Page 87 of The Rebel
Of course Paris pushed up the sleeve of his t-shirt and flexed his bulging muscle for me.
“Oh, about as big as Jade’s,” I said nonchalantly, or was that carelessly?
“Huh?” Paris grunted.
Now Dad was looking at me sideways. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned Jade in as many minutes. And how do you know how big his biceps are?”
My cheeks were heating up like a thermo nuclear reactor. “Uh, well, you know, the Sinclairs have a home gym. In the house,” I said as if that was common knowledge and nothing to do with being held by Jade’s big strong arms. In sheer panic, I changed the subject. “Ahh, I thought Volley had run away, he was lost and I couldn’t find him anywhere. He wasn’t coming when I called him. Jade and Oliver had to come help me look for him.”
Gah, there I was again, mentioning Jade, but at least in my ramble I did include Oliver. I hoped Dad noticed that.
“What? Well, where was he? He wasn’t hurt, was he?” Paris was almost beside himself with worry.
“No, he was just locked in the garage,” I said.
“How did he get into the garage?” Mom asked.
“I came home from school...” I started to say before realizing that if I kept talking I was going to incriminate myself—the car was only to be used in emergencies, not on an everyday basis to get to school.
“What were you doing in the garage?” Mom’s sharp ears didn’t miss a thing, “There hasn’t been a—”
“Was he stuck in there all day?” Paris butted in. “While you were at school?”
“No, not, no—” I needed another diversion, but my brain was scrambled.
“So what were you getting in the garage?” Mom pressed.
“What?” I said, pretending to be super engrossed in measuring out a tablespoon of raisins into Paris’s oatmeal. “Hey, what fresh fruit do you have? Any blueberries?”
Paris shook his head and sneered in Mom and Dad’s direction. “No, there’s no blueberries.”
“That’s so slack. I need to write a shopping list of what you need,” I said.
“So is Volley somehow opening the door to the garage? Letting himself in there?” Mom didn’t seem to be able to let it go.
I scowled at her and ignored her stupid question, my attention on Paris. “Has the food generally been okay?”
“Not too bad,” he said. “French food was nice. We had this delicious bread, a baguette, really yum.”
Mom and Dad were chuckling together. With my fingertips, I sprinkled a dash of cinnamon on Paris’s bowl. Not only did cinnamon add flavor and smell good, it had anti-inflammatory properties which could help with recovery. I was impressed that they’d remembered to buy some.
“I’m going to have to zap this in the microwave,” I said, “but I’ll soak some overnight for tomorrow.”
“Awesome,” Paris said, giving me a knuckle bump. “I’m glad you’re here, Vali.” Funny how my brother’s words meant so much. The guilt of every negative thought, every bad wish aimed at my brother rolled over me—at times I’d been a horrible sister, not outwardly, but inside, in my heart where I’d resented and downright loathed Paris for all his success and attention.
“I’m glad I’m here too,” I whispered.
“I still feel like I need to get to the mystery of how Volley got locked in the garage,” Mom said, interrupting the sibling moment.
“Yes, I’m curious, too,” Dad said.
Paris shook his head, “What’s up with you two? What are you on about?”
“Valencia?” Mom said my name in a slightly menacing lilt.
“Poppet seems to forget we have security cameras...” Dad said. I gasped.
“Were you going to tell us you were driving to school everyday? Didn’t we say for emergencies only?” Mom said.
