“Where was Galen? Why were you driving his car?”

“He was home. We were just taking it for a drive. He didn’t want to come.” Technically, all these statements are true, so they sound believable when I say them.

Mom snorts and secures the dead bolt on the front door. “Probably because he knows his sister is life threatening behind the wheel.”

“Probably.” I stalk to the kitchen and set my backpack on the counter. After grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, I sit at the dining-room table to unlace my tennis shoes.

She pulls up a chair beside me. “You’re not hurt? Hal said you hit your head. I was worried.”

“I did hit it, on the airbag. But I’m fine. Not even dizzy.”

Mom’s tone morphs from motherly concern to all business. “So, you want to tell me what really happened? Because I’m not buying the whole we-decided-to-take-a-BMW-down-a-dirt-road crap. A deer? You’re kidding, right?”

I hate when she pulls this. The whole good cop/bad cop thing. She doesn’t get that she’s supposed to pick one, not be both. “I’ll tell you if you tell me,” I say, washing my hands of maturity. I’m tired of the double standard—she keeps secrets, but I’m not allowed. Also, I’m tired, period. I need sleep. Which means I need answers.

“What do you mean? Tell you what?”

“I’ll tell you what we were really doing out there. After you tell me who my real parents are.” There, I opened it. A chunky can of wiggling worms.

She laughs, just like I expect her to. “Are you serious?”

I nod. “I know I’m adopted. I want to know how. Why. When.”

She laughs again, but there’s something false in it, as if it wasn’t her first reaction. “So that’s what this is about? You’re rebelling because you think you’re adopted? Why on earth would you think that?”

I fold my hands in front of me on the table. “Look at me. We both know I’m different. I don’t look like you or Dad.”

“That’s not true. You have my chin and mouth. And there’s no disinheriting the McIntosh nose.”

“What about my skin? And my hair?”

“What about it?”

“Oh, never mind,” I say, waving my hand at her. I stand to walk away. She’s not going to budge, just like I knew she wouldn’t. “I don’t feel like getting laughed at. I’m getting in the shower and going to bed.”

She grabs my arm. “What do you mean laughed at? Why would I laugh?”

Aside from the fact that she’s already laughed twice in this conversation? I raise a skeptical brow but sit back down. After a deep breath, I blurt, “Because that’s what you do every time I try to talk to you.”

She blinks. “Since when do you ever try to talk to me?” she says quietly.

Huh. She has a good point. When she puts it like that, it doesn’t really sound fair of me. I open and shut my mouth a couple times. What, am I supposed to say, “Since I was four”? After all, she’s the reason I don’t talk to her, right? “When those fish saved me—”

She throws her hands up, startling me. “For God’s sakes, I thought you wanted to have a real conversation, Emma. You’re bringing that up? You were four years old. How could you even remember that?”

“I don’t know, I just do. I remember those fish saving me. I remember you laughing at me when I tried to tell you. But Dad didn’t. Dad believed me.”

She sighs. “Look, I know you miss Dad. But what in the world does that have to do with you being adopted?”

I stand up, almost knocking over the chair. “Just forget it, okay? You’re my real mom. Dad’s my real dad. And Ra—Samantha—swerved to hit a deer. There. Now life can go on. I’m going to bed.” I stomp up the stairs and start peeling off my clothes. Now is one of those times when a hot bath would reincarnate me into a pleasant Emma. But I’m doomed to lukewarm everything for the rest of my freakish life.

Deep down, I know I’m punking out. I should keep talking to her, keep questioning her. But somehow I ended up in the hot seat instead of her. Somehow it’s suddenly my fault that we don’t have an open relationship.

I jerk the shower curtain open and step into the steaming water. It feels like I’m bathing in spit. Dumping shampoo into my hand, I work up a good lather. I stiffen when I hear Mom’s voice on the other side of the curtain.

“You’re right. Dad did believe you,” she says without emotion. “But that man would believe anything you said. Emma, you were so distraught about it and so emotional. Of course you thought it was real. I’m sure it was very real to you. I’m sorry I laughed. I don’t know if I ever said that before. But I am. I didn’t realize it hurt you.”

My lip quivers. I can’t say anything. It would be a simple thing to tell her it’s okay. To accept her apology. But I’ve held on to this bitterness for so long that I can’t just let it go. Not yet. So I don’t. She doesn’t say anything else. I never hear her leave.

When I step out of the shower, my birth certificate is on the bathroom sink, along with a few baby pictures I’ve never seen. A picture of Dad posing for the camera as he cuts an umbilical cord. A picture of Mom, hours of labor etched into her face, but still smiling while she cradles a pale baby with almost-see-through skin and a cap of white hair crusted in blood. Me.