My idiot brother knocked my breakfast off the counter. I grabbed for the bowl, but it slipped through my fingers and shattered on the cement floor. His laugh echoed off the vaulted ceiling. Great. Nothing to eat and an early s
tart to the madness. At least my cereal was sans milk.
“You’re running out of time, Sasha. Only six months left.” He snaked his cane back across the kitchen island and jabbed the salt shaker towards me. “S
So not playing this curse game. I stuck out my tongue. “Careful or I’ll break your other leg.”
“Ah, but it’s your leg in danger. You need to work on the cure. Trust me. It’s easy.”
“Yeah? It’s easy?” I waved at his cane – evidence of his failure to cure this supposed curse.
“You must learn from my bad example.”
The salt shaker was halfway across the island.
“Marcus Willbee, you are deranged.”
“Don’t call me that.” His lower lip pushed out beyond the three hairs he called a moustache. The salt shaker wobbled. He whimpered. The cane clattered on the counter.
Shattering his leg had seriously mushed his brain. Dropping out of school sure didn’t help. I grabbed the broom and dustpan to sweep up the mess before Mom could come down and add her bit to the insanity.
“You were clumsy,” I said. “The curse doesn’t exist.” It better not exist. I was so not ending up like him. Not even for a complete absence of homework. No breaking mirrors. No popping umbrellas in the house. Stepping on a crack? Got me there. Maybe I’d go for breaking Mom’s back. Just a little fracture.
The bowl pieces screeched across the cement. Shivers slid down my back.
“You’ll rue the day you turn thirteen,” he said.
“No, I won’t.”
“Yes, you will.”
Finally. A hint of the older brother I knew and loved to argue with. Was there hope for us? The bowl shards and corn puffs tumbled into the trash can.
“What’s that!” Mom shrieked.
Too late. I dropped the broom and scampered out of range.
She flipped the lid on the trash. “Milk? Spilt milk!” She whipped around. “Did you cry? Cry!” She caught her breath. “Wait. Is it don’t cry?” Mom’s head jerked from Marcus, to the trash, and then to me. “Which is it? Cry? Don’t cry? Tell me!”
Silence fell in the wake of the hard wooden cane bashing against the hollow island. Marcus knew how to command attention. “It is salt.”
Mom yanked her long brown ponytail. “Salt? Who ever heard of crying over spilt salt?”
He lowered his head and looked at us through his bushy eyebrows. “She must spill salt. Neither milk nor crying are involved.”
“Salt. Not milk. No crying.” She held the salt shaker out to me. “Please?”
I backed up a step. There was no curse. There was no cure, especially not one steeped in bad luck.
Mom snatched out a chair and plopped down. “My fault. All my fault.” She s
tarted rocking, then dropped her head into her hands. Her shoulders shook. The wailing would s tart soon.
“Morning. What’s for breakf… Whoa.” Dad stopped short in the doorway. His ice blue eyes bulged under his hairless eyebrows. His gaze darted around the room and finally landed on the wall with the bird song clock. “Is that the time? Golf with a client. See you tonight.”
“Dad!” My hand reached out for him, but it was too late. He was the fastest escape artist I knew.
The clock’s minute hand reached twelve. The little bird popped out and spoke my family’s language. Cuckoo, indeed. Time to make my escape.
I took the stairs two at a time and locked my door. The only curse in this family was a distinct lack of sanity. I shoved myself under the bed and yanked on the box up against the wall. The velcro gave off a nice ripping sound. Nothing but a direct assault would dislodge that box.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and let it out slowly as I opened my box of treasures. The photo of me at one-day-old went beside similar photos of Marcus, Mom and Dad. Next I pulled out the copy of my birth certificate with the suspiciously crooked words. And last came the magnifying glass. There must be a chance I was adopted.