She opened it a crack. “I’m writing a story and I was just working on the dialogue!” she said, before I could apologize.

She backed away from the door, and I followed her inside.

It had been a while since I’d been in her room. She’s too worried that I’ll break something. Even our mother isn’t supposed to go in there, according to Kasey. If I banned my parents from my bedroom, they’d assume I was operating an international drug cartel, but Kasey’s always been the well-behaved daughter, so she gets away with it.

I stared at the dolls, which were lined up on the built-in shelves like a sinister chorus. There wasn’t room for all of them—there were more in an old cabinet squeezed between the bed and the window, and half the closet was filled with them too.

Kasey had rag dolls, porcelain dolls, talking dolls, peeing dolls, baby dolls, dolls in elaborate costumes, and dolls stripped down to their pantaloons (like the poor new girl, whichever one she was). Some were so old and used that their soft, smooth cheeks had been worn to a shine. Some were brand new. Some were half bald. Some were pristine.

But they were all creepy. It was the only quality they shared.

I was dying to photograph some of them, but that was just unheard of. Impossible.

Kasey seemed to realize for the first time that I’d entered the forbidden zone.

“Let’s go talk somewhere else,” she said, trying to sound chipper.

“You’re utterly transparent,” I said.

But I let her guide me out into the hallway and back to my room. We both flopped backward on my bed, and she grabbed my old blue teddy bear, Mr. Teeth, and started tossing him into the air.

“How was school?” she asked, in the tone of voice that means she wants something.

“Fantastic,” I answered. “How about for you?”

She hugged the bear tight to her chest. “Not so great.”

“No? What happened?”

She shrugged and yawned. “Don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.” Let’s see, a half-hour whinefest about the middle school cafeteria running out of pudding versus peace and quiet? I didn’t press for details.

“Hey, Lexi,” she said, her voice small and hopeful. “Did you do an ancestor report in eighth grade?”

“Don’t remember.”

“Everybody does one.”

“Then yeah, I guess.”

“Do you still have it?”

“I must,” I said. I’m a pack rat, like my mom. Thankfully I’m also obsessively neat, like my dad. I even have file cabinets of my very own. (Thanks, Santa!) “I wouldn’t have thrown it away. Why do you ask?”

“I have to do one,” she said. “And it’s hard.”

“When’s it due?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Kasey!” I said, sitting up. “You always do this!” Every couple of months, it seemed, the whole household was thrown into chaos because of some academic crisis caused by Kasey’s poor planning.

I thought she might cry. “I know, but I can’t help it.”

“That’s a cop-out. You could. If you tried.”

She pulled Mr. Teeth tightly across her face. “I know. I know. I know, I know, I know, I know, I know—”

“God, stop!” I said, grabbing the bear away. This was the way most of her weird moody spells started—she’d get all wound up about nothing.

She closed her eyes and sighed. “You don’t have to help me.”

“Seriously, tomorrow?”

She nodded. She looked completely miserable all of a sudden. Her face had gone all splotchy, and her blue eyes were bright like she might start crying.

Kasey’s in eighth grade. That means she has less than a year to pull herself together enough to survive being my sister at Surrey High.

She’s supersmart, but it’s the kind of smart that makes you think she’s going to end up a mad scientist. She can read something in a book and remember it exactly. She can’t see scary movies because she’ll remember all the scary parts perfectly and have nightmares for months. I’m smart too, but I’m more like “take the toaster apart and put it back together and, lo and behold, it still works” smart.

“I’ll help you, I guess,” I said. “You can’t just not turn one in.”

She made a gurgly sighing noise. “Oh, thank you.” “You should try to plan ahead next time.” She sniffed. “Who are you, Mom?” I whomped her with Mr. Teeth.

“Is it in your files?” she asked, popping up off the bed. “Can I look?”

“I’ll find it for you,” I said. “Later. Right now I need a nap.”

“Yay, yay, yay,” she said, dancing out into the hallway. One second, the weight of the world. The next, lighter than air. Must be nice.

A thought occurred to me. “Hey, Kase, come back,” I called. “I heard the stupidest thing today.”

She reappeared in the doorway, looking at me curiously.

“It’s dumb,” I said. “It’s silly…it’s just something Pepper Laird said.”

Her eyes were still wide, but a deep crease spread over her forehead.

“When Mimi broke her arm, that was an accident, right?”

Kasey was quiet for a moment.

I swallowed hard. “I mean, Pepper’s totally stupid, I just thought I’d ask.”

“They’re both stupid,” Kasey said. “Stupid Pepper and stupid Mimi.”

“Right,” I said. “So you aren’t friends with Mimi anymore?”

Kasey scooped Mr. Teeth off the bed and threw him at the headboard. “Mimi Laird is a fathead liar! She has no idea what she’s talking about! She’s just clumsy. She’s a liar. A clumsy liar.”

“Calm down, Kase,” I said. “Forget it. I believe you.”

“I hate Mimi, and I hate her stupid sister!” Kasey said, running out and slamming the door. The whole house shook.

I guess that could have gone better.

I settled back onto my pillow and let my eyes close, lulled by the sound of the blinds rattling in the wind.

I dreamed I was standing on an island in a swamp full of alligators. I could see their backs floating in the water, like logs. And then I saw Kasey swimming toward me, blissfully unaware of the predators that surrounded her. So I pulled out a rifle and shot any alligator that got close to her. Then Kasey was with me on the island, braiding my hair and singing me Christmas carols. And a battered doll in a ripped petticoat came out of the water and walked over to us, but Kasey couldn’t see her. And the doll pointed at Kasey and looked at me and said, Your sister is crazy.

6

Ah, dinner at the warren home . At best, an adventure in awkward silence, punctuated by the occasional screech of a fork on a plate. At worst, an apocalypse. That night it seemed like we might be in for an easy ride.

I was in the kitchen when Dad showed up with Chinese food from the Golden Happy Family restaurant, which is like a huge joke. I doubt they would let us eat their food if they knew how far we were from being a golden happy family.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” I said, turning away.

Dad and I used to do all the father-daughter groups and camping trips and all that. But as I got older we stopped hanging out. Sometimes it feels like he’d rather spend all his time watching football and forget he even has a family. But every once in a while I miss the stuff we used to do together. He’d always made me laugh.

Lately he had this permanent sad-dog expression on his face, like he wished we could still be buddies or something—and I was pretty sure he didn’t know he was doing it. I couldn’t even look at him. Like now, I stared at the floor instead.

“I talked them into extra fortune cookies,” he said.

I didn’t want to see the “please be my friend” look in his eyes.

“Great,” I said, and ducked out of the kitchen. He stood there with his briefcase in his hand, his jacket draped over his arm. It was like a little knife stabbing me in the heart, to think I was hurting his feelings.

Oh well.

“Where’s Mom?” Kasey asked, slinking into the dining room and sitting in her usual chair.

Dad set the containers of food down in front of us. “Off saving the world from a critical stapler shortage.”