Chapter One On Labor Day my mother and brother piled the station wagon with all our things. Well, except for the ones that had already gone ahead, our furniture and books, on the Whiteflower Van Lines moving truck. So our car is packed with suitcases, duffel bags, Dad's hats, our computer, and our two cats. We stood on Lincoln Street in front of our house--I refuse to say "our old house," even though it's been sold and new people are about to move in--and Mom told us to say goodbye. I felt like an invisible girl observing the scene: Mom, shorter than I am, thin, shoulder-length brownish hair, wearing jeans and one of Dad's old shirts; Travis, a beanpole with shoulders from all that football, dark brown hair in his blue eyes, Dad's blue eyes--the men in our family have dark blue eyes, Carrie's are light blue, and Mom and I have hazel. Both Mom and Travis were looking at our house, white with green shutters--I painted those shutters with Carrie and Travis just last summer--and the two maple trees and the dogwoods and big magnolia in the front yard, shady and nice. Carrie taught me how to climb those trees. Mom looked up at Carrie's room. Travis stood there with his hands in his pockets, gaze as blank as the windows he was staring at. Actually, that's a lie. He had frown lines between his eyebrows. How could he not, about to leave the only house our family had ever known? Me, I refused to say goodbye. If you don't shut the door on something, it means you can always walk back through, right? Mom taped a note on the door. Can you believe that? As if Carrie is just going to walk up the sidewalk and read that we've gone to Newport. Just as if we've gone to the store, or to the ball field, and will meet her back here for dinner. It's sad, if you think about it. Not just that Carrie won't be home to read any note, but that Mom would even think of leaving one for her. Anyway, we turned and got in the car. Travis sits up front with Mom. I ride in back with the cats. Neither Travis nor I mention the note, but we do give each other a look. Strange, his eyebrows say to me. Whacked, my grimace says to him. So that's how we left Columbus: one of us snuffling, one of us frowning, one of us petting cats. At fourteen, almost fifteen, I'm too young to drive. But Travis is sixteen, so he helps Mom out, taking the wheel for hours at a stretch. They keep asking me if I want to pick the radio station, or if I'm hungry and want to stop, or if I need to use the restroom. But nothing can pry words out of me. I just ride in back, hunched up into a ball, reaching into the cat carriers to pet Desdemona and Grisby. Des is mine. Grisby was my sister's. I'm taking care of her now. I have what's called "stubborn anger." That's what the shrink said. Because everything is wrong. What happened last summer made me lose my mind. That's different from stubborn anger. That's not being able to stand the feeling of air on your skin because your sister is gone. For months afterward, I couldn't draw a breath without feeling someone had stuck a knife into my heart. My mother thinks it's just normal grief, but it's not. My grades, well, let's just say they have suffered. English, C; Earth Science, B2; Art, D; Geometry, A. I'm okay in math, so even though I haven't applied myself, I get by. I skipped regular math last year, went straight into high school geometry. The strange thing is, I've been dreaming in math. Figures, equations, notations--as if there was a problem to solve, and it involved numbers instead of words. Words get in the way. Numbers don't lie. We are two sisters; add us up. Carrie + Beck = Us. My friends have gathered round me... kind of, anyway. The ones who haven't deserted me, that is. The ones who still speak to me have held me up, carried me through. I couldn't have survived without them. I'm holding on to the fact that Excerpted from The Geometry of Sisters by Luanne Rice All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.