Missing by Becky Citra Read Free Book Online

ride all the time,” I say. I didn’t plan to tell Van this. It just kind of spills out. “My mom and dad trained horses. Dad taught me how to ride when I was about three. I’ve got a picture of me sitting in front of him on his horse. When I was seven, they bought me an awesome horse called Monty.”
    â€œReally?” says Van. He sounds interested. Not annoyed anymore. “What happened?”
    â€œWhat do you mean, what happened?”
    â€œWell, your dad’s fixing up cabins right now. That’s not exactly training horses. And you’ve never said anything about your mom.”
    Now I’m really wishing that I had kept my mouth shut. I go for the condensed version. “Mom died in a riding accident when I was nine. We sold our stable. The rest is history.”
    I know I sound flippant but it’s the only way I can deal with this. I’ve never talked about it to anyone. Everyone says it’s better to let things out instead of bottling them up inside. I’ve never tested out that theory. Neither has Dad. I’ve already told Van more than I meant to. And I don’t feel better. I just feel kind of scraped out inside.
    â€œYou must miss your mom,” says Van.
    â€œActually I don’t.”
    I’ve had enough. I jump down from the rail. Van jumps down beside me. “You must have hated giving up your horse.”
    I don’t say anything.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he says.
    I shrug. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
    It’s not exactly a lie, what I’ve told him, unless you can lie by leaving things out. There’s no way I’m going to tell Van about Mom leaving us. It’s complicated, way more complicated than Van thinks.
    To his credit, he shuts up.

    Van ends up staying for dinner. He phones home from the lodge. I’m in the kitchen, slicing tomatoes for a salad, and Tully’s frying hamburger meat for tacos. I can hear Van saying, “Just tell Mom. Okay? It’s none of your business. Just tell Mom.”
    â€œSisters,” he says when he gets off. “You’re lucky you don’t have any.”
    After we eat, Tully makes tea. We linger around the table and Tully tells stories about the Masai Mara in Africa. Dad and Van especially like hearing how it’s the women who build the houses. They cover them with cow dung. Honestly.
    â€œCome to think of it, the women do most of the work,” says Tully.
    â€œWe should move there,” says Dad, and Van snickers.
    â€œHa, ha,” I say.
    But I wouldn’t mind going to Africa and seeing some of the things Tully’s seen. I add that to my list of dreams—travel the world.

    Van and I take Max and Bob for a walk after dinner. (Tinker is asleep on her bed, exhausted from chasing squirrels all afternoon, and won’t budge.) We follow the dusty road that leads along the lakeshore, past the cabins. Between the trees, the lake glitters in the setting sun. A quavering cry breaks the stillness, sending goose bumps up my arms. Van says, “It’s a loon. There’s a pair that nests here. They come every year. They nest on the island in the middle of the lake.”
    â€œI heard them one night,” I say, “but I didn’t know what it was.”
    The loon cries again, and this time there’s an answering warble, far down the lake. I think about how cool it is that Van knows they come every year and where they nest. Dad and I will be gone in the winter, but Van will still be here. He’s told me how he and his dad build a skating rink on the lake. It’s hard to picture on this warm summer night, and I wish that I could see it.
    Piles of rubble are heaped up outside cabin five, along with stacks of tarp-covered lumber and several sawhorses. Sawdust carpets the ground. We peek in the door. Most of the inside has been ripped out. The walls between the bedroom, the bathroom and the main room still stand,