All the Things We Didn't Say by Sara Shepard Read Free Book Online

down his pen and stood up. ‘What about the cards?’ I called.
    â€˜I have no idea what to say,’ he answered flatly. His bedroom door slammed.
    I straightened my biology notes and looked at Claire, hoping my cheeks weren’t burning. ‘I’m sure my mother will do them when she gets back.’
    Claire’s eyes bulged. A clear, obvious thought slid across her face.
    â€˜ What? ’ I snapped. Claire looked down.
    When I shifted my books, Claire cleared her throat. ‘I saw you getting coffee for all those girls last week.’
    I bristled. ‘So?’
    Claire traced over a star on her notebook, not following the lines. It devolved from a star to a scribble. ‘It shouldn’t be your job to get coffee for everyone. You shouldn’t be their errand girl.’
    I clicked my pen on and off, gripped with anger. The girls I got coffee for were the same girls Claire used to be friends with-the girls, in fact, from the back of the bus. I volunteered to get coffee for them. It was not like they were holding me at gunpoint.
    Claire looked up at me, her gaze unwavering. There was such a sage look in her eye, as if she could see straight through my skin. It made me think of a recurring dream I sometimes had, the one where I had no outer covering. Everyone was able to see right through me to my organs and inside my brain, aware of what I was thinking and feeling at all times. I was called a Visible, and I had to go to a special schoolwith the rest of the Visibles. My mother, disappointed, showed me her high school yearbook and told me that she wasn’t a Visible when she was my age. It always catapulted me from sleep, causing me to run to the mirror and stare hard at my whole body, making sure my skin was still opaque.
    The digital clock on the microwave clicked now from 2:59 to 3:00. I pulled a Christmas card out of the box and held it in my hands for a long time. The pen cap unscrewed easily. I could do them. I had good handwriting. There weren’t that many, really.
    â€˜What are you doing up?’
    My father’s eyes were squinty slits. He had tied the belt of his robe in a messy knot around his waist.
    â€˜I’m doing the Christmas cards.’ I made a flourished squiggle on a piece of scrap paper. My mother always used excellent pens for Christmas cards and other correspondence. Fluid ink, fine-tipped, with a gold handle.
    My father sat down next to me at the table, watching as I addressed the first one. It was to a Dr and Mrs Myron Finkelstein. I had no idea who they were. I decided I would just sign my mother and my father’s names and not include any sort of holiday greeting. I wrote out their address, slid the card in the envelope, and licked it to seal.
    â€˜You don’t have to do that,’ my father said quietly.
    â€˜I’m sure Mom will appreciate it once she comes back.’
    â€˜Summer,’ my father began. His voice sounded funny, as if there were hands wrapped around his neck. ‘Summer…Mrs Ryan and I were talking. About…this.’
    I stopped writing out the address for Dr Melissa Hailey and looked at him sharply, almost punishingly. ‘Why did you tell her ?’
    â€˜Mrs Ryan and I are kind of in the same position.’
    â€˜No, you’re not.’
    He folded his hands on the table. I shut my eyes, hopingthat he wouldn’t say anything else. Finally, I heard him sigh. ‘We’ll do shifts. You work for a half-hour, and then I’ll work on them for another half-hour. We’ll get done faster that way.’
    I watched as he walked to the living room and stretched out on the couch. The light of the Christmas tree cast pale yellow light over his cheeks, making him look like a kid. Across the harbor, the buildings’ lights twinkled sweetly.
    I scratched out all the envelopes, trying to keep my handwriting as neat as possible, listening to the kitchen clock ticking. I signed my parents’