Secrets of Foxworth by V.C. Andrews

female necessities, but until now, I was pretty independent. Dad trusted me to do the right things anyway.
    Still, I couldn’t help but envision the Dollanganger household, especially a mother parading around naked in front of a son who was almost ten.
    Was Christopher really so adult about this so early in his life? Was this the way young men and young women thought of family members naked when they were destined to become doctors?
    I was torn between blushing at the thought of all this nudity and trying to think like they obviously did about one another, thinking that there was nothing about them that they should be ashamed to reveal. I wanted to admire them for that, but I couldn’t help thinking about Suzette telling Lana and me about the time she saw her older brother, Jason, exploring himself and what happened as a result. I could never look at Jason afterward without thinking about it. How far would Christopher go when it came to all the sexual questions that were bound to come? Right now, he seemed so . . . indifferent. So like a scientist.
    Was he capable of love? Did he ever have a girlfriend?
    I returned to the pages, now feeling more like a voyeur, someone peeping in through a window and seeing the most intimate moments in the life of a family. There was a part of me that wanted to close the diary, that felt guilty about it and thought maybe my father was right, but a stronger part of me wanted to go on until I knew and understood what had really happened.
    My father’s job takes him away from home for as long as five days sometimes. Whenever this happens, Momma tells me I am the man of the family until my father comes home. She brushes my hair back, smiles, kisses my cheek, and tells me, “As long as I have you, Christopher, I’ll always have a man around the house. Like I told you, some women don’t need men, but I’m not one of them.”
    Out of the corner of my eye, I would see Cathy watching us. She wouldn’t be smiling. She’d look almost angry about it. If I told her to do something afterward, she’d say, “You’re not my father, Christopher.” But in the end, she’d do it. That’s Cathy.
    She is always the first to greet Daddy when he comes home. She bursts ahead of me as soon as she hears him call out to us when he enters. I know that is important to her, so I always let her get to him first. He winks at me and lifts her andcovers her face with kisses, describing how much he has missed her. She always glances back at me with that superior, self-satisfied look to show me Daddy loves her more.
    How childish, I would think but never say. Daddy would hug me, too, but he always shakes my hand as well.
    â€œEverything okay here, Christopher?” he would ask me with his slightly tilted head, his eyes a little narrow. Of course, Cathy was afraid I’d mention something bad she had done, some request of Momma’s she didn’t follow, but I never do. I don’t have to. Daddy understands. We almost have telepathy. I once told that to Cathy, and she squinted and raised her nose at me as if she smelled something bad. If I tried to explain it, she’d wave me off and tell me she had something important to do, which she didn’t. She’s getting to be more and more like that, fleeing from anything she sees as complicated or in her eyes unpleasant.
    While Daddy greets us and gives us whatever little gifts he has brought, Momma waits behind us. Sometimes she is smiling, basking in the love Daddy shows us, but lately I notice that she looks annoyed at how much time Daddy is spending on Cathy especially. I think Daddy knows or feels this, too. Yesterday, when he put Cathy down and went to embrace our mother, he held her like he had thought he might never have been able to do it again.
    Momma always knows exactly when he will return, and she is always perfectly made up, even though he swears aloud that she doesn’t need makeup