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Because I had recently come to understand that I wasn't like other people. So I was going to take something from Jason, because I could. She was a part of me and Jason had taken from her one of the few things that made her happy. Because even though Erin and I didn't have the kind of uncanny twin connection that allowed me to read her mind, I felt it when she was in pain. If someone was going to teach Jason a lesson, it had to be me. He was everyone's idea of the perfect kid, and I had no evidence to prove otherwise. He played sports, but he wasn't too aggressive, never pouted when his team lost. Jason was an expert at hiding the monster inside him. I could have told my mom what Jason was up to, but I doubted she would believe me. While I dug the grave with my bare hands, I thought about how I was going to make Jason pay for what he'd done.

I told Erin I couldn't find Clint Eastwood and the kittens, but in truth I buried them in the woods and marked their grave with a pile of river stones. But if I needed further proof, I got it when I saw him at school the next day, his hands covered in raw, red scratches. I knew as soon as I found Clint Eastwood's mangled body by the river, surrounded by her drowned litter, that this was Jason's work. Better she never had the image of what I found trapped in her head. It was better that Erin didn't come with me to search for her pet anyway. Erin couldn't be a part of the search because of her вЂњcondition,вЂќ which was what we called it for lack of a name that ran the gamut of my twin's maladies. She just wanted to know they were all right. She begged me to search the woods for her cat and the kittens. The next they were open and black, and fuzz covered their bodies.Д«ut when we came back to see them the next day, the kittens were gone, and so was their mother. One day the kittens' eyes were sealed tightly shut. Their mother purred like an engine while her brood fed.

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We watched her kittens jitter and worm about, figuring out how to use their weak limbs, mewling in tolerant protest as Clint licked them clean. Erin and I visited the mother and brought her clean towels and bowls of tuna fish. She had a litter of kittens in the shed behind our house. It turned out the cat was a female, though. She named it Clint Eastwood because its squinty eye reminded her of the classic Eastwood glare, and Erin was going through a spaghetti western phase. Still, she secretly adopted a stray orange cat with a missing ear and a scar over one eye that liked to hang around our house, especially after she started leaving food out for it. My twin sister, Erin, is allergic to everything with fur, so our mom wouldn't let her have pets. Although Jason had a corkboard where he pinned dead butterflies and moths, beetles and spidersГўВЂВ”he brought his collection to school every time we had show-and-tellГўВЂВ”he wasn't in it for the scientific observation. There was a swab of poison in the bottom, a fast-acting toxin. Jason's preferred method of torment was to put butterflies in his killing jar, the kind entomologists use to kill insects quickly without damaging their specimens. Miniature tortures that parents tend to write off as boys being boys. He pulled the wings from moths, or misted trails of ants with hairspray and set them on fire. He chopped up worms into wriggling segments and fried them with a magnifying glass. So I followed him, and I found out why he smiled like that. He always came back smiling to himself in a way that made me feel cold and queasy, like I'd eaten something bad. I watched Jason take that path every day after school. My bedroom window gave me a direct view of the path to the river. His family lived next door to mine on the outskirts of town. His name was Jason Dunn, and on the outside he appeared as normal as his name. Or maybe that's just what I tell myself so I can live with what I am. I obsess.Д«ut I never, ever talk about him, the boy whose life I took. I try not to think about it, that time I killed a boy.Д«ut the problem with trying not to think about something is you'll think about it even more. ДЇor the women who raised meГўВЂВ”Kathleen Knott, Amy Jespersen, Borgny Erickson, and Gertrude Knott If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author's copyright, please notify the publisher at: us./piracy. Copyright infringement is against the law.

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