Then I Met My Sister by Christine Hurley Deriso Page A

it,” I continue. “She mentions you in the second entry.”
    He touches an index finger against his chin. “Really.”
    “She mentions a couple of other people, too. Chris—that was her boyfriend, I think—and Jamie. Did you know them?”
    Mr. Kibbits nods. “Chris Ferguson. He still lives in town … works on cars at Phipps’ Auto Shop, I think. I’ve lost track of Jamie.”
    “Why didn’t my mom like them?”
    He isn’t surprised by the question. “They had nothing in common with Shannon,” he says, then thinks for a couple of seconds before clarifying. “As an AP teacher, I see lots of high achievers.”
    “And … ?”
    “Most of them have been high achievers all their lives,” he continues. “The kind of kid who runs for Student Council year after year and breaks records selling Girl Scout cookies. That sorta thing.”
    “Mmmmmm,” I say knowingly. That’s the Shannon who’s been rubbed in my face all my life.
    “Some of them are just naturally high-achieving,” Mr. Kibbits says, “and some are pushed by their parents to excel, excel, excel. Sometimes both.”
    Check and check , I say to myself.
    “By the time they get to my class—their junior or senior year—a lot of them are pretty burned out,” Mr. Kibbits says.
    I finger a lock of hair. “Burned out?”
    He nods. “Perfection is exhausting.”
    I never considered that. “So, Shannon was burned out?” I persist.
    He weighs his words carefully. “I think so. But just temporarily, in my opinion. She was so naturally driven that she was destined to do big things in a big way. But by the time I got to know her, she was starting to question whether all her hard work was worth the effort. She was starting to question lots of things. I think that’s why she started hanging with a different crowd—people like Chris and Jamie.”
    My eyes narrow. “Did she hate my mom?” I say it so fast I don’t have time to censor myself.
    He looks amused. “Don’t all teenage girls hate their mothers?”
    Not good enough. “Why did she hate her?” I suddenly feel fearless, like a reporter barking out questions at a press conference.
    He holds up the palm of his hand. “Whoa. I think I’m out of my depth here.”
    “She confided in you, right?”
    “Can I plead the fifth, Madame Prosecutor?” he jokes, but then turns serious. “Summer, I don’t think I’m in a position to …”
    “What about my dad?” I say, my words tumbling over each other. “She said she was going to tell you some secret about my dad.”
    Mr. Kibbits’ expression darkens.
    I lean closer. “Tell me.”
    His jaw hardens. “Summer,” he says firmly, “I don’t share information my students tell me in confidence. Keep that in mind, if you ever need someone to confide in.”
    My eyes stay locked with his. “Shannon’s dead,” I remind him. “You can tell me.”
    He pats my arm. “You’re a bright girl. As bright as your sister, I’m sure. If you’re reading her journal, then I guess you’re going to find out whatever was on her mind when she wrote it. But don’t live in the past. For your own sake. Okay?”
    I hold his gaze a moment longer, then sigh. I don’t know whether I’m frustrated or relieved.
    He smiles. “I’m here just about every Sunday at this time,” he says. “And, of course, I’ll be back in my classroom in the fall. If you need a sounding board, you’ll know where to find me.”
    I nod, staring at my lap.
    “If you need a sounding board about anything ,” he clarifies. “I’m sure your life is just as complicated as your sister’s was at your age.”
    Except that Shannon’s is frozen in time. Do I dare thaw it out?
    Oh, God. Tell me I didn’t just use ice as a metaphor.
    I grab an apple from a bowl in the kitchen after Gibs drops me off from the library.
    Mom walks in with a basket of laundry as I take a bite. Even doing laundry on a Sunday afternoon, Mom looks ready for her close-up—slacks pressed, blouse crisp, makeup