“Nice to meet you, too.”
Mrs. McKean has manicured nails and soft skin and smells a little like maple syrup. She’s wearing a gold cross and a light blue cardigan with worn jeans and flats. Her blond hair is blown dry into a sleek bob, and she looks like she should accompany the dictionary definition of mom. Even though they are nothing alike, Mrs. McKean makes me miss Sydney.
We all chat until finally Mason takes my (overt) cue to leave—“Dad, don’t you have to be somewhere?”—and Audrey and I go inside. She gives me a quick tour of the main floor of the house, which is a cross between an art gallery and a Pottery Barn catalog, before we retreat to her bedroom.
I like Audrey even more when I step into her space.
The wall behind her bright yellow lacquer headboard is painted with black chalkboard paint, and it’s covered with doodles and drawings, sayings and notes, scribbled floor to ceiling. The bed’s made with simple white linens, but there’s a funky throw pillow on top that has a cartoony map of Nebraska embroidered on it.
The rest of the walls are white. On the one directly across from the bed is a modern low black dresser; the wall with the door holds a small white desk, with no-frills shelves hanging over it. There are photos as well, but most are of Audrey and her family; the few shots of friends show faces I don’t recognize. I wonder again why Audrey doesn’t have more friends. Then, happy to be here regardless, I move on.
In the corner near the largest window is a little seating area with a small futon and a striped yellow, red, and black chair. Between the two seats is a see-through coffee table, where a stack of magazines seems to be floating in midair.
“Is that Lucite?” I ask, pointing to the table before settling in across from Audrey.
“I guess,” she says.
“It’s so awesome,” I murmur. “Did you design your room?”
Audrey nods proudly, smiling.
“I’m into that, too,” I say.
“Cool.”
There’s a pause while I wonder what on earth to talk about next. Have I entirely used up my conversation starters after only a few days?
Thankfully, Audrey keeps things moving.
“So, your dad seems interesting,” she says.
I raise my eyebrows. “Really?”
“Sure,” she says. “He talks to you like you’re an adult.”
“Yeah.”
“And don’t hurl, but he’s hot,” Audrey says.
“Where’s your bathroom?” I joke, standing halfway up. Audrey laughs and I sit back down.
“I’m sure everyone tells you that,” she continues. “He looks like George Clooney… only not as old.”
“I’ve never thought about that, but you’re right. He sort of does.”
“Totally. But your coloring is so much lighter. You must look like your mom,” Audrey says.
“Maybe,” I say before I realize what I’m saying. When Audrey gives me a funny look, I proceed with caution. There are things I can share; there are things I can’t.
“I’m adopted,” I admit, which is mostly true. What I don’t admit is that I was an orphan when I died in a bus crash; that after the government brought me back to life, it wasn’t quite sure what to do with me; that ultimately it gave Mason a lifelong assignment to raise a child… or at least until I turn eighteen. That if we’re getting technical, the adoption isn’t legal because the real me died in Bern, Iowa, eleven years ago.
“Really?” Audrey asks, clearly intrigued by the whole adoption thing. Her brown eyes are wide and sparkling.
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“I don’t know anyone who was adopted,” she says. “Did you always know, or did they pull a Lifetime movie on you and surprise you when your birth mother needed a kidney or something?”