Moon Shadow: The Totally True Love Adventure Series (Volume 1) Read Free Page A

need to know if my father was responsible. I think he may have done something that caused my mother to, uh ... I want the world to know the truth about my father. He’s an evil prick!”
    Mr. Christie’s dark eyes beam as he looks soberly at me. “Nothing soothes the mind as much as steady purpose, my boy, on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye. You may never know for certain why she did it. You must accept this at the outset.”
    I let out a long sigh. “Then, I should go home, sir?”
    Mr. Christie hesitates a second, and then says, “I never asked your mother about your father. Perhaps I should have done so. But I think you’ve answered your own question, Daniel. The Ancient Greeks knew this all too well—they alluded to it beautifully in their tragic literature: Evil must be encountered, not evaded.”
    Mr. Christie looks grimly down at the board. “Your move, son.”



3
Sarah
Friday afternoon, July 25
Coronado Island
    A bout a block from my house I stop walking again, abruptly, as my jaw drops and I stare in disbelief up the street. Suddenly the shameful image of a black Lexus, parked in our driveway, has become real. I can hardly believe it, yet there it is, right before my eyes!
    Wait, I tell myself. Why would
he
, the mystery man, be visiting my mother in the afternoon like this? Unless ... my dream has come true! Obviously my mother wants to introduce me to him today, which can only mean that their relationship is truly serious. In fact they’re probably going to tell me they are engaged already, that they’ll be getting married almost immediately, which means I’ll have a dad again and we can all live happily ever after and my friends will understand why—
    I bolt like a deer, dashing madly up the sidewalk, charging across Fifth Street, half an eye to the traffic, ignoring the horn of a passing car.
    I have to get home, see if today ... please, God ... today, let it be true ...
    The sidewalk seems to pull at me, slow me down, my sneakers hitting now and then on the uneven pavement (step on a crack, break your mother’s back) and when I finally reach the front yard I drop my books on the grass.
    Breathlessly, I bound up the wood steps and onto the front porch, hardly pausing before opening the door and rushing in. Hurrying past
his
hat and
his
coat in the entryway, I proceed straight into the living room.
    Where I find my mother’s blouse and bra sitting in a heap on the floor. “Mom,” I call, as I walk to the kitchen. But they aren’t in there, either.
    I go back into the living room, and then I hear my mother’s voice: “Sarah, is that you? Go upstairs, darling. I’ll be up in a minute.”
    They’re in my mother’s bedroom!
    Oh, God, have I merely caught my mother and the mystery man on a typical day of another supposedly secret encounter? I
have
arrived home earlier than expected.
    My heart sinks as I run upstairs. I open my bedroom door and seize my flower poster, hanging on the door with its stupid bright array of colorful shapes and patterns, and tear it to shreds. I crumple the paper and throw it forcefully in the direction of the trashcan next to my desk. I want to rip apart all my posters and glossy magazine photos of Malala, The Beatles, Selena Gomez, Nick Jonas and Taylor Swift.
    Teardrops flow freely from my eyes, rolling down my cheeks. I gaze at the reflection of my face in the hand mirror I keep on my bookcase. When I cry I look like the pig-baby in
Alice
in
Wonderland
. My cheeks are flushed. I feel warm all over.
    I look at my diary, white and marked on the front cover, in blue ink, “Sarah’s Diary – Private.” I think about writing something, like always. Almost as soon as I’d learned to put letters on paper, I began to rely on the written word as an outlet for emotions like anger and fear and sadness. I want to be a great poetess, like Emily Dickinson or Maya Angelou.
    When I was a kid, seven or eight, I started my first poetry notebook and every night I