The Gallery of Lost Species Read Online Free Page A

die—Viv pulled the straws from her nostrils and played drums in the air until I finished.
    I rinsed my hands in one of the buckets and set the timer to fifteen minutes. As the plaster warmed, I blew on Viv’s face to speed things up. Then I sat on Henry’s painting stool and watched her. She got so still I had to put my palm under her nose to make sure she was breathing.
    When the timer sounded, I helped her up to a seated position. She sat cross-legged on the table and leaned forward with her heavy, plastered head in her hands. It was time to remove the new face.
    Like in the diagram on the instruction sheet, Viv fastened her fingers around the edge of the casting material and pulled, only the mould wouldn’t come off. Before she tried again, she halted me with her one free hand so I couldn’t get in close. Then she pulled some more. But the solidified plaster didn’t budge.
    Viv started breathing hard and fast through the too-small holes. She jumped off the table and bent over and tried to yank the thing off her skin again. She stood up and flapped her hands around as if her fingers hurt. Then she wilted to the ground in a faint.
    â€œI’m calling an ambulance, don’t move!” I wailed. “I won’t let you die!”
    As I fumbled with the shed door and ran for the house, I heard my sister’s laughter behind me. I swung around to see Viv holding her negative face in her hands.
    â€œThat was hilar.”
    â€œYou’re not funny, Vee!” I screamed and lunged.
    â€œC’mere! I was only kidding, little one.”
    â€œI thought you were dying, ” I spat out, wiping the tears and drool from my chin.
    â€œCome on, Worm, I was just messing with you. I’ll buy you a slushie when we’re done. I can’t finish this without you.”
    I trudged back to the shed, still furious.
    We prepared the mould to pour plaster into the negative space, and let it set. Then we had an hour to kill. I spent it out in the yard, brooding and hunting for four-leaf clovers in the uncut grass.
    Eventually, Viv pried the positive face away from the mould.
    â€œThere,” she said, proudly stepping out of the shed and holding her new artwork up to the sun. “My death mask!”
    It had all been worth it to see her so cheerful, which was rare.
    She passed the white form over to me and I cradled it. It had my sister’s bone structure and really did look like her, only a more rested and peaceful version of her, without any of the distress signs Viv’s face usually wore. Calm and anonymous, the opposite of Viv’s pageant face.
    â€œIsn’t it a life mask since you’re living?”
    â€œDeath mask sounds cooler,” she said, wrapping it in a towel and putting it in her school bag. “We did it, Worm. High-five!” I got up from the grass and hopped in the air to reach her hand, overcome by a feeling of loyalty.
    Maybe I idolized her so much because I’d never existed without her. There are no memories of a time when Viv wasn’t there. She was in my past and my present and my future.
    Yet, thinking back, even our happy moments contained a grain of anxiety. Often it was as though Viv was trying to toughen me up in preparation for some detrimental event, always inserting an upsetting incident into our good times. As a result, I constantly worried about her well-being. Like a sandfly bite you couldn’t see, with all things concerning Viv, this tiny sting of panic embedded itself beneath my skin from early on.

FIVE
    I ADMIRED MY SISTER’S ability to do everything to the extreme.
    If Constance adjusted Viv’s caloric intake before pageants, instead of shedding five pounds, she lost ten, skipping breakfasts and handing me her brown bag lunches as soon as we left the house so that I grew chubbier in my adolescence as she transformed into a sylphlike reed with large, shell-shocked eyes.
    When her weight decreased too much, her