My Sister's Voice Read Free Page B

me. Eye contact, Lacey. Touch, don’t. Understand? Do you hear me?
    But of course, she didn’t.
    Lacey, look at me. Put your hands down. No. Not even with the tip of your pinky finger. No. Not even a tiny tap.
    A tiny, tentative, exploratory tap ...
    Because it will zap you, that’s why. It’s electric. Understand. Touch, zap. Ouch! Who said die? Nobody said die. Hurt. Ouch. Hurt. Forbidden. You know our toaster? Home. Toaster. Kitchen. Would you stick your hand in the toaster? Oh. Well, you shouldn’t do that. Don’t do that again. Lacey, focus. It was just an example. Lacey, finish. If the bread is stuck, you call one of the staff over to get it out, you don’t stick your hand in it. No. No fork. Fork bad bad bad idea. No, I don’t need to see the scar. Yes, I see it. You want another one? Lacey, finish. Touch, horse, ride, won’t. Understand?
    Three bales of hay were parked along the fence nearest to where Lacey stood, hands flexing, her entire world distilled into a magic, vibrating wire. If she climbed on the bales and got on her tippy-toes, she’d be able to reach it. They were lifting children onto the horses now; she was invisible. When you have only one shot, you’d better aim. So Lacey didn’t just place the tip of her pinky on the wire as she might have if they’d only let her indulge her curiosity; instead she grabbed it with both hands and squeezed.
    Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz snap! Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
    Her brain screamed at her to let go, but her hands remained stubbornly clenched. Despite the shock, and yes, pain, she was exhilarated. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz . Who knew she could take such a shock, a jolt, a Zzzzzzzzzzz, and live?! She could still feel a stinging sensation spiking through her limbs and tummy long after a staff member pried her off. Needless to say, she didn’t get to ride a freakin’ horse that day. Even Kelly Thayler, who had only one leg, got to ride.
    And here she was, eighteen years later, standing in Benjamin Books next to a book she didn’t write, feeling the Zzzzzzzzzzz back in her body. It took her an eternity to realize her BlackBerry was buzzing. She pulled it out and looked at the message.
    I can’t wait until tonight. I love you. XOXOXO. P.S. How’s the Sour Puss ?
    Sour Puss. Alan’s nickname for Sheila Sherman. Oh God. How long had she been standing there? What time was it? She was supposed to be there in ten minutes. It was at least twenty minutes away, forty if she paid attention to things like traffic lights and speed limits. Last week she was five minutes late, five minutes, and Sheila lectured her for at least fifteen, picking up every clock in the house, of which there were bizarrely many, and pointing out the hands of the clock as if Lacey were a child. Lacey stared at the poster again.
    The book reading was scheduled for six P.M. Her dinner with Alan was at seven. At this rate, she’d be lucky to finish the portrait sitting by five, which meant she’d have to run home, shower and change, and get back to Benjamin Books in time for the reading. Dinner was just going to have to be a little late, just a little late. Lacey picked up the book again and turned to the back jacket. There was her face again. It gave little else to go on except that Monica Bowman lived in Boston with her boyfriend, Joe, and her puggle, Snookie.
    Outrageous. Now Lacey knew she was being played. She was stealing her dog too, only slightly distorting his name. Did she mention Rookie on her Web site? Of course she did, when the interviewer asked her if she had any pets of her own. She lifted her head and scanned the bookstore, half convinced she would spot Alan or Robert hiding in the shelves, watching their prank unfold live.
    There was another option altogether, that this wasn’t a prank at all. If that was the case, then the woman was a lunatic. And the lunatic was going to be in for a big surprise when Lacey showed up at the reading. Maybe she’d bring Rookie. She’d bring Rookie, sit in