“Uh, yeah. A little.” I want to backpedal. I should have left before this conversation.
“That’s private.”
“I know, and—”
“My mom’s the one who told me about my grandparents. Did he tell you that, too? It was too much for my dad, she said. Too much to tell his own son. But his donor daughter? Yeah, that’s cool. He’ll just run and tell her everything.”
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. And I am sorry about this. I’m not sorry I had the conversation with Elliot, but it wasn’t my business to bring it up again now, here with Max. “It’s not like that. Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger. And that’s what I am to him. You’re his son.”
“You’re right. I am his son. And my family might be a mess, but they’re my mess. Just because you inherited a few of my dad’s shitty genes doesn’t make you one of us. You’re not a Jackson. And you should be glad about that. Trust me.”
“Max, please, I—”
“No. I need you to go. I might be weak or a coward or emotionally immature or all of the above, and I’m sorry. But I can’t do this.”
“Okay.” I stand up, brushing the dirt and grass from my legs, and walk away.
I don’t look back.
When the doorbell chimes and Mimmy calls up for me, I pretend not to hear. I pull my pillow tight around my ears, willing the moment to pass.
But then Mama is there, at my door. It’s open a crack, my mistake, so she doesn’t have to knock to come in. She edges it open wider, peeks her head into the room. “Sweetheart? You have a visitor.”
I sigh, throwing the pillow on the floor as I sit up. “I don’t want to see anybody.”
“It’s Marlow. Max’s sister.” Your half sister, she doesn’t say, but we both feel the empty space at the end of her words. She gives me a sad smile.
“Marlow?”
Mama nods. “Marlow.”
I look down at myself. I’m wearing a neon-pink XXL Hot Mama Flow T-shirt. After my disastrous talk with Max, I was fully planning on spending the rest of the day in bed.
“Now’s not a great time.”
Mama takes a step farther into the room, closing the door behind her. “Calliope. I think you should talk to her.”
“I will. Just not right now.”
She sits next to me on the bed. “Don’t you think this must be rough on her, too? Everyone is busy thinking and worrying about you and Max. How you’re both coping. But there’s a third child involved here. And she’s younger and probably just as confused. Maybe her heart isn’t broken, not the way yours is, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t suffered a bruising.”
Mama’s right. Marlow is alone here. No friends. Strange town. Scary house. A brother who abandoned her when he fell in love with the girl next door. And now he’s locked away in his room, grieving over the fact that the girl is his half sister. Her half sister.
“Okay. I’ll talk to her. Just”—I point at my shirt—“let me change. Does she look flawless? Nice dress, lace-up sandals, model makeup?”
Mama cocks her head to the side, her brow furrowing. “No? She looked pretty casual to me. I only glanced—Mimmy was talking to her—but I believe she was wearing denim shorts and sneakers. No makeup that I could see. Unless it was an exceptionally natural look.”
“Huh. Interesting.”
“What? Is that so odd?”
“Every time I’ve seen her, she’s all done up with no place to go. She seems like the type to look her best every day. Spend hours prepping. Even if it’s just for bored bedroom selfies.”
“I see. Well, then maybe you don’t know her as well as you think.” Mama pats my knee and stands up. “I’ll let you change. We’ll entertain her for a few minutes.”
She leaves, and I throw on a gray T-shirt and black overalls. I slip my feet into my glitter shoes, swipe my hair into a bun.
I can already picture the scene waiting for me downstairs: sullen Marlow, arms crossed, tapping her manicured nails on the edge of the sofa. Mimmy trying to ply her with iced beverages and sugar-free baked goods. Mama making awkward conversation about weather patterns in Green Woods.
I walk down the stairs, slowly. It’s quiet. Too quiet.
The three of them are in the living room, not talking. The moms on the love seat, Marlow by herself on the sofa. She has a full glass of lemonade and a plate of lemon rhubarb cookies that appears untouched on the coffee table in front of her.
Mimmy looks desperately relieved when she sees me. “Oh good, Calliope is here!” she practically sings out, leaping up from the love seat.
Marlow turns to face me, and if Mama hadn’t told me who was here, it would have taken me a moment to put things together. A long moment. She looks five years younger, at least, without her heavy-lidded eyes and contoured cheeks. I barely know Marlow as it is, but I certainly don’t know this little girl in front of me.
She looks small. Sad. Weak. Timid. The kind of girl regular Marlow wouldn’t give the time of day. She’d strut right past her empty table in the cafeteria.
But then again, those were all assumptions, weren’t they? Based on nothing but appearance. Ginger likes masks, after all. The bolder, the better. Marlow might like masks, too.
I wish I’d tried to get to know her before now. Before everything imploded.
“Hey,” I say, shoving my hands deep in my overall pockets.
Marlow stands, keeping her eyes on the floor. Her plain black sneakers. “Can we talk somewhere?”
The moms start to scuttle out of the room, but I put my hand up to stop them. “Sure. Let’s go outside. On the porch. You can bring the lemonade and cookies if you want.”
Marlow shakes her head. I see Mama immediately eye the plate—lemon rhubarb cookies are her favorite.
I lead Marlow to the porch, and we settle in the
