The Storyteller Read Free

and stuff. Maybe he, like, did something with Fiona because she found out about that. Then Kyle and Charlie found out about it, and so he tried to cover up some more. And now Alistair knows all this and he’s scared. Weren’t you saying Alistair blamed the uncle for Fiona disappearing in the first place?”
    â€œAlistair was confused,” I said, which was an understatement. Mom and Dad haven’t told me everything, but I know that after Fiona disappeared, Alistair was making all sorts of strange accusations. Like I said, he hasn’t been himself.
    â€œOne thing is for sure,” Mandy said. “Creepy uncle drives by and honks at you, offers you Fruit Roll-Ups or something? Run, run, run.”
    â€œGoodbye, jerkface,” I said.
    â€œSayonara, onion butt,” she said in her super high I’m going to annoy the crap out of you voice.
    I hung up.
    EVENING
    This thing was supposed to be about me. You get a diary and you’re supposed to write about yourself in it. You’re supposed to confess your deepest and darkest secrets. That was the thought, anyway. Dad bought this for me as an “early birthday present” two years ago. Which was a bunch of bull. The reason it came early, or came at all, is because things got a little Are-You-There-God-It’s-Me-Keri -ish around here one embarrassing morning when Mom looked in the bathroom trash and found some of my stained pants and … undergarments. She probably talked to Dad about it, and he had the brilliant idea of getting me something to express myself with. He’s a social worker, you know, and is all about sharing feelings. Well, I didn’t start writing in this stupid thing until yesterday, nearly two days after Kyle was shot, Charlie disappeared, and the police came upon Alistair sitting in our yard, staring up at the stars. And wouldn’t you know it, this is my diary, but all I’m writing about is my brother.
    I’m not ready quite yet, but I need to write the wombat story down soon. Not sure why, but the wombat might help.

 
    T HURSDAY , 11/23/1989 (T HANKSGIVING )
    AFTERNOON
    The bird went in at eight a.m., as it always does. Food will hit the table sometime around four p.m., like every year before. I don’t know what the Loomis family has planned. Maybe they’ll escape back to their lake house or wherever it is they go. The Dwyer family will be in the hospital. Bedside, with a phone nearby, hoping for any sliver of good news. While we, the Clearys, will eat our taters and stuffin’ and pretend like nothing ever happened.
    Rub a dub dub, thanks for the grub. Amen!
    Okay, it might be a bit different than that. We’ll sit there silent through most of it, as we have been through all of our meals lately. Mom will pick. Dad will scarf. I will try to make jokes, and Alistair might even smile at a few of them. But he won’t speak. Because that would be helpful, wouldn’t it?
    I’m so glad Grammy and Pops and Nana and Grampa aren’t here. And Uncle Dale and Aunt Mia. They all said they’d come, but I heard Dad on the phone saying that he “didn’t want things to be overwhelming.” Too late, old man.
    Old man. That’s what Alistair calls him. A buddy name, I guess. I call him Dad. But he’s starting to seem like an old man. Sighing a lot. Slumping into chairs as if they’re meant to break a fall from hundreds of feet up. I don’t blame him. I feel it too, the falling. Mom, on the other hand, is staying strong, which looks like staying stiff to me. Hands in the sink washing dishes, stiff. At the computer, playing Solitaire, stiff. Standing by the car, about to leave for another shift at the post office—because the mail only takes holidays and Sundays off—looking out at the neighborhood before opening the door. Stiff.
    When your family isn’t talking much, you watch a bit more TV. At least I’ve been watching more. Mostly