Thirty Sunsets Read Online Free Page A

understatement, because chunks of his face start falling off.
    Too much! I’ve helped too much! The rash is gone, but so are his cheeks! His bones are jutting out, and he doesn’t even realize it yet. One of his eyes is starting to droop as the flesh underneath falls away. Brian totally trusted me as I slathered this crap on his face, and now his face is falling off, and OMG, wait till he sees, and what was I thinking, I was just trying to help, really I was …
    I wake in a cold sweat and glance at the clock on my bedside table.
    Only twenty minutes have passed since I dozed off—long enough to have another weird dream about Brian. I’ve been having them a lot lately. Sure, I’ve always had the occasional dream about my brother, but for the past few months they’ve taken on a jarring intensity and horror-show quality.
    What’s up with that? It’s true I’ve been extra worried about him since he blew off Vandy, but that’s not all it is. Something deeper is nagging at me.
    There’s something I don’t know.
    I push myself off the bed and shudder, suddenly chilled.
    Yes, I’m sure of it. Even though my sixth sense is too vague and sketchy to discuss without risking making a fool of myself, I totally trust it. I’ve always had a connection to Brian that clues me in when something’s wrong. I can feel it.
    There’s definitely something I don’t know.

six
    “Sorry. You go.”
    “No, you.”
    “No, really … ”
    I don’t have the energy for another round of which one of us gets the seat belt clasp that Olivia and I have both inadvertently laid claim to. I let go of my seat belt buckle and watch the strap get sucked back into the seat.
    “Put your seat belt on,” Brian tells me testily as Olivia, sitting in between us in the back seat, primly buckles up. “You were using the wrong clasp.”
    I toss my hand dismissively in Brian’s direction, then turn toward the window, press my pillow against it, and settle in for a welcome bout of unconsciousness as Dad backs the car out of the driveway.
    I guess my vibes are frosty enough to put everyone on notice, because no one, not even my neurotic mother, reiterates the demand for me to buckle my seat belt. Mom can only push her luck so far, you know: first I get blindsided with the news that I’ll be sharing a beach house with OMG-livia for a month, then I get sardined by her side for the three-hour car ride. Apparently Mom is willing to take her chances that Dad will drive safely enough to avoid flinging me onto the pavement.
    I feel Olivia inch as far away from me as possible, but how far can she go without climbing into Brian’s lap? It must drive her nuts that our thighs will be plastered together for the next hundred-and-fifty miles. With her poof-tastic ponytail, hint-o-blush rosy glow, and painted-on Daisy Dukes, I’m guessing that intermingled thigh sweat is a Fashion Don’t.
    From the front seat, Mom cranes her neck in my direction long enough to shoot me a Significant Glance. Until recently, Olivia’s Daisy Dukes alone would have been cause for a convulsive round of throat-clearing and brow-furrowing, but suddenly I’m the problem. I don’t know what caused Mom’s change of heart. A new reading of the Riot Act by Brian? A particularly home-hitting episode of Dr. Phil? An attack of conscience? (Mom has fretted before that Olivia desperately needs a mother figure.) Who knows. But for whatever reason, Mom is definitely aboard the O-train now, and O seems to sense it, squeezing Brian’s hand possessively as Dad cruises down the street and heads for the interstate.
    I punch my pillow and plug in my earbuds. Elliott Smith’s plaintive song fills my head as my eyelashes flutter shut: “Going Nowhere.”
    “Get Mom.”
    Brian’s voice is calm despite the blood streaming in rivulets down his cheeks. The gash on his head has already matted his brown curls. His gold-flecked eyes are solemn but stoic; he holds my gaze, no doubt sensing that if I look