Milo and JJ were in Milo’s bedroom working on their Science Palooza project. Frankie brought snacks. First, rice chips and bean dip. About twenty minutes later, sliced pears and black cherry seltzer. Maybe she was doing this out of the goodness of her heart. Or maybe—despite Milo’s assurances that JJ had quit smoking, and despite Frankie deeming JJ’s parents “perfectly respectable”—she still half expected to open the door and find JJ rolling a joint. Milo didn’t know what Frankie was thinking. All he knew was that JJ was crunching rice chips all over their poster board.
“Dude,” Milo said, brushing off the crumbs.
“Sorry,” JJ said, spraying out a few more. “How many pictures do we have?”
Milo counted. They had photos of him, Suzanne, and Frankie. The three Hollis had emailed of herself, Leigh, and Pam. They had the four Fenns: Abby, her mom, dad, and sister Becca. They had the four Resnicks: Noah, his mom, dad, and twin brother Josh, who looked surprisingly blue-eyed and fair-haired. And they had two pictures of Will Bardo: the Macalester yearbook portrait, circa 2000, and the photo from his bio page on the Eden Prairie Cooperative Learning Center website. Last night Milo had resized them all on Suzanne’s computer and printed each one on her color printer. They now lay on the floor next to the poster board, dealt out in rows like playing cards. Sixteen.
“You think that’s enough?” JJ said.
“I don’t know.”
JJ picked up the photo of Will Bardo in his backyard. “I wish we had a close-up.”
“We do.” Milo pointed to the yearbook portrait.
“A recent close-up. To compare to the other parents.”
Milo shrugged. “Not for lack of trying.”
Two weeks and two days. Two weeks and two days since he sent the letter to Will Bardo, and still nothing. The only new development was Noah finding Will’s name on a website for the Twin Cities Ultimate League. Every Saturday, apparently, Will Bardo tossed around a Frisbee with a bunch of other guys who called themselves the Floppy Discs. Interesting fact, but so what?
He is never writing back, Milo thought. He is never writing back, and I will never know why. Then he thought, Screw it. He guzzled some black cherry seltzer and shoved a chip loaded with bean dip into his mouth. At least after he glue-sticked these photos onto the poster board he could call Hayley Christenson and tell her he was ready for her help. He could invite her over and—
“Dude,” JJ said, pointing to the rug, onto which Milo had just plopped some bean dip.
Milo scooped the beans up with a napkin. Hayley Christenson. Just thinking about her made his stomach flip.
“Maybe we should throw in a few decoys,” JJ suggested. “Someone who’s not related to anyone. Like me. Or Will’s wife.”
“Sure,” Milo said. He didn’t care what photos they used. He grabbed his glass, took another slug of seltzer.
There was a knock on the door. “Mi?”
Milo twisted around. Frankie. Again. Obviously she didn’t trust them in here. He was about to call her on it, but then she said, “Your phone is blowing up.”
“What?”
She held up his cell, which had been charging on the kitchen counter. “You’re very popular today.” She walked over, handed it to Milo. “Ping, ping, ping.”
“Thanks,” he said.
Milo waited until Frankie left. Then he looked at his phone, and his stomach flipped again. Hard. There were Hayley Christenson flips, and there were half-sibling group-texting flips.
Did u c the email???
One word: lame.
What family stuff?
R we not family stuff?
Not opposed to future contact. WTF.
Marinate???
Excuse me, r we steak tips?
Srsly.
Milo r u out there?
Milo check your email!!!
Milo felt his insides churn.
“Hey.” A rice chip hit him in the elbow. JJ. “Are you okay?”
Milo nodded, barely. “I have to check my email.”
“Okay…”
“I think he wrote back.”
* * *
From: 873rt0sjo2908dklsklmw3@reply.DonorProgenyProject.org
To: MiloRobClark@brooklynIDS.org; HollisDarbs @MNPSmail.org; AbsofSteel3 @sheboygancountryday.edu; NoahZark.Rez @techHSmail.com
Date: Monday, February 1, at 3:13 PM
Subject: Sorry for the delay
Hi, Milo, Hollis, Abby, and Noah.
I apologize for not responding sooner. My wife, Gwen, and I had some family stuff going on and were out of town. But we’re back now, and I wanted to let you know that A) I received your letter, and B) I am indeed Donor #9677.
Wow. I knew this would happen one day, but still. This is a real head trip. I’m glad you guys reached out, and I’m not opposed to future contact, but if you don’t mind, I’m going to let this marinate for a bit. I’ll be in touch.
All best,
Will
Without a word, Milo handed his phone to JJ. He waited for JJ to finish reading.
“‘Not opposed to future contact,’” JJ said. “That’s promising.”
Milo said nothing.
“He’ll be in touch, he says. After … you know … he puts his thoughts in a ziplock bag with some Thousand Island dressing.”
Marinate for a bit, Milo thought. How long was a “bit”? A week? A month? A year? A “bit” wasn’t good enough.
“Hey,” JJ said. “I was kidding—”
Milo held up his hand. An idea was unfurling inside his head. A crazy idea.