Secrets in the Attic (Secrets 1)

"I don't feel well," she said. "I still have a bad headache."

"Still? So what's wrong? Did you go to a doctor?"

"I don't have to go to a doctor, Zipporah. Just leave me alone for now," she said, and started to close the door.

I put my foot in the way.

"I won't, Karen. I'm your best friend, whether you like it or not," I said, which sounded stupid the moment I said it.

She paused and stared at me.

"You don't want to be my best friend," she said, in a voice that sounded as if she were talking in her sleep. "Why not? Why shouldn't I want to be your best friend? Well?" I demanded. I still had my foot in her doorway.

She looked at it and then at me again.

"When you're someone's best friend, you have to share their pain and suffering and all their mistakes as well as their happiness, Zipporah, and you don't want to do that when it comes to me."

"How do you know what I want to do?"

"I know what you can do. Take my word for it, Zipporah. If I were in your shoes, that's the way I would be."

"Well, you're not in my shoes." I looked at her feet. "You're not even wearing shoes."

She tried to remain serious and firm, but when I said that, she just couldn't help smiling. She turned away to hide it and took a deep breath.

"Look, because I am your best friend, I won't let you be mine Can you understand that?"

"No, Karen. I'm too stupid. Enlighten me?'

She shook her head.

"Go home, Zipporah."

"I'll camp out right here until your mother comes home," I warned, and saw that got to her. Her eyes widened, and she pressed her lips together hard.

"Okay," she said, lowering her shoulders. "You asked for it. Come on."

She turned and walked toward the stairway. I hesitated. Now that I had gotten what I wanted, did I want it? I had put on a brave face, but I was trembling. Without turning back, she silently continued up the stairs and into her room. I entered the house, closed the front door, and followed, my heartbeat quickening with each step.

"Close the door," she said when I stepped into her bedroom.

Why close the door? There's no one else home. I did it anyway and stood there, waiting. The curtains were still drawn closed, and there were no lights on.

"Can I put on the light?"

She nodded, and I did so.

She had a bedroom as large and as nice as mine, maybe even nicer, because her bathroom was what we learned the French called en suite, whereas I had to go out and down the hallway to get to the bathroom that my parents designated as mine The fixtures in our house had more style but were older. Sometimes the pipes knocked, and since we had been living in the Doral house, we'd had plumbers come out to repair things at least six times. One time, because of a lightning storm, we lost the submersible pump that produced our water. We were too far from the village to have municipal water and sewer. We had a septic tank, and my father was always worrying about it.

In my bathroom, I had a combination tub and shower, and if I forgot to turn the knob after I had taken a shower, I'd get soaked leaning over to turn the water on for a bath. Karen had a stall shower and a tub.

The one thing I liked better in my room was my wooden floor. It was thick, rich wood that could take on a sheen when polished. Karen had a beaten-down, knotty-looking shag rug she said was probably full of mold, because it always felt damp beneath her feet. It was stained before she and her mother had moved into the Pearson house. Her closets were bigger, but I had more to hang up than she did, and I had nicer furnishings--a canopy bed with pink swirls in the headboard that made it look like cherry vanilla ice cream, two matching dressers, and a marble vanity table, as well as a bleached oak desk. Also, I had my own television set in my room now, and we seemed to get better reception than the people in the village, because we were on higher ground.

Karen didn't say anything else. She returned to her bed and sat with her back against the propped-up pillows, her hands folded in her lap. She stared down at her hands. I remained there, feeling foolish.

"So?" I finally said. "I asked for it, so tell me. What's wrong?"

She lifted her head slowly and looked at me with such pain in her eyes I thought whatever it was, it was surely my fault. What could I have possibly done?