“Really?” I laugh. “Noah and I hang out one on one and it’s fine. You’ve known him your whole life. How can it possibly be awkward?”
She jabs her pointy elbow into my side. “Trust me, it just is without you. You’re our secret ingredient. Our magic sauce. Don’t question it. It’s a compliment.”
“I’m honored, I guess. Even if it’s weird to me.”
“Anyway, moving on, you realize you turn eighteen this month? We should start planning for it now to make sure it’s appropriately epic. What about a weekend in New York? Do you think the moms would be on board?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t care that much, honestly. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. I’d rather wait and celebrate with you on your birthday. I don’t mind sharing.”
She lifts her head from my shoulder, studying me with narrowed eyes. “Come on. You know most people are hugely excited about turning eighteen, right? It’s a momentous rite of passage.”
I shrug, looking down. “It’s not really that life changing.”
“Uh-huh. Sure. Is there something you’re not saying here, Calliope Silversmith? Because it seems to me like you have a weird grudge against this particular birthday.”
“Maybe. Yes.” I press my fingernails into the spongy yoga mat beneath us. “Eighteen means I can make contact with Frank. If I want.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh. Right.”
“What do you think I should do?”
She’s silent for a moment. A silent Ginger is a rarity. “I don’t know,” she says finally. “I mean he’s half of your DNA, sure, but he’s also nothing in every other way that matters. You have the best parents in the universe.”
I look up at her. “I know.”
“You have to do what you need to do, Calliope.”
Do I need to know who he is? Or do I want to? Is there a difference?
“Would you do it if you were me?” I ask.
“If I found out now that my dad wasn’t really my dad, would I want to know the biological one? I don’t know. Probably not. Maybe. I’d be afraid to hurt my dad. But it’s totally different, because you’ve known all along. It was scientific and planned, not some lusty one-night stand.”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t have to decide right now, but I don’t think there’s a wrong or right answer.”
“I just… I don’t know, I mean I could request to be in touch, and then go to meet him and find out he’s a terrible asshole who hates everyone and everything and hits kittens and bunnies with bats in his spare time. Or I could wait years to do it, and then find out he died a little after my eighteenth birthday, doing something absurdly heroic, like saving a baby from a burning building, and I’ll never have the chance to know him because I was too indecisive and afraid.”
“Okay. No way did you come from a bat wielder. I can guarantee you that. You refuse to kill spiders. Plus, you can’t play any sports. Bats are out.”
We sit for a moment, both lost in our own thoughts.
“I think it’s perfectly okay to be curious,” she says at last, talking as quietly as I’ve ever heard Ginger talk. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. And it doesn’t mean you don’t love the moms enough. Margo would understand. Stella, too, even if she gets all hot about it at first. They’ll get over it. Both of them.” She wraps an arm around me, rubbing circles on my back. “Like I said, you don’t have to decide this month. Or this year. Do it on your own time. But don’t let it ruin your eighteenth birthday. Because that would be a goddamn shame.”
It sounds so simple when she puts it like that. But it’s not. It’s not simple at all.
Because how can I possibly decide what’s worse, wondering or knowing? I can’t.
The gong sounds as the door swings open. It’s our regular mailman, delivering a stack of bills and promotional flyers. I make small talk with him about the heat, the holiday tomorrow. After he leaves Ginger is watching me, and I’m relieved to hear Mama harmonizing the closing chant. Sweaty, dripping women start filing into the lobby, towels wrapped around their necks. Beverly stops to say hello on her way out, and Ginger keeps up the conversation for the both of us, luckily, describing an unruly drunk diner from the morning in vivid detail. I wonder if Noah has told Beverly about Max. If she’s worried about any romantic inclinations.
Ginger hangs around until the next class starts—no Mrs. Park or Penelope, sadly—and then declares the coffee buzz is gone and she needs some sleep.
“I’m being forced into a family dinner out tonight for my parents’ anniversary. Ugh. But I will see you tomorrow,” she says, hugging me tight. “And tell Max he’s not done winning me over yet. Maybe some delicious holiday treats will help the cause.”
“I will pass that message on.”
The afternoon is quiet without Ginger. Too quiet.
Mama chats with me between classes, Mimmy calls two more times. Noah texts me a picture of a vegan cheesesteak he had for lunch in Philly during his lesson break. I remind him that our plan for the Fourth is the same as always.
But I can’t stop thinking about the conversation. Frank. Wondering versus knowing.
If wondering means this awful endless loop forever, maybe that gives me my answer.
Max is the first to arrive.
The Fourth is the hottest day of summer so far, the air like fierce, hungry flames licking at my skin. I’m sprawled in the hammock when he emerges from the woods, my red-and-white polka-dot dress hitched up around my thighs for an extra sprinkle of air. I yank it down. The sun hits Max straight on, and he reaches up to shield his eyes, looking for me. I give a lazy wave, and he smiles as he starts toward me.
He took Ginger’s message to heart, his arms filled with bags—an arsenal of treats
