Big Sis and the Askew Plane Jolly Phonics · Step 3, Unit 8: /ue/ mixed

It is true. My big sis is the coolest kid in all the land. She lies way up high on a branch in the big oak tree. One arm hangs down and sways. She hums a tune and does not fuss. I grab the low branch with both hands. My legs kick at the sky. 'Big Sis!' I yell. 'How do I get up there?'

Big Sis stands right up on the branch, like it is a path and not way, way up. She holds her toy plane up to the blue sky and squints at it. 'Look at this,' she says. 'The best fling ever.' I stand at the base and look up. One day, I think, I will be just like Big Sis.

The plane loops up, up, up... then it goes askew... then down, down, down. Crash! It smacks the ground, and red parts fly all over. And right in the mess sits our dog. He blinks. Poor pup.

Dog is not glad. He jumps up and barks his big, bad bark. The kind that says, I will not let this go. I grip my branch. My legs shake. But Big Sis? She just leans on the trunk and crosses her arms. 'Hush, Dog,' she says. 'The plane did not even hit hard. What a fuss.' Dog huffs and stops. Phew! Big Sis never flinches. Never.

'I need wood,' Big Sis says. She digs in the dirt with a little spade. 'And glue. And some string too.' I sit next to her. I do not know what to dig for, so I just look on. Behind us, Dog finds a rope. He leaps and tugs and growls and chews it. No one tells Dog to stop. No one ever tells Dog to stop.

On the path back, Big Sis stops to pat Dog. 'Are we good now, Dog?' Dog wags his tail so hard his bum sways. I stand behind Big Sis and hold her arm. Dog's mouth is very big and very wet and very close to my face. 'Dog is tame,' Big Sis says. 'Dog wants a chew,' I whisper. 'And I am the chew.'

Then Big Sis trips on a root. Down she goes! I hold her arm, so down I go too. We roll in the dirt. A few leaves fly up all round us. Dog just stands there and looks at us, like we are the silliest things ever. But does Big Sis cry? No way. Not even a bit.

Big Sis gets right up. She brushes off her dress and picks up the plane. She squints at the crack in the wing. Tap, tap. 'We can fix this,' she says. 'Some wood, some glue, good as new.' I have a scrape on my elbow and a leaf on my ear. I want to cry a bit. But if Big Sis does not cry, then no way will I cry.

No one is home to cook yet, and my belly growls like thunder. 'I will cook,' Big Sis says. She pulls a big book off the shelf and flops it open on the counter. 'I will brew us a big pot. A stew!' I sit and look on. Big Sis can do it all, I think. Lie on high branches, fix planes, cook stew. She could face down a storm.

I put one foot on the stool and peek over the counter. And then I see it. It can not be true. Big Sis is crying. Real, wet drops roll down her cheeks. My mouth falls open. My big sis. The best in all the land. Crying?

It can not be right. I tap my chin and ponder. I need a clue. Big Sis never cries on a high branch. She never cries when Dog barks his big, bad bark. She did not even cry when she fell smack in the dirt! So what could make Big Sis cry?

I step up close. Very, very close. Big Sis looks down at me, grins, and holds up half an onion. 'Onions,' she says, and shrugs. I squeal with glee and just about fall off the stool. Onions! Phew! Because Big Sis does not cry. Not if she falls off the moon. Not if the moon itself comes crashing down. Big Sis never cries.