Laughing, I say, “I always knew. Like you said, my dad treats me like an adult. Same goes for my mom. We don’t really have secrets.” At least not from one another. I scratch my nose before remembering that some agents would call the gesture a “tell.” I return my hand to my lap.
“Gotcha,” Audrey says, not seeming to notice. “But don’t you wonder about your birth parents?”
“Not really,” I say honestly.
“Seriously? I think I’d wonder.”
“The way I see it is that I don’t want to know people who didn’t want to know me. I don’t mean that to sound bitter, because I know they had their reasons. I mean it like I don’t want to spend energy worrying or thinking about people who aren’t in my life.”
“I guess that’s a good way to look at it,” Audrey says. “You seem incredibly well-adjusted about the whole thing.”
“Thanks, I think,” I say, laughing. I tip my head to the side. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called ‘well-adjusted’ before.”
Audrey chuckles, too, and despite my concern about whether or not I’m sticking to the script, it feels good to have someone ask about my past. I’m so into the conversation that when Audrey asks how old I was when my parents adopted me, I blurt out the truth.
“Four.”
“Where did you live before that?” she asks.
Screeching tires and warning bells sound in my brain; I actually feel my fingers wrap around the armrests. For practical reasons, like if I have to go to the emergency room or something and my blood doesn’t match my parents’, it’s okay to tell people I’m adopted. But the story is that I was adopted at birth. Where I lived before is not part of the dossier.
“I can’t get over your mom letting you chalkboard your entire wall,” I say, looking over Audrey’s head. I force my hands back into my lap. Apparently okay with the change of subject, Audrey turns in her seat and admires the décor, too.
“My mom lets me do what I want,” she says in this weird way that doesn’t sound egotistical. It sounds strangely… sad. Audrey shifts her gaze from the wall to her feet; there’s a brief pause in the conversation. Then, just when I start to feel awkward, her head snaps up and her eyes are on me again. “Hey, you want a soda?”
“Sure,” I say, thankful she’s not asking any more about my adoption.
“Regular or diet?”
“Regular.”
“Okay, I’ll be right back,” she says, standing to leave but then pausing in the middle of the room. “Want music?”
“Sure.”
Audrey goes over to her desk, but when she gets there, she huffs and shakes her head. I wonder what she’s annoyed about but don’t ask because it feels intrusive. Instead I look around some more as she opens iTunes on her laptop, selects a playlist, and turns up the volume on the little speakers.
“This okay?” she asks.
“It’s great.”
“Okay, I’ll be right back.”
Audrey leaves me alone in her room. As I relax into the lounger, I can’t help but think that it’s cozy here, in this chair and in this house. And for a girl with no real roots, cozy feels a lot like home.
One of my favorite new songs comes on, and I’m so happy that I can’t help but sing.
eight
Something shifts in the doorway. I stop singing mid (tuneless) note and drop my arms to my sides. I look, expecting Audrey, but instead it’s none other than the guy I’ve been drooling over in English all week, Matt something.
“Wicked air drumming,” he teases, smiling a fidget-inducing half grin. His villain’s eyes are shining. Playful. He looks like he’s happy to see me.
“Thanks,” I say, at a loss for words because I’m confused about why he’s here. Is he Audrey’s boyfriend? Just a friend here to hang out, too? Then I realize that not only is he barefoot, but he’s leaning on the doorframe like he built it. My brain clicks. He lives here.
Duh.
Matt is Audrey’s brother.