as I want!â
âWell. Youâve got it made, then,â I said. â My mommy wonât let me have milk or chocolate.â
Or beef. Or any soda pop with artificial sweeteners. Actually, the list of things my mom wouldnât let me eat was longer than the list of things that I could . Ever since the accident and then our move to Coconut Key, the rules I had to follow would have given a kindergartner a rash. Compared to me, Sasha was pretty much living it up.
I had to do my homework before I watched TV.
I was not allowed to get into a car being driven by anyone who hadnât had their driverâs license for a full decade.
I had to be home by ten thirty on the weekend and in bed, lights out, by eleven on a school night.
And blah, blah, blahâ¦
Because life was so dang dangerous now, unlike the incredibly safe and bucolic good old days of the twenty-teens, or whatever ancient but perfect decade Mom had grown up in.
â Skyylarr! â Sasha brought me back to the present.
âSorry,â I said.
âWhatâs wrong?â Sashaâs eyebrows wrinkled up. Her expression of concern made her look way older than a nine-year-old. But she acted way older than a nine-year-old too. Sometimes Sasha was an old, wise person in a little girlâs body. But unlike some kids who had older sisters and were nine going on sixteen, Sasha still embraced her inner five-year-old and liked being babied.
âNothing,â I said cheerfully as I handed her the glass.
She took a long, luxurious sip before grinning up at me. She had a serious milk mustache and she knew it. She pretended to twirl it with one tiny fingerâexactly the way her dad did when he was joking around. âYumbo!â
I giggled. Sometimes she acted like a wise, old personâ¦and sometimes she was her extra-goofy fatherâs daughter.
âOkay. Big sips and then bed.â
âBig sips, tooth brushing , and then bed!â Sasha reminded me.
âI stand corrected.â
She drained the glass and then carefully returned it to the sink, making sure that it was rinsed out and set perfectly in the dishwasher before padding deliberately down the hallway to the bathroom.
It was pretty crazyâI had never met a neat-freak nine-year-old before, but Sasha was borderline OCD about certain stuff. It just added to the overall cuteness, though. She was as tiny as an elf, seriously small for her age, with little stubby pigtails and eyelashes that went on for miles. But her elfin appearance hardly matched her little-professor attitude.
I wished I could adopt her.
Or, better yet, I wished Sashaâs parents would adopt me.
âYouâll tuck me in?â Sasha called after sheâd brushed her teeth (carefully, of course, complete with milk-mustache removal) and climbed into her bed.
âOf course,â I said, going into her room.
âThanks a bundle,â Sasha replied cheerfully, curling up underneath her pink bedspread. She held her favorite teddy bear close, placing the soft, downy fur underneath her chin before smiling up at me.
I lifted the covers around her, patting the sides with painstaking precision, just the way Sasha liked it. âIâll be in the living room doing my homework if you need me.â
âLike if I have a nightmare or something.â
âLike if you have a nightmare or something,â I agreed as I looked around at the immaculately organized bookshelves, her neatly arranged toysâher massive doll collection the little roomâs centerpiece. She owned about a trillion old-school dolls, with big glassy eyes and frilly clothes. All of the beautiful brown-skinned dolls were front and center, with the blonds and the redheads at the bottom and in the back. They sat in perfect rowsâtypical Sasha organization. âBut I bet you wonât have any nightmares tonight.â
Sasha looked over at the window, with its chiffon curtains, and I went to double
Christopher Knight, Alan Butler