Footer Davis Probably Is Crazy Read Online Free

the trees covered with patches of soot and ash, their burned branches dry and crumbling from the fire.
    Click. Click. Click.
    Was that a shadow there, under the brush beside that big oak?
    No. I needed to stop. I turned my back on the tree. Peavine was looking at me like I’d gone totally insane. Angel was taking pictures of the edge of the path, near the oak.
    There wasn’t anything there but brush and leaves and grass. I knew that, but . . .
    I’m not crazy. I’m not my mother.
    Angel snapped another picture.
    â€œCut it out,” Peavine told her.
    She glared at me and then dropped the phone on the grass beside her. It snapped another picture by itself as she turned her attention back to the pile of ashes. My crumpled brain thought she was moving in slow motion as she pushed a rock aside, then picked something up and dusted it off.
    My shaking got worse.
    She rubbed more dirt and ash off her find, then laid it beside her along with a partly melted set of dice, a scorched piece of a little kid’s tennis shoe, and a warped piece of plastic she’d already found. It was a pretzel-shaped barrette, just like my mother always wore.

CHAPTER
4

Definitely at Least Nine and One-Half Days After the Fire
    Proof I’m Probably Going Crazy Like Mom
    I look like Mom, so I probably have more of her genes than Dad’s.
    I say stupid stuff when I don’t want to.
    I make a lot of people mad, and sometimes not on purpose.
    I am willful. Just ask Peavine’s mom and my teachers.
    I saw things at the Abrams farm that weren’t real.
    Proof I’m Probably Not Going Crazy Like Mom
    Just because you look like a sick person doesn’t mean you’ll get sick.
    Angel says stupider things than me, lots of times.
    Some people need to get mad. Maybe I’m helping them talk about their problems.
    â€œWillful” is another word for “determined,” and “determined” sounds a lot better.
    Maybe the Abrams farm is haunted and I saw ghosts.
    I snuggled into Dad in his recliner and tried not to think about the Crazy List lying on my desk in my bedroom, or Crazy Mom, a quadrillion miles away in Memphis, locked away in the hospital again. The other kind of hospital.
    We had the lights off, and we were supposed to be settling down for bed . Dad was big on early bedtimes when he had to run the show. He pulled up my Superman blanket until it covered my shoulders, then flicked on the DVR and punched the local news. It droned in the background. I yawned and stretched.
    â€œCareful, there.” Dad kissed the top of my head. “This old chair won’t hold us both forever.”
    I put my face in Dad’s chest and burped applesauce and hamburgers. The applesauce was because it counted as fruits or vegetables, and Dad tried to keep us healthy, at least a little bit. Plus, if Mom got home from the hospital and found out we had eaten nothing but junk food while she was gone, she’d throw a total fit.
    Dad smelled like pine needles and his blue cotton pajamas. That sort of made me relax and sort of didn’t, and the news talked about rain or not rain, and I said, “I miss her already.”
    â€œI do too.” Dad kept his eyes on the news when I glanced up at him. TV shadows played and flickered across his face, but I could tell he was frowning.
    â€œAre you going to look sad the whole time she’s gonethis time?” I poked his chin with my fingertip.
    â€œI don’t know.” He crossed his eyes as he looked down at me. “Are you?”
    â€œProbably.”
    â€œOkay, then. We’ll look sad together.”
    He uncrossed his eyes and went back to paying attention to the news, which had moved on to sports, which was even more boring than bake sales and weather.
    I sighed. “Good dads would try to cheer up their daughters and pretend everything was going to be perfect.”
    â€œGood dads tell the truth and face it with their