to Sean. They’d met, briefly, at the after party the night before. Just before I got arrested . Now, Carrie saw Sean, then looked away, her cheeks going a little red.
    That was odd. Had he said something obnoxious to her? Because it couldn’t be…
    Now that I thought about it, I took a good look at my brother. He was Carrie’s height, two inches over six feet, and had spent a lot of the last nine months working out. At first I’d thought it was weird, until I realized his workout regimen was designed to deter the bullies at his high school. He’d developed powerful muscles in his chest and arms; I wouldn’t want to tangle with him. His hair, cropped short, framed blue eyes. He looked…not like I thought of him. He looked like a young man. Sean was my little brother. When I looked at him, I saw meltdowns. I saw struggles with basic interactions with other people. I saw the boy who wept after the assholes at his school stuffed his favorite hat down the toilet.
    Apparently Carrie saw something else.
    Andrea held back when we came in