Rippler by Cindy Read Free Book Online Page B

she couldn’t grab me or figure out where I was. She tried a lot before she figured out it didn’t work. She said that the air got really cold where I rippled, though, so sometimes she could tell I was still in the room, and she’d bribe me to come back and play.”
    I guffawed, picturing Will being forced to play dolls with his sister.
    “You tell anyone about the Barbies and you’re toast,” he said, grinning.
    “So, where does your body ‘go’ when you ripple?”
    “No idea.”
    “Creepy. So, it’s a good thing that I know how to come back, then.”
    Will nodded, fingering the pink rock I had set down. “When I was little, I’d see
    something and want it, and if I was invisible, I couldn’t grab it. I remember that really pissed me off.”
    “There go my plans to decimate the Merced Mall.”
    He looked over at me to see if I was serious.
    “I’m joking.”
    “It would appeal to plenty of people. My dad, for instance. Mickie wasn’t stretching it when she said he’d sell me to the highest bidder. Or sell you. He’s never cared about anything but his next fix. Least, since I’ve been alive.” Will nudged a couple of large rocks into the creek with his foot. “Mom died thanks to his habit.”
    I thought Will had said breast cancer, but I didn’t want to bring up things he might not want to talk about. I had led a sheltered existence compared to Will. I had parents, normal parents, who actually loved me; Will only had Mickie.
    He stood and repositioned himself at the edge of the creek, squatting. I couldn’t see his face. He doused his hands, face, and hair.
    “Hoooo-eeee,” he hollered, “that’s some cold water.” He turned and grinned at me.

    I smiled back and then gazed at the golden creek once more. The surging water would plunge over Illilouette Fall then join the Merced River where Will had first seen me vanish.
    All at once it hit me: There’d been water each of the times I’d disappeared.
    “Will! It’s water! Water is what makes me vanish.”
    “Huh?”
    “Get this, Will: I love water. It completely relaxes me to stare at a river or lake or, well, anything with water.” Suddenly I saw a flash from the day we buried Mom; I’d held it together staring at falling snow and icicles all day. Goosebumps ran along my arms as I realized something else that had happened that day—something I just realized. I’d rippled .
    “Huh,” Will grunted. “Water. That’s different.”
    “How do you ripple?” I asked.
    “Me? Oh, uh . . . hmmm . . .” His eyes took on a glazed-over, far-away look. “I kind of go inside myself, to a space where it’s really calm and peaceful. Then I’m gone.”
    Could I learn to do that? Instead of staring at water? Not that I wanted to do this more often.
    Will interrupted my thoughts. “If water calms you, that makes sense. Have you always found water soothing?”
    “As far back as I can remember. Dad says Mom called me her water-baby.”
    “Huh,” said Will. “I wonder why you didn’t ripple more when you were . . . you
    know . . . before your Mom passed.”
    I hesitated a second but decided to tell him what I’d just figured out. “The day we buried Mom, I must have rippled; people said they couldn’t find me. There were icicles hanging from the eaves by my bedroom window seat. I watched drops slide down the spokes and hang a moment before freezing. It was like the house cried for Mom. Those icicles, they were like these pure, perfect things.
    “I heard people talking about me, downstairs. How resourceful I’d been calling 9-1-1, how brave I was. Which was a bunch of crap. Maybe shell-shocked and brave look the same to adults. I mean, I hadn’t cried. Not since the ambulance came to take Maggie and my mom away. But that didn’t mean I felt brave. Just . . . anesthetized.”
    Will sat silent. My eyes blurred and I realized I was crying. Will didn’t judge or
    comment. I kept talking.
    “I sat there all day looking out my window and