My Sister's Voice Read Free Page A

herself only inches away from a mustached mouth moving a mile a minute.
    The guessing game began. He either said:
    “You have a small bass.”
    Or:
    “You have a nice ass.”
    Or:
    “You’ve stained the glass.”
    She soon had her answer. He gestured with nicotine-stained fingers to the spot on the glass where Lacey had planted her hands. Lacey turned and saw the aftermath of her fingers splayed out on either side of the poster. Ghost hands framing her stolen face. That’s when the mustached-lips stopped moving. He leaned in and looked at the poster. He looked at Lacey. A smile spread across his face, and this time, when the lips started up again, they were moving slow enough for Lacey to catch “love your book” and “I’m so sorry.” Before she could say a word, he linked arms with her and marched her into the bookstore.
    Once inside, he propelled her to a table in the center of the store, where copies of The Architect of Your Soul were propped up to form the frame of a house. Next to the table was another poster. Bottled water and three Sharpie markers were lined up on the table, and the man glanced from them to her as if to gauge whether or not she was pleased with his offerings. Then he started talking again, pointing to the sign announcing the book reading. He frowned and looked at his watch. She thought she caught the word “squirrelly,” but from the context she gathered he said “early.” Lacey smiled and shook her head while pointing at the author’s name.
    I’m not her, she’s not me. Did he understand? He swiped up a marker along with a book, and thrust them at her. He did not. Lacey didn’t move even though she was sorely tempted to sign the book. If Ms. Bowman was going to steal her face, she could steal her signature. She’d use grotesque penmanship, she’d massacre the name, she’d write MY BOOK SUCKS!!!! Love, Monica Bowman!!
    Instead, Lacey shook her head one more time and pointed at her face on the book. Don’t you see I’m a victim of face theft? No, he didn’t. He parried the book again, and set his jaw in a hard line. Knowing she would have to pay for it, Lacey grabbed the marker and the book, and scribbled on the front of it. When she handed it back to the clerk, her smile beat his by a mile. Besides the feathered hair and trendy glasses, there were now other distinct differences between the real-life her and impostor-book-girl her. Whereas real-life her had a smooth upper lip and an invisible halo, impostor-book-girl her was the proud owner of a thick handlebar mustache and big, fat devil horns.

Chapter 2
    A fter calling her:
    a: a cyclone
    b: a silo
    or
    c: a psycho
    the manager fled, but Lacey didn’t budge. She couldn’t. Her legs were tree trunks, her roots burrowed into the floor. She wished her hands tentacles instead of ungainly branches; she wanted to lash out and strangle all of the impostor’s books, strangle and squeeze, squeeze and strangle. She wanted to watch every last one of them crash to the floor. Every nerve ending in her body was pulsing. She was electrified. It was Morton’s Horse Farm all over again.
    Lacey was ten. The orphans were on an outing. They stood in an excited clump, surrounded by saddled horses. Both children and horses were swishing their tails, lifting their hooves, ready to ride. Every child’s eyes were glued to the beautiful beasts except Lacey’s. Hers were feasting on the tempting silver wire running the length of the fence surrounding them, strung taut and gleaming in the midafternoon sun.
    One of the staff members must have followed her gaze, for he stepped in close to her, too close, always too close, so that all she saw was a giant pair of gyrating lips. His breath reeked of coffee and menthol cigarettes. He lifted his hands and moved them along with his mouth, pointing at the magic wire. He jabbed a thick, calloused finger too close to her collarbone.
    Kids, touch, don’t. Touch, horse, ride won’t. Understand? Lacey, look at