“Sorry about my mom,” Wyatt says. We’re in his basement and he’s popping in a Shaun White skateboard game. “She’s not used to seeing me hang with any girls. Girl skaters, I mean. Moose, a.k.a. Mike, Troy, the skinny dude at the park—you’ve seen him—and Zeke, my best friend, are here more than anybody.”
“My friends don’t skate,” I say, because . . . well, I can’t think of anything else to say. I may be getting better at conversation, but sitting on a couch close enough to smell this boy’s deodorant has made me forget ninety percent of the English language.
Wyatt says, “You’re the only girl I’ve ever seen there.” He hands me one controller, and he takes another.
Once we start skating and competing against each other, we get lost in the game. I’m pretty sure I’m not expected to come up with more than a random “No!” or “Yes!” or “Another game?”
Three hours pass as if by magic. I have to be home by four, so Wyatt walks me upstairs. I make sure to thank Mrs. Anderson and I thank Wyatt, too. Odelia is right. Thank yous don’t come naturally to me. How many thank yous did she say I missed? I am not getting called on this again.
Outside, Wyatt fakes intense interest in an empty fast food cup that’s by the curb. I say good-bye and start to leave when he gives me a friendly poke in the ribs, and says, “See ya at the park, Bernice.”
Wait. A. Minute. He knows my name!
Good thing I left my skateboard home because there’s no room for it on the Cloud Nine Express.
***
You Shall Have a Daughter
Before going up the driveway, I stop by our mailbox for Saturday’s mail. There’s nothing for me, but one dingy yellow envelope gets my attention. There’s no return address and the handwriting looks ancient. Weird.
Mr. and Mrs. George Baransky
PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL
433 Station Street
Porchtown, PA
“Mail’s here,” I tell Dad. He’s leaning over the kitchen sink, filleting very dead, very smelly fish.
“Catch of the day,” he says. “Flounders were runnin’ this morning.”
“Yum. More seafood,” I say, without enthusiasm. “Can’t we have burgers and fries like every other American? We eat way too much fish. We’re messing up the food chain.”
“Very funny.” Dad chuckles. “I’m expecting a bill for that new freezer I put in the store.” He holds up his slimy hands. “Do me a favor and show me the mail? I want to see if it’s here.”
I lean over the sink and file envelopes one-by-one in front of Dad’s eyes. When he sees the envelope with PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL on it, his knife slips.
“OUCH-A-RAMA! I cut my dern finger!” He wipes the blood on a paper towel and draws it up for inspection. “No stitches. Let me have a closer peek at that mail.”
He peeks. Then he throws all the mail into the sink with the fish—every envelope except the weird one. “Bern, find your mother for me. Go! Go find her, now!”
Dad hardly ever—no, never—orders me around. What’s wrong?
Mom is in the garage, walking in circles. “Mr. Sticky? Where are you? I put you down minutes ago to put in a load of laundry and you’ve disappeared. Please tell me you’re not stuck on Miss Scissors again. Are you cutting a rug with her?”
My mother is from a different dimension—a dimension where craft supplies live, breathe, talk, and date each other. “Cutting a rug?” I ask.
“Your grandmother used that term. It means dancing. I’m worried that my glue gun got stuck to the scissors, and they’ve danced away.”
“Got it,” I say. “Dad wants you. Right away.”
Mom walks over to me. “He’s not attempting to make fish meatballs again, is he?”
“No, that’s not it. He cut his finger. But what freaked him out was this letter I brought in with the mail. He wants you to come quick.”
“What color was the envelope?” Mom asks, her words spilling out in a hurry.
“Yellowish. Looks old.”
Mom races out of the garage and into the house as fast as a runner bolting for the finish line. I don’t have a clue what is going on with my parents. They’re not quirky today; they’re outrageous!
I find them hunkered down in the living room, poring over the letter. I can tell by the lines on their face that this is serious business.
“What is it?” I ask, a little nervous for the answer.
Dad folds a letter and puts it back in the envelope. He takes Mom’s hand. Mom nods as if agreeing with something he hasn’t said out loud yet. She takes in a deep, deep breath.
“A woman has contacted us regarding your birthright,” Dad says.
“Come here,” Mom says, her voice breaking. “Sit. Next to me.”
I sit. And gulp out the words, “Birth? Right?”
“You know we love you very much, don’t you?” Mom asks.
I nod. “I love you, too.” I can’t help but think someone is dying.
“Many, many years ago,” Mom pauses, like she’s reading a fairy tale. “Many years ago on a beautiful morning, your dad and I heard the strangest thing. It was a baby crying. We opened the front door and saw a baby in a basket, wrapped in a pink blanket. There was an envelope.” She stops and stares into space. Whatever it is she wants to tell me, isn’t spilling out easily.
Dad fiddles with the sleeve on his flannel shirt. “An envelope, one similar to the envelope you found in the mail, was pinned to that baby’s blanket. The handwriting matches. They’re from the same person.”
“What does this have to do with me?” I ask.
Mom draws me closer. “That baby was you. The note was addressed to us. It said: This is the child of B. Rose Aurora, and there is no one who can care for her. Please raise this motherless child as if she were your own.”
I blink and blink again. This is a
