Don't Kiss Him Good-Bye by Sandra Byrd Read Free Book Online

the dog show with me this weekend. Thanks, Savvy.”
    “Anything for you, kid.” I handed her the WA  Times .
    She took the paper and ran upstairs, Growl galloping after her, his low-slung belly shaving the carpet.
    “You’re going to have to lay off the treats if you’re going to do dog shows,” I called after him. As if he cared.
    I headed into the kitchen and pulled out the box of Weetabix. I hadn’t even put milk in the bowl yet when Louanne slunk back downstairs. “What’s with you? You look like someone pushed you off the bus four stops early.”
    “Nothing,” she said.
    “Want to play a game?” I hated to see her so down. Usually a rousing game of Monopoly or Scrabble would cheer her up.
    “No thanks,” she said.
    “Want to talk about animals?” I asked. “You know, a lot of my friends have two pets—Penny, Hazelle, and Ashley each have two dogs. Maybe you should ask Mom and Dad for a friend for Giggle.”
    At that, she practically stumbled over the sofa in an effort to get away from me. “Gotta go do my homework. Bye.” She bolted from the room again, Giggle wheezing after her.
    I headed upstairs and plopped my homework on my dresser. I stared at Voilà! C’est la France! and decided I’d better catch up on my French homework later that night. I looked at the pile in the corner—a tossed salad of clothes that I didn’t like anymore, that were not very flattering, that were the wrong color, that I didn’t want to fold and hoped my mother would rewash and fold for me. Then I looked at my guitar.
    Only thirteen days till the April Fools show, I thought. I wondered if Rhys would ask about it again. He might be a little interested in Christianity. Maybe. And this could be the event that helped him see that Christians were normal and fun. I’d better pick my song soon and e-mail it to Joe for his approval.
    For some reason, though, I just couldn’t get up the desire to play the guitar right then. I watched BBC on the telly, and then it was dinnertime. Here’s how the conversation went:
    Dad: “This tomato soup is very good, dear—especially on a rainy night. Are you starting to think about planting your garden?”
    Mom: “I’d love to get my hands on the patch out back—I just don’t know, though. The property is Aunt Maude’s, not mine, and we’d have to dig out so many weeds.”
    Me: “We can help you weed it, Mom. I’m sure Aunt Maude would be glad to have it all cleared out and prettied up.”
    Louanne: “I feel sick! Please excuse me!” And she ran from the table, leaving her napkin to flutter to the floor.
    Dad looked at Mom and then at me. “What was that all about?”
    “I don’t know,” Mom said. “She’s been acting strange lately. I’ve asked her if everything is okay at school, and she says yes. But she seems to be teary a lot. Savvy, do you know what’s up?”
    I chewed and swallowed the last rubbery nub of tangy English Cheshire cheese from the bottom of my soup bowl before answering. “Nope. I noticed it too. I’ll see if I can find out.”

Chapter 19

    Late that night, after Louanne was snoozing, Growl curled in a nest of blankets at the foot of her bed. The tinny sounds of late-night telly came from behind my parents’ bedroom door, and I sat cross-legged on the floor of my own room. My shiny rosewood guitar—the one big item I was allowed to bring to London from Seattle—sat next to me, quietly, comfortably, like the old, faithful friend it was. I looked through my sheet music. Usually a particular song would call to me from the dotted black staccato of notes bursting on a page. I could hear the music in my head as I read it, begging to be let out. But not now.
    I stood and looked out my window. It still got cold at night, and condensation beaded up in the corners of my old-fashioned glass panes. When enough droplets gathered together, they joined strength and coursed down the glass like a teardrop. I watched them for a minute, then looked out on the