Every Single Second Read Online Free Page A

outside the smoke shop, where certain neighborhood men sat and chewed repulsive cigars, were empty now. Except for one. She slowed down when she saw who sat in it. Mr. DeMarco had thick arms matted with yellow hair. His neck was wide, his eyes small. Angela and Anthony’s father had his back against the wall the way healways did, laser eyes on perpetual watch. Unmoving as Jeptha A. Stone. As a dead man.
    Nella hadn’t always been scared of him. But she was now. She had been for years. She drew a breath, commanded her clunky feet not to trip.
    “Hello, Mr. DeMarco.”
    No answer. Safely past, Nella looked back. He hadn’t moved. Had he even heard her? His eyes pierced the distance, fixing on a point invisible to everyone else.
    A dark shiver raced through her. Imagine having him for your father. How was it fair that Angela got a parent like that, while Clem got the Patchetts? What was God thinking, playing favorites like that?
    Sometimes Nella really wondered about God.
    She turned down her own street. A lonesome chill snaked off Mr. DeMarco and slithered after her.

BECAUSE ANGELA DIDN’T TELL
    then
    P apa. That’s what Angela called him. In second grade, her every sentence started with his name.
    “Papa’s home for good now. Papa’s discharged. Papa’s going to get a job and live with us all the time. Papa took Mama out to dinner and bought her a lobster. Papa bought me a pink jacket. Papa says Anthony needs to man up. Papa Papa Papa . . .”
    Slowly, it changed to “He.”
    “He’s supposed to go to the VA hospital but he won’t. He can’t sleep at night, only in the day. Yesterday at the gas station the smell made him sick. He started shaking andsweating. I felt so bad for him, Nella.”
    And then . . .
    “He got freaked out by a ceiling fan. He punishes Anthony for no reason. He tells my mother she’s stupid. He says he misses his army buddies. He says nothing here makes sense.”
    That didn’t make sense to Nella.
    They were about to make their First Communions. That morning before school, Angela told Nella her father had bought her the most beautiful dress in the world. It was just like a bride dress.
    “Can I come see?” Nella was so jealous. Her Communion dress was a hand-me-down from a cousin.
    “It’s in a special bag and I’m not allowed to take it out.”
    Angela never disobeyed her father. Or the teachers. Or any adult at all. Suddenly, Nella couldn’t stand her.
    “You’re always so good!”
    “No I’m not!”
    Nella stomped away.
    Late that afternoon, Angela appeared at the kitchen door. The Communion dress was draped across her arms, like it had fainted. They snuck up the stairs to the bathroom, where Nella locked the door.
    How did it happen? One second Nella was tugging open the special bag’s zipper, the next the dress was slidingover her head. It twinkled, a dress made of stars. Nella was so much taller than Angela, the dress pinched her armpits and bit her middle, but Nella still wished it was hers. She scrambled up onto the edge of the bathtub so she could see herself in the mirror over the sink.
    “Be careful,” said Angela.
    Nella swished from side to side, tried to do a spin, and toppled into the tub. She felt the fabric strain and rip like her own skin.
    Angela stared down at her, horrified. “It’s ruined!”
    “Ssh!” Nella jumped up. “Ssh!”
    “I knew I shouldn’t do it!”
    Nella wanted to say sorry, but the word stuck in her throat. Turning away, she saw their reflections in the bathroom mirror, and that made things even worse. She was so much taller than Angela! Taller and sturdier, like their bones were made from different materials, and instead of feeling sorry, Nella felt . . . what did she feel? She didn’t know the word for it, not yet.
    “Nella!” Mom rapped on the locked door. “What’s going on in there?”
    “Nothing!”
    “Open the door!”
    A baby (which one would it have been?) on her hip, Mom stared at them.
    “It’s not my fault!”