Nest by Esther Ehrlich Read Free Book Online

cabinet next to the stove and dig in.
    “We’re well stocked today, honey. Help yourself,” Mrs. Trowbridge says, grabbing a pink can of Tab from the fridge and heading back to the sofa in the den to catch the end of
As the World Turns
, her favorite soap opera.
    I’m crouched in front of the open cabinet, staring.
    “C’mon, Chirp, let’s go to the basement and work on our dance routine,” Sally says, biting into her Ring Ding.
    “Hold on,” I say. I love looking at the pictures on the boxes. I love reading the descriptions: “Frosted Creme-Filled Devil’s Food Cakes.” “Sweet Glazed Crispy-Light Popcorn Snack.”
    “You can always come back for more.”
    I’ve been playing at Sally’s house since I was little,but I still can’t quite believe that the treats won’t disappear,
poof
, as soon as I walk away.
    “Chirp!” Sally’s tugging on my shoulder.
    I grab a Ring Ding and a Yodel and another Ring Ding and follow Sally down the steep wooden steps into the basement. By the time my feet hit the green shag rug, I’ve eaten all of the first Ring Ding and half of the Yodel.
    “Don’t your parents feed you?” Sally laughs, shaking her head so her wavy blond hair bounces around.
    “Yeah,” I say, “a strict diet of Fig Newtons with a few Oreos thrown in.”
    “You’re
too much
, Chirp.
Too much
,” Sally says, which cracks me up, since she sounds exactly like her grandma, who I see every year at Sally’s birthday party.
    Sally walks over to the record player. “What part of our routine should we work on?” she asks.
    “I don’t know. I can barely remember what we came up with last time.”
    We’ve been choreographing a dance to “Help!” by the Beatles since we were in third grade. Our bad habit is that we let too much time go by between practice sessions, and then when we finally get together, we’ve forgotten the routine or it feels babyish.
    “I have an idea,” I say. “How about if we have a dance party instead?”
    “But we should finish—”
    “I could
really
use a dance party.”
    Sally opens her mouth like she’s about to argue with me, but then I see in her eyes that she remembers Mom and back-to-school night last week, though I know she won’t say anything. Sally doesn’t talk much, especially about hard stuff. When we get together, we eat and dance. Dance and eat.
    “Party!” Sally shouts, plugging in the lava lamp on the Formica bar top.
    “Party!” I drag the beanbag chairs out of the middle of the room.
    You can stack six 45s on Sally’s record player and they’ll play in a row, which is perfect for a party. Sally chooses our tunes.
    “Let the
r-r-r
-records
r-r-r
-roll!” I yell.
    “For our first song, let’s see you get down and dirty to Stevie Wonder’s ‘Signed, Sealed, Delivered’!” Sally says, like she’s a DJ.
    I start out calm enough, but soon the thumping of the music sneaks inside me and settles in my feet. I’m stomping, stomping, stomping, and Sally is, too. Faster! Louder! We’re teenagers in the high school gym, stomping on the metal bleachers, cheering for our basketball team.
    “Jump!” Sally yells, and now we’re jumping up and down with our arms above our heads.
    “Twist!” I yell. We twist and jump like wild rabbits getting their kinks out.
    When I start whirling in circles, Sally copies me. Our hair’s whipping around and the room’s spinning.We’re bonking into the beanbag chairs. Watch out! We’re shiny silver balls in a pinball machine! Sally takes the hem of her T-shirt and sticks it through the collar and yanks it down so it turns into a T-shirt bikini top. I turn my shirt into a bikini top, too, and now our bellies are out. Our bellies are out and we’re wiggling them. We’re wiggling our bellies and we’re wiggling our hips and we’re wet with sweat, and when David Cassidy sings
“I think I love you,”
we know he’s singing to us. He’s got to be singing to us, because we’re just so filled up with