Mind Games Read Online Free Page A

qualifies as a paranormal experience. I might have chosen this topic for my Paranormal Pursuit, but that would take a whole book. Sorry, Mr. Ennis, but we're not getting a grade in this class.
    Ji is an only child, and she says she never feels lonely. Meanwhile, I am a twin, and sometimes I feel like the loneliest person in the world. Well, maybe not quite. Maybe that's one area where Kathleen and I are pretty equal.

    I'd never thought about trying to get inside Kathleen's head before. First of all, the idea's kind of scary. And second, why should I? I already know when Kathleen's going to need a tissue even before she starts crying; I know when she's going to need a scolding even before she does something wrong; I know when she's going to sing "On Eagle's Wings" when the rest of the congregation is singing "Amazing Grace," or hug Mr. Ennis when he's trying to teach a lesson. I know when she's going to feed my homework to the pig or let the dog chew my cleats. But I know these things from experience, not ESP. And knowing doesn't help me prevent any of them from happening. Besides, it's not the same as understanding why she has to be the center of attention—always.
    Whatever I give her—praise, time, all my Halloween candy every year—it's never what she wants; it's never enough. How could it be?
    Kathleen takes, and she takes, and, as much as I want to make up for what I took from her, how could I ever?
    Sometimes she tells people—strangers in church—that I hit her.
    Once—I hit her once when we were four. She hit me first. Because I ate the last Special Dark out of the Hershey's Miniatures bag.
    Mom said I knew Special Dark was Kathleen's favorite. It wasn't my favorite. I should have saved it for her, I should have been more understanding, I certainly shouldn't have hit her back. I should have been a better sister.
    That day I sat in the corner and listened to Kathleen laugh and play and chase after the puppy the way she usually chased after me. I can still taste that memory—chocolate and tears that stayed bitter on the back of my tongue for a long, long time.
    Normal sisters fight, but we don't—not anymore. Now I swallow everything and let her do the crying for both of us.

    Ben gave me an article to read about twin girls. They're conjoined twins, attached at the chest. They share the same heart. They can never be apart from each other—never, as long as they live. Each of them has one leg, and if they want to walk, they have to use both their legs together. That means they always have to agree where they want to go.
    Sometimes I feel as though Kathleen and I are tied together like that, ever since our umbilical cords got tangled before we were born. And—just like then—she's trying to go one way, and I'm trying to go the other.
    Today's our birthday, and I hate thinking of one more year growing between us, pushing that big space into something even bigger.
    When Kathleen blows out all our birthday candles every year, does she understand the wish I'd make if she gave me the chance? Does she understand she's taking that away from both of us?
    I don't know. I don't have ESP.
    I'm sorry to say that my telepathy project isn't complete, Mr. Ennis. It's just starting. I have a feeling it might take another seventy years before I can give you any conclusive results. Before I can say that I understand Kathleen. I apologize for missing the deadline, but I have a feeling you understand.

Problem
Kathleen "Kat" Phelps
    (as told to Whitney Phelps, mother * )
    M Y ONE PROBLEM IS A LICE . S HE'S—WELL, SHE WAS —a snake. Mr. Ennis's milk snake, but she didn't eat milk. Just mice and small reptiles. She was a present from our principal, Mrs. Mathews, for Mr. Ennis's classroom. That's why he named her Alice. After Mrs. Mathews.
    Mr. Ennis is my homeroom teacher. He's this very nice man with glasses. He says hi to me and listens when I talk to him, and he smells very good. He