I say. “Edith Jasmine Snow.” Mom makes her raisin face. “You are coming with Dexter and me to the mall for Christmas shopping and I am not going to hear one more word about it.” “But,” I say. “Not one word!” “Oh,” I say, feeling incredibly frustrated; then I start coughing again. “Cough away from me,” Dexter says, flapping her hands. We’re sitting in the kitchen having an unreasonably early Saturday morning breakfast because of Mom’s big plans for the day. “You’re infectious.” I lean over and cough on her. “Edith,” Mom says sternly, and I know if I weren’t sick and Mom didn’t want to get moving, I would be shot into my room like a cannonball. Here’s what’s wrong with me: coughing, sneezing, runny nose, achy head and a throat like I’ve swallowed sand. The only neat part is my voice, which has gone deep. I keep trying to sing, but that only makes my cough worse. I give up on breakfast, pushing my toast away. It’s too painful. “Oh, Edie.”
