John Amos knew. "Now you go home with Cindy, keep the brat quiet, lock yourself in your room, play dumb, know nothing. And remember . . . you threaten that kid sister so horribly she'll be scared to let out a squeak."

"She's not my kid sister," I whispered weakly.

&

nbsp; "What's the difference?" he snarled irritably. "You just do as I say. Follow instructions, as God wants men to believe in him unquestioningly--and never let out to your brother or your father that you know his secret, or that you have any idea where your mother went. Play dumb. You should be good at that."

What did he mean? Was he making fun of me?

I knitted my brows and turned on my best glower, and imitated Malcolm. "You hear this, John Amos.

The day you can out-smart me will be the day the earth sits on the head of a pin, and I swallow it. So don't you mock me, and think I'm dumb . . . for in the end, I'll win. I'll always win, dead or alive."

Power swelled up huge within me. Never felt so stuffed full of brains. I looked down at the two women I loved. Yes, God had planned for it to happen this way, give me two mothers to keep forever as my own . . . and I'd never be lonely again.

"Now you keep your mouth shut, and don't tell Daddy or Jory one word or I'll cut out your tongue," I said to Cindy when we were home and in our kitchen together. "Do you want your tongue cut out?"

Her small face was wet with rain and tears, streaked with dirt too. Her lips gaped and her eyes bulged, and whimpering like a baby, she allowed me to put on her pajamas and put her in bed. I kept my eyes closed all the time so none of her girl's body would shame me into hating her more.

Where's Momma?

. There was somebody I had to tell off. Somebody who seemed to have started a tornado that was going on forever and ruining our lives. Dad and I had talked about it a lot, but things were still very tense and I was so confused. Why did she have to come and start all this? Finally I could hold in my anger no longer, and as soon as ballet class was over, I raced to Madame's office.

"I hate you, Madame, for all the mean things you said to my mom. Everything's been terrible ever since that day. You leave her alone from now on, or I'll go and never come back to see you. Did you fly all the way here just to make her sick? She can't dance now, and that's bad enough. If you don't stop causing so much trouble, I'll quit dancing too. I'll run away and you'll never see me again. For in ruining my parents' lives, you have managed to ruin not only theirs, but mine and Bart's too."

She paled and looked very old. "You sound so very much like your father. Julian used to blaze his dark eyes at me in the same way."

"I used to love you."

"Used to love me . . . ?" "Yes, used to. When I thought you cared about me, about my parents, then I believed that dancing was the most wonderful thing in the world. Now I don't believe."

She looked stricken, as if I'd stabbed her in her heart. She reeled back against the wall and would have fallen if I hadn't stepped forward to support her. "Jory, please," she gasped, "don't ever run away. Don't stop dancing. If you do, then my life has been meaningless, and Georges will have lived for nothing, and Julian too. Don't take everything from those I have loved and lost."

I couldn't speak, I was so confused. So I ran, ran like Bart always ran when things got too heavy.

Behind me Melodie called out: "Jory, where are you going in such a hurry? We were going to have a soda together."

I ran on. I didn't care anymore about anyone or anything. My life was all screwed up. My parents weren't married. How could they be? What minister or judge would marry a brother and his sister?

Once I hit the sidewalk I slowed down, then went on to a public park where I sat down on a green bench. On and on I sat, staring down at my feet. A dancer's feet. Strong, tough with calluses, ready for the professional stage. What would I do now when I grew up? I didn't really want to be a doctor, though I'd said that a few times just to please the man I loved as a father. What a joke. Why should I try and lie to myself--there was no life for me without dancing. When I punished Madame, my mother, my stepdad who was really only my uncle, I punished myself even worse.

I stood up and looked around at all the old people sitting lonely in the park, wondering if one day I'd be like them, and I thought, No. I'll know when to say I made a mistake. When to say I'm sorry.

Madame M. was in her office, her head bowed down into her thin hands when I opened the door quietly and stepped inside her office. I must have made some noise, for she looked up and I saw tears in her eyes. Joy flooded them when she saw me, but she didn't mention all that had happened half an hour ago.

"I have a gift for your mother," she said in her naturally shrill voice. She slid open a desk drawer and withdrew a gold box bound with red satin ribbon. "For Catherine," she said stiffly, not meeting my eyes. "You are right about everything. I was ready to take you from your mother and father because I felt I was doing the right thing for you. I see now I was doing what I wanted for myself, not for you. Sons belong with their mothers, not their grandmothers." She smiled bitterly as she looked at the pretty gold box. "Lady Godiva candy. The kind your mother was nuts about when she lived in New York and was with Madame Zolta's company. Then she couldn't eat chocolates for fear of adding weight--though she was the kind of dancer who burned off more calories than most when she danced-- still I allowed her only one piece of candy a week. Now that she won't dance again, she can indulge to her heart's desire."

That was Bart's phrase.

"Mom has an awful cold," I explained just as stiffly as she had. "Thank you for the candy and what you just said. I know Mom will feel better knowing you won't try and take me away from her." I grinned then and kissed her dry cheek. "Besides, don't you realize there is enough of me to share? If you aren't stingy, she won't be. Mom is wonderful. Not once has she ever told me you and she had any difficulties." I settled down in her single office chair and crossed my legs. "Madame, I'm scared. Things are going crazy in our house. Bart acts weirder each day. Mom is sick with that cold; Dad seems so unhappy. Clover is dead. Emma doesn't smile anymore. Christmas is coming and nothing is being done about it. If this keeps up, I think I'll crack up myself."

"Hah!" she snorted, back to her old self. "Life is always like that--twenty minutes of misery for every two seconds of joy. So, be everlastingly grateful for those rare two seconds and appreciate; appreciate what good you can find, no matter what the cost."

My smiles were false. Underneath I was truly depressed. Her cynical words didn't really help. "Does it have to be that way?" I asked.

"Jory," she said, thrusting her old pastry-dough face closer to mine, "think about this. If there were no shadows, how could we see the sunlight?"

I sat there in her gloomy office and allowed this kind of sour philosophy to give me some peace. "Okay, I get your meaning, Madame. And if you can't say you are sorry, then I can."

Tags: V.C. Andrews Dollanganger Horror
Source: readsnovelonline.net