Page 59

“Yours are right downstairs, you know,” I say, lighthearted. I can hear them playing music in the kitchen—Duran Duran, of course.

“Yeah. Today.”

“But—”

“Holy mother of Buffy Summers.” She groans, hands thrown in the air. “Do some research. There are, like, hundreds of ancestry websites nowadays. Figure. It. Out.”

I whisper, “It’s hard. I’m adopted.”

“No way,” deadpans Rio. “Is that why your parents are white?”

I chuck a pillow at her head, giggling. My aim is terrible, and it thuds against the wall before sliding down to the carpet. Rio ignores it.

“Your parents have to knowsomethingabout your dead mom, right?”

A flash of cold runs from my hairline to the tips of my toes. Talking to my parents about my birth mother again isn’t a bridge I planned to cross. It’s a journey I’ve been avoiding for years, simply taking the long way to figure out who I am. Maybe it’s unavoidable? It’s that ten car wreck right in front of you with no detour to get to your final destination.

“I-I can ask,” I stutter.

Rio turns back to the suspect wall. “Good. I need to focus a little less on Remy the Unknown and more on this Mad Tagger case.”

I fall back on the bed, feet in the air, arms spread out. This is why AP Lit sucks. Average literature students wouldn’t be forced to question their existence. Normal lit students talk about Shakespeare and the absurdity ofthe Catcher in the Rye. I’d kill for Holden Caufield-levels of angst. My current emo-shit-storm is the stuff freshman year of college is made of.

I clutch my phone for a second before pulling up the Facebook messenger app. My hands shaking, I take three tries to login. Free hasn’t replied to my last message. Maybe she’s busy. Or maybe she’s given me enough clues to put it all together. She expects me to know she’s my sister.

I jab out a message:

Message from Remy Cameron

Can we meet?

Sent Oct 29 2:43 p.m.

Tiny tears sting my eyes. My breathing is shallow and quick.

I can do this, I can do this, I can do this.

I hit send.

I don’t have to linger in the black hole of my unknown existence for long. I don’t have to wait for the three ellipses to indicate Free’s writing back. My phone’s already vibrating: an incoming call. It’s not Free, though. That doesn’t mean the large knot in my stomach loosens. It tightens, but for a new reason, a better reason.

An Ian kind of reason.

15

It’s Friday night. It’s Halloween.And Mom is watching me as if I ate the last of her peanut-butter-swirl brownies. That last part might’ve happened. But that’s not why she’s staring at me.

“You’re plotting something, Remy Cameron.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh yes, you are.”

“I’m not. You have no evidence.”

“You have that look. You know the one.”

I don’t. I mean, I don’t think I do? Guilty is my least favorite expression. It’s impossible to look Mom in the eyes, mostly because she’s wearing this awful platinum blonde wig to complement her costume, which is orange pants and a turquoise top with fringe—lots of fringe.