Delilah set the book in her lap, lungs pumping hard, her memory reaching back, back, back for this time, mere months after her father’s death made her an orphan. She remembered Astrid asking her to watch TV or do homework together every now and then, but this . . . this . . . longing that seemed to fill Astrid’s writing, the worry and wonder and even hurt . . .
That was new.
That was . . . impossible. Astrid never felt like this. She never actually wanted Delilah to be a part of her family. After Delilah’s father died, Delilah was just a burden, an orphan, a strange girl messing up Astrid and Isabel’s perfect life.
Wasn’t she?
She flipped forward a few pages, landing on an entry dated that next spring when they were eleven.
March 19th
Claire and Iris spent the night last night. I’m so glad they’re my friends. Iris is so funny, and Claire is probably the sweetest person I’ve ever met. I don’t know what I’d do without them, especially with Delilah still ignoring me most of the time. Claire asked me about her last night while we were making cookies, about why Delilah never hangs out with us or talks to me. My face got kind of hot, and I didn’t know what to say.
My sister hates me?
My sister wishes she had a different family?
It was way too embarrassing to admit, even if it was true. So I just shrugged and said Delilah was a weirdo and that she just liked being by herself.
Iris nodded and called Delilah a super weirdo. Claire just frowned and went back to mixing the dough, and we didn’t say anything else about Delilah, but I knew my face was still really red, because it felt warm for the next hour. My chest hurt too, like it always does when I do something I know isn’t right, like I can’t breathe the right way or something.
Delilah slammed the book shut and tossed it onto the bed next her. Then she dived into the tub at her feet, searching for another journal. Her hands were shaking because none of this was right. It couldn’t be right.
She grabbed a hunter-green journal a few books down in the stack. Opening it, she found the date, placing it when she and Astrid were in high school, ages fifteen to sixteen. A quick scan of the first pages filled her with relief—her name didn’t litter the writing—until she got to the middle, where Delilah seemed to appear every other word.
January 11th
I swear to god, I hate my mother. Sometimes I feel like I can’t talk, can’t think for myself at all. I’m just a doll, programmed only to say “yes, Mom” and “okay, Mom” and “whatever you want, Mom.” I’m so sick of it. Sometimes, I think Delilah had the right idea—just be a total bitch to everyone, and eventually, they’ll leave you alone. I mean, Mom asks her about her schoolwork and makes sure she won’t do anything to sully the great Parker-Green household, dragging her to a few fundraisers here and there, but for the most part, Mom leaves her alone.
Why can’t she leave me alone?
I wonder all the time what Delilah thinks about the horror show that is my mom and me. She’s probably relieved she doesn’t have to deal with it. Not that she’d tell me if she was. If we’re not at school or forced to the dinner table by Mom, Delilah’s in her room, reading or doing I don’t even know what. Anytime I try to get her to come out, she barely acknowledges my questions with a grunt. Like last week, I asked her if she wanted to come with me to the bookstore. I figured this would get her attention. She loves River Wild Books. It’s the only place she goes to in town. Claire always tells me when she sees Delilah there, which is at least a few times a week after school. But when I asked her to go? It was a flat-out “No thanks.” Even when I asked her why not, she just shrugged and mumbled something about how she was just there yesterday, like that’s ever stopped her before. Logical conclusion—she just doesn’t want to go with me.
Which, fine, whatever. I learned a long time ago that nothing I ever did would be enough for Delilah. I don’t need a sister anyway.
Delilah dropped the book into her lap, the blue letters blurring and swirling in her vision. Her chest felt tighter than it ever had before. She had to get out of here. She needed out, right now.
Standing, she let the journal fall from her lap and onto the floor. She rushed to the door, but before she could make her way through it, Claire appeared, her wide eyes softening when she spotted Delilah.
“There you are,” she said. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to meet you. I was watching out the window, but then Isabel—” She froze, her expression shifting back into worry, even alarm as she peered at Delilah. “You okay?”