Still Missing by Chevy Stevens Page A

even used to trick-or-treat with us."
    "Interesting. And why do you think your mother likes to 'fool people,' as you say?"
    "Who knows, but she's damn good at it. It's how she gets most of her makeup and clothes--she has every saleswoman in and out of town wrapped around her finger."
    It didn't take many bottles of knockoff perfume before Mom went hunting for a sucker behind a department-store cosmetics counter. Saleswomen not only gave the pretty grieving widow make overs but plenty of free samples as well, especially when Mom was so good about talking up the products to any woman who happened by.
    That's not all she was good at. She may have small hands but Mom has sharp eyes, and those hands of hers are fast. The top of her dresser was littered with half-used cologne, potions, and lotions she'd gotten bored with after plucking them off a counter when a saleslady's back was turned. Sometimes she actually bought stuff, but she generally returned it at the same store in a different town. I finally said something, but she told me that with all the sales she was helping the women make, she considered the occasional bottle her commission.
    Once Mom realized how easy it was to steal perfume she moved on to clothes and lingerie. Good stuff too, from boutiques. When I got older I refused to go with her. I'm pretty sure she still does it, I don't ask, but the woman is better dressed than most fashion models.
    "Sometimes I think she liked me better as a kid," I said. The Freak's eyes burned into mine. I'd touched a nerve.
    With our eyes locked, I said, "Maybe I was more fun for her when I was little, or maybe it's because I started getting my own opinions and actually challenged her. Whatever the reason, I'm pretty sure she's disappointed I grew up."
    The Freak cleared his throat, then paused and shook his head. He wanted to say something, he just needed a little nudge. In my gentlest voice I said, "Did you ever feel like that when you were a kid?"
    He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, his head still resting on my arm. "My mother didn't want me to grow up."
    "Maybe all moms feel sad when their kids grow up."
    "No, it was...it wasn't that."
    I thought of his total lack of body hair and his obsessive shaving. I forced myself to curl my arm around under his head and rest my hand on his forehead. He flinched in surprise, then glanced at me, but he didn't pull away.
    I said, "So her first child died..." His body tensed against my side. I lifted my palm to stroke his hair so he'd relax, but, unsure of his response, slowly dropped it back down on his curls and just pressed my leg against his so he'd feel its warmth. "Do you think it had something to do with that? Did you feel like you had to live up to him? You know, like you were a replacement?" His eyes darkened as he turned slightly away. I had to stop him from shutting down.
    "You asked me about Daisy before, and I didn't want to talk about it because it's still pretty hard for me. She was great, I mean she was my big sister and I'm sure sometimes she got annoyed with me, but I thought she was perfect. Mom did too. After the accident I'd catch her staring at me, or she'd walk by and touch my hair, and just in the way she did it, I knew she was thinking about Daisy."
    He faced me again. "Did she ever say anything?"
    "Not really. At least, nothing I could point to. But you don't have to hear the words to know. She'd never admit it, but I'm pretty sure she wishes I was the one who went through the windshield. And I can't even blame her for it--for a long time I wished it too. Daisy was the better one. When I was a kid I thought that was why God wanted her."
    I don't know what the hell happened, it was probably just the stupid hormones, but I started to cry. That was the first time I'd admitted those feelings to anyone. He opened his mouth and took a breath like he was about to say something. But he didn't, he just closed it, gave my leg a pat, and stared back up at the