Ink Is Thicker Than Water (4 page)

“Let’s sit down.” She takes her dirty soy chai—which she claims is delicious but sounds too gross for me to even sample—and leads me through the noisy first floor to a table upstairs, alone, away from every other customer. Way to scare the crap out of me, Mom.

“You know Sara turned eighteen last month,” she says, which blows me away with its obviousness.

“I know how old my own sister is, Mom.”

“Eighteen is pretty significant for Sara.”

“Because she can smoke and vote? Won’t that be significant for me, too?”

“
Because
her adoption records are no longer sealed.”

A guy brings out our quesadillas right as Mom says it, and must have been listening in because he scurries off with this guilty-he’d-heard-too-much look on his face.

“Is that bad?” I ask, because I really don’t know. It was never this big deal that Sara was adopted and I wasn’t. Doctors told Mom and Dad there was a one-in-a-million chance they’d have a baby the old-fashioned way (not that I want to think about that), and instead of spending lots of money to beat the odds, they called a bunch of adoption agencies and ended up with Sara. I was the one-in-a-million baby who showed up a year later.

“No, it’s not bad.” Mom takes a piece of the quesadillas, dips it in sour cream, makes this big show of taking a huge bite. “Heaven, huh?”

“Mom, shut up about food, this is huge.” I realize I only think it’s a big deal. Maybe she’s just being really dramatic. “I mean, is it?”

“Sara’s biological mother called Clay yesterday.”

I never tell her that it bugs me, but it bugs me that Mom calls him that when almost everyone in Dad’s life goes with Clayton. Mom had valid reasons for divorcing him and starting this whole new life, but that should have meant lost privileges. Wait, why am I thinking about something so random? “Seriously? She can just do that?”

“Well, baby, he’s in the phone book,” she says before helping herself to another piece. “You know if you don’t join in, I’m just going to eat this all on my own.”

“I don’t care. What did she want? Is she taking Sara back?”

“It doesn’t work like that. She just wants to meet Sara, that’s all.”

I try to picture her, as I’d done before, but considering Sara is tall like Dad and has honey-blond hair like Mom, I can’t. “Is Sara going to?”

“That’s up to your sister to decide. We aren’t putting pressure on her either way. I’m only telling you because, as you know, I don’t believe in family secrets. So tell me everything about the school paper.”

“What’s there to tell? It’s a school paper, what could be exciting about that?”

“Any paper with my daughter on staff is exciting.” Cheerleader Mom strikes again.

“God, Mom, this Sara stuff is a big deal,” I say. “I don’t want to talk about the stupid
Ticknor Voice
. So would you meet her? If you were Sara?”

Mom rests her hand on my arm. “This is her business, and I’m not going to sit here speculating with you. If there’s more she wants to tell you, she will.”

I imagine there are families where boundaries aren’t respected and gossip is encouraged, and the truth is that more than once in a while I wish we were one of them.

“I have a four thirty.” Mom looks at the time displayed on her phone. “So I should get back. But I’ll be home right after that, okay?”

I shrug. “Yeah, sure. Is Sara picking up Finn from daycare?”

“Russell’s done after this appointment, so he’ll get him on his way home. We thought Sara could use some time to herself.”

Mom walks me to my car and kisses my forehead and sends me home. When I get there, Sara is on the porch swing, flipping through a flagged and Post-It-ed copy of
Crime and Punishment
. She’s still wearing her school uniform, which means her long legs are hanging off the swing with only her plaid skirt keeping things modest.

Mom is really into letting us develop as our own people, so we were allowed to research and choose which high school we’d attend. We aren’t Catholic, but Sara liked the discipline and the curriculum and the lack of distraction thanks to the lack of guys at Nerinx Hall. I wish I could say that I appreciated the nontraditional ideals of Ticknor, but my reasoning for choosing it had less to do with that and much more to do with Kaitlyn’s parents picking it for her. And, really, I might not let my brain go completely crazy over guys, but I didn’t want to spend four years without them, either.

I plunk down next to Sara, pulling my feet up and hugging my arms around my knees. Of course I want to mention her biological mother, but I manage to hold it back. “I’m joining the school newspaper.”

“Doing what?” she asks.

“A humor column,” I say.

“People always seem to have fun working on our paper, so I’m sure yours is the same,” she says. “And you’ll be really good at that. Your Mark Twain paper I proofread was
really funny
.”

Wait, so that
was
possible?

“Don’t tell Dad, but maybe he’s right about putting something on my college applications,” I say. “Ugh, that’s dorky.”

“If
that’s
dorky, what am I?”

“Um, a hot dork. I thought you knew that already.”

Sara grins. “I’ll take that. So, you’ll be happy. I broke down and talked to Mom and Russell after all about Parents’ Night.”

“About—” I catch myself before bringing up her biological mother as I realize what she’s talking about. “So they’re going?”

“Yes. At least it’s my senior year and the last one.” Sara watches me for a moment. “Don’t say it.”

“I’m not saying anything! I just don’t think they’re embarrassing.”

“You don’t know what it’s like, with everyone staring.” Sara shakes her head. “I know over at Ticknor you probably earn cred for bringing our middle-aged punk rock parents—”

I don’t want to yell at Sara on a day when she’s actually dealing with more than being perfect in a weirdo family. “Totally, I’ve got cred written all over me. Is Dad coming, too?”

“He always does.”

Dad rarely goes to mine because he says they aren’t a huge priority. I can’t believe Sara’s are vastly different, except that at Nerinx Hall I imagine teachers gush about Sara’s grades and attitude and extracurriculars and therefore, make Dad feel good about himself.

“Do you think if Mom and Dad were still married that I’d even be allowed to go to Ticknor?” I ask.

“Who knows? Dad’s still paying most of your tuition,” Sara says. “And that’s such a big
if
my brain can hardly handle it.”

“Seriously.” I was only six and Sara seven when Dad calmly packed a bunch of bags and took up residence in a hotel by his office in Clayton (yes, Dad worked in a city named the same thing as himself). I’d hated that Dad was gone; he’d felt so far away at first. Still it wasn’t a huge trauma, probably because neither of them acted like one had gone down. Mom was happy to be free, and Dad’s not really into emotions outside of victory (court cases, Sara’s report cards and plaques and trophies) and disappointment (other court cases, me). I didn’t even know I was supposed to be that upset until Mom sent us to therapy and the therapist brought it up.

Dad didn’t change at all when it happened, except that he lived farther away. Mom, on the other hand, donated all of her old work clothes to Goodwill, signed up for a bunch of art classes, and began an apprenticeship at Iron Age, the most famous tattoo shop in the city. When we stayed with Dad, he assured us it was temporary, but back at home Mom was smiling more than ever before. By the time the tattoos began blossoming over her peaches and cream skin, I knew Dad was never moving back.

“Still,” I say. “I’m glad I’m not at Nerinx. I hate uniforms, and I’d miss guys.”

“It’s not impossible to meet guys just because you attend an all-girls school.” Sara only says things like this because of Dexter, but I make a little note of it anyway because maybe we’re only a step away from talking about Oliver after all. Today’s not the day to push it, though.

Sara opens up
Crime and Punishment
. “Sorry for being antisocial again, but I really need to get through this.”

“Accurate title at least.” I walk inside and up to my room. When Mom and Russell had bought the house, they’d given Sara and me two options: one giant, beautiful room to share, or two smaller rooms that would never feel spacious. Even though we sometimes still fall asleep in each other’s rooms, we’d picked privacy. What good is space when half of it isn’t really yours?

Of course Sara’s room is neat and orderly. She’d chosen tan walls and modern furniture that’s all dark wood and clean lines, just like classy people on TV shows have. It’s actually left over from the guestroom at the big house one town over in Kirkwood we lived in before the divorce. We’d both had big rooms then.

My New Year’s Day tradition is painting my walls, which means that my room has been grass green for more than ten months now. I’m sick of it anyway, but ever since Kaitlyn informed me it’s Oprah’s favorite color, I’ve been itching to change it. Still, traditions are traditions. My room is clean, because Mom demands it, but my books aren’t on my shelf alphabetically. I change what’s on my walls too often to frame any of it, so the clean green space is littered with thumbtack holes. At night they look a lot like constellations.

I turn on my laptop and tell myself I’m going to do some homework, but really, I just message some people on Facebook and investigate Oliver’s profile. (I feel better checking it periodically to make sure his status is still “it’s complicated” with “counterculture movements.”)

“Kell?” Sara leans into my room, her overnight bag on her shoulder. I slam my laptop shut at lightning speed. “I’m going to Dad’s for the night. I just have a lot of studying, and once Finn’s home…”

“Yeahhh. I’ll let Mom and Russell know.”

“Thanks.” She pushes her hair back from her face, and I have to admit those cheekbones are definitely not of our genetics. “So…I was going to talk to you…”

I look up at Sara and give her my full attention.

“Mom said she was going to…tell you what was going on?”

“Yes!” I say. Whoa, self, take your reaction down a few notches. “Yeah, Mom mentioned everything to me. Just, you know…”

“‘No family secrets,’” we say in unison.

“What are you going to do?” I ask. “If you want to tell me. You can keep it private if you want, of course.”

She pulls a ponytail holder out of her pocket and winds it around her hair, getting it perfect and smooth on her first attempt. I need a mirror, a brush, and a comb, and still I generally look a little like an escaped lunatic until about the third try.

“I don’t know,” she says.

That’s it?

“Are you okay?” Was this, I want to ask but don’t, what made you text me on Saturday night when you never need me like that? Is this big and scary or new and exciting? Can it be all of those things at once?

“Of course. I’m fine.” Sara waves. “See you soon.”

I think about blurting out something about Oliver, to keep her there longer
and
to find out if there were rules for things like this. But I can feel that it’s not only a scary move but right now a selfish one, so I just let her go.

Russell is home before too long, with Finn and a bunch of grocery bags. Our routine is always the same: Russell, who’s six-foot-three, puts away anything that goes in the tall shelves, and I take care of everything else.

I still remember every detail of meeting Russell, how he’d joined us at the pizza place that used to be Sara and my favorite, even though there was nothing on the menu he could eat except salad without dressing. Back then the tattoos covering his skinny arms scared me, and the one on his bicep spelling out the name Chrystina particularly offended me. How was he going to be a good boyfriend for my mom if he’d committed some other lady’s name to his body forever? A year or so later, when Mom told me they were getting married, I’d thrown that at her like maybe it could stop it.
If he’s so good to you, why does his arm still say ‘Chrystina’?
It was stupid because by then I did know he was good to her, saw how he came over and helped out with chores even though he had his own place across town, helped Sara and me with homework.

Chrystina was his daughter,
Mom had said in this angry tone I’d never heard from her before or since.
She was killed in a car accident the week before her fifth birthday. And this is not a democracy, Kellie Louise Brooks. This decision is mine and mine alone.

I was so ashamed of forcing Mom to use that voice that I’d hid in my room until the next morning. In the meantime I’d made her a homemade congratulations card. When I thought about handing it to her, though, I knew I’d remember yelling about the Chrystina tattoo, remember her yelling back, and instead of presenting the card to Mom, I ripped it into at least fifty pieces. There wouldn’t be any mementos of that night.

“Baked eggplant tonight, Kellie, what do you think?” Russell asks.

Vegan cheese is pretty gross, but I act excited so that Finn will be, too. “Do you need any help?”

“Help? You should be doing your homework or calling your friends,” he says. “You got enough time to have responsibilities like dinner when you grow up.”

“Isn’t homework responsibility?”

“Got me there. Your mom said you’re joining the school paper. Sounds cool.”

“It doesn’t
sound cool
,” I say. “If I went to accounting school, Mom would think it was cool. Mom thinks the fact that I breathe oxygen and let out carbon dioxide is—”

“Oh, yeah, tough break in life having a mom who thinks like that.” He grins at me. “Congrats, really. I think it’s cool, too.”

“So what do you think of the whole thing with Sara?” I ask. Since Mom isn’t home yet, maybe gossip is safe. Russell could go either way with it. “Do you think she’s going to meet her?”

“Sara’s a tough one to call,” he says. “Couldn’t say one way or another.”

“You’re no help.”

He laughs his deep, booming laugh, which makes Finn giggle. Finn apparently thinks his dad’s laugh is the funniest thing ever invented. Being four seems like a pretty good gig.