Dad came home Friday night. I’d been expecting a big blowup, Act Two of the scene in the living room on Tuesday. But he was just there when I came home from the Charmery, quietly making Missing Tuna Casserole for dinner. In a fat green glass vase on the table, there was a giant bouquet of pink and white lilies, Mom’s favorites. She acted as if they’d materialized there all by themselves. Normally I loved their scent, but tonight it seemed to clog up all the air in the room.
No one ate much or said much at dinner, but at least we all ate together. Mom has always been big on “family meals.” Dad would be happy to eat on the couch while reading a book, but Mealtime is our chance to talk to each other like human beings, Mom always says. Tonight, though, they sat at opposite ends of the table with the lilies between them like a pink-and-white buffer and pretty much ignored each other. I wasn’t hungry after all that ice cream, and I’ve never been too fond of Missing Tuna anything. Josh ate quickly, then went up to his room to do homework. (For crying out loud, what kind of ten-year-old does his homework on a Friday night?) The strains of a Shostakovich string quartet filtered down through the kitchen ceiling a few minutes later, which wasn’t good. Josh only listened to Shostakovich when he was really upset.
I pushed back my chair and said I was going to go check on Josh, but Dad held out a hand.
“Cadie. Just a minute. Mom and I have to talk to you.”
What now?
“We discussed this with Josh while you were out, and he’s fine with it.” Dad paused. “We want you to know that any decisions we make going forward are your decisions, too.” I noticed how many times he was using the word “we,” as if stressing that he and Mom were still a team. I wondered who he was trying to convince. Mom hadn’t made eye contact with him once.
Now, though, she rolled her eyes and interrupted him, as if trying to get this conversation over with more quickly. “The problem is,” she said, addressing me, “we don’t have another bedroom. For Elizabeth.” It was the first time I’d heard Mom say her name, and it didn’t sound quite right coming out of her mouth. As if she were pronouncing a word in a new language that she didn’t know very well. As if she wasn’t quite sure where to place the accent. Or the girl herself, apparently.
Dad nodded. “So Mom and I had an idea—we could move into your room, and you and Elizabeth could share the master bedroom.”
My jaw literally dropped. “You want me to share a room with her? With a girl I’ve never even met?”
Dad continued as if I hadn’t said anything. “In the long term, we’ll finish the basement and make another bedroom down there. But we can’t afford to do that right now, and obviously there’s not enough time, anyway.” He glanced at Mom for a moment, then back at me. “And Cadie … try not to think of her as just ‘a girl.’ I know this will take time. But remember, she’s your sister.”
“My half sister, who I’ve never met,” I mumbled. Who I didn’t know existed until this week.
“Anyway, Josh said it’s fine with him, but of course it doesn’t really affect him. You’re the one who gets to say whether it’s all right or not.”
I hated the way Dad was acting like I even had a choice.
I shrugged. “Like you said. Where else is she going to sleep?” Then I stomped upstairs and discovered that Mom and Dad had already moved some of their furniture out into the hallway. So it had been decided without me, no matter what they were pretending.
I went into my room—my old room—and grabbed an armful of clothes, then hung them dead center in Mom and Dad’s gigantic closet. At least I could set up the room the way I wanted it before Elizabeth showed up.
Mom came up to help me, while Dad spread out papers all over the kitchen table and made a lot of phone calls to lawyers. We spent the rest of the evening moving stuff, and by midnight, we had all my furniture relocated into the master bedroom. Most of Mom and Dad’s furniture wouldn’t fit into my old room, so we left their bookshelves and vanity table in my new room, and carted their rocking chair down to the basement. Mom packed up their summer clothes to store in the basement as well, since my old closet was tiny.
We left the queen-sized bed in the master bedroom, because Mom said they were ordering a new bed for Elizabeth and we could wait to move all the beds around until it arrived on Monday. She said they’d be fine squeezing onto my twin bed in the meantime. But when I came downstairs in the middle of the night for a glass of water, Dad was sleeping on the couch.
Dad left early on Saturday morning for Ohio, before I woke up. There was a note in the middle of the kitchen table: See you Monday night, plus one! Mom threw out the lilies—they’d already started to rot—but she didn’t touch the note, so we ate around it all weekend, like it was a weird centerpiece.
I spent Saturday rearranging the new room, trying to get it to feel like my own space. Hanging up stuff on the walls helped—two paintings Micayla had given me for my birthday last year, a drab landscape of a Scottish moor and a sickeningly picturesque English cottage. She’d found them in an antique shop on The Avenue, then doctored them by adding a yeti to one and Darth Vader to the other. The yeti was emerging from the gloom of the moor, holding up a cell phone like he was trying to find service, and Darth Vader sat cross-legged in the yard of the cottage, making a daisy chain. Micayla had done such a good job matching the color palettes that it looked like they’d been created that way originally.
I also had a giant signed poster of Regina Spektor. Raven and I each bought one when we went to see her at Georgetown University last year—Mom drove us down to the Glenmont metro and we all rode into the city together, but then she dropped us off at the auditorium and went shopping in Georgetown. So it was basically our first unchaperoned concert. Raven wore lipstick and a miniskirt with fishnets for the occasion. We didn’t meet any cute guys, though, and Raven complained she was freezing all night. We ended up sitting next to an old Israeli couple who nodded their heads quietly to the music the whole time and smiled at us a lot.
I covered the wood floor with a big rag rug I found rolled up in the basement when we were carrying down boxes of summer clothes. It was something we’d brought with us when we moved to Baltimore, a farewell gift from everyone at Ahimsa House. I showed it to Mom, and she sighed and said, “Well, that brings back a lot of memories.” But she didn’t say any more about it, so I carried it upstairs. Maybe Mom thought we’d left that life behind, but clearly it had caught up with us.
Saturday night, I slept over at Raven’s. I didn’t want to sleep in that gigantic bed again, in a room that wasn’t really mine. We stayed up until four in the morning. First we tried to figure out how to make mix tapes using a tape deck Raven had rescued from Hampden Junque on The Avenue. “So romantic,” Raven said. “I’m totally making a mix tape for Max.”
“But Max probably doesn’t have a way to listen to tapes,” I pointed out.
“Irrelevant,” she said. “He’ll know what it means.”
Then we took out Raven’s nail polish collection and painted each of our toenails a different color, just to see what they all looked like. Plus, when we were seven years old we’d made a solemn vow never to paint all our toenails the same color. That was what other girls did. Not us. At the time, this seemed very important.
Finally we watched Pulp Fiction. The dialogue was awesome, but I had to cover my eyes at least once in almost every scene. Raven, on the other hand, loved gore.
“If you like this, you’ve got to see Kill Bill,” she kept saying.
“My parents would kill me if they found out I was watching this. They hate blood-and-guts movies.”
“Which makes it all the more enjoyable,” Raven said crisply. “If someone’s going to ruin your little-lamb innocence, I, as your best friend, certainly deserve the honor.” Raven lived with her mom and grandmother, whom she called by their first names, Renata and Ruby, and who didn’t care much about what she did. She said it was partially an only child thing, and partially a “sisterhood of women” thing. Not that Dad was strict with me, either. But Mom seemed to make up new rules every year. Every month. The older I got, the more rules there were.
“Isn’t it supposed to work the other way? More freedom as you get more mature?” I complained to Dad once, after the first time Raven and I dyed my hair—green and purple streaks. Mom was not pleased, and proceeded to lay down a dozen new rules for what I was or wasn’t allowed to do. But Dad said, “She just hates to see you growing up so fast.”
Raven and I slept until noon on Sunday, and then her grandmother Ruby made us raspberry waffles and coffee. Neither of us really liked coffee, but Raven said that was a sisterhood thing, too, so we stirred in lots of sugar and cream and sipped it to be polite. Afterward we felt super energetic and zoomed around the house in our pajamas like little kids, cracking ourselves up about nothing in particular. When we crashed, we curled up in her room, listening to music and procrastinating on our weekend homework. The whole day was exactly what I needed.
But the weekend finally came to an end, and I spent Sunday night tossing and turning in the middle of that big bed in the master bedroom, thinking about what the next day would bring. Trying to picture Elizabeth here in our house. Realizing that I had no idea what she even looked like. Would she look like Dad? The thought made my stomach churn. I’d always been Dad’s girl—we just fundamentally got each other, on this very basic level. But we don’t look alike at all. I mean, Dad’s white, so technically I’m half white too, but I don’t look it. I’ve spent my whole life with strangers not believing me and Josh are siblings, asking me “So where are you from, sweetie?” when they see me and Josh and Dad together, as if they assume I’m adopted. A registrar at Peabody even asked Mom once where Josh’s mother was. When Mom realized the registrar thought she was Josh’s nanny, because her skin is darker than his, I could almost see the steam billowing out of her ears.
What if Elizabeth was a music prodigy too, like Josh? Or really good at something else? I was used to being less talented than Josh, but what if I was truly the only untalented Greenfield kid out of, like, the bunch? Did three count as a “bunch”? And then, what would it be like to have another girl my age around all the time—a sister? What if she was skinnier, prettier, smarter, cooler than me? I’d always been the oldest, the only daughter. Even when I felt weird or out of place at school, at home I was the big sister, the only girl—Dad’s girl, his Cadiest. That’s who I was.
Except now maybe I wasn’t, because my family wasn’t the same family anymore.
I yanked a pillow over my face and breathed in the starched scent of the fabric, pressed it against my closed eyelids until I saw stars. But there was no way to stifle that voice on repeat inside my head.
Not the same family anymore. Not at all.
Monday morning, my alarm rang what felt like two seconds after I’d pulled that pillow over my face. I woke up sweaty, parched, nauseated. Then I remembered what bed I was in, and why, and felt even worse. Focus, Cadie, I told myself. Get up. Get dressed. One thing at a time. Bleary-eyed, I yanked a sweatshirt over my head.
At least Mondays mean drama class. The weight in my stomach lightened a little. I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face, which helped too. Then I brushed my hair and changed into a short purple-and-white striped skirt, a stretchy burgundy sweater, yellow tights, and brown boots. Putting together a cute outfit always made me feel a little better about life. We’d been practicing Meisner repetitions and other partner exercises all last week, and although I hadn’t been paired with Sam Shotwell after that first day, there was always hope.
But of course, Farhan was still my one true love—which Raven reminded me as we plunked down our lunch trays at our usual corner table, where we had the best vantage point for people watching.
“Tickets are on sale today,” she said, adding pickles to her burger.
“Tickets?” I repeated groggily. All the hours I hadn’t slept over the weekend were weighing down my eyelids like little sandbags. I picked at my PB&J.
“So have you asked Afar-han yet? Please don’t tell me he’s still unaware of your existence.”
“Of course he’s aware of my existence,” I snapped. “We’ve been friends since we were, like, eight years old.”
“A friend is different from a Fall Ball date. And don’t grouch at me, you’re the one who insisted on watching Pulp Fiction twice.”
“Did we? I must’ve slept through the second time.”
“You didn’t. You were repeating all of Uma Thurman’s lines along with her. I swear, your memory is freakish. If I could memorize stuff that quickly, my GPA would be through the roof.”
I grinned. “‘Why do we feel it’s necessary to yak about bullshit in order to be comfortable?’”
Raven narrowed her eyes at me for a moment before she realized I was quoting one of Uma Thurman’s lines from the movie. “Case in point. Now, I refuse to speak to you again until you have marched up to Farhan Mazandarani and asked him to the Fall Ball. Ready, set, go.” She took a giant bite of her burger and gave me a no-nonsense glare while she chewed.
Well, she was right. What did I have to lose? At least I could take one little piece of my life into my own hands. And maybe approaching Farhan would distract me from thinking about what was happening—who was arriving—tonight. Smother one anxiety with another. Or, maybe I’d wind up in the hospital with heart palpitations. At this rate, I’d have ulcers before I even graduated.
I skulked by Farhan’s locker before the bell, trying to look nonchalant. Luckily, he was alone when he turned the corner.
“Hey, Cadie.” He started spinning the knob on his locker.
I looked down at my boots. “Hey, do you want to go to the Fall Ball? With me, I mean. If you don’t, it’s okay, or if you already have plans or something, I mean, I don’t really go to dances anyway—”
“Yeah, sure!” The enthusiasm in his voice surprised me, and I looked up.
Bad move. His dark shiny curls fell over his ears and forehead in an adorable mop. He tossed his head to get his hair out of his eyes and smiled at me. Did he realize that was total movie star behavior?
“Great! Awesome!” I blurted. “So I’ll go pick up tickets after my next class, unless you want to, I mean, not that you have to pay for mine, I can definitely pay for my own ticket, I’m definitely a feminist, you know?” That was definitely the most words I’d ever spoken to Farhan.
He was still smiling at me. “Um, I’m not really sure what you just said.”
“Oh.” I took a deep breath. “Sorry.”
“I have study hall next period, so I can go get us tickets. Okay?”
“Sure!” I nodded vigorously and willed my mouth to stay shut.
“Okay, see ya later then.” And he slung his backpack over one shoulder (adorable), turned, and walked away.
Just like that, I had my very first date.
Drama was next. I made it out to the Shed somehow, although all I wanted to do was find Raven and tell her everything that had just happened. The sky was a perfect September blue; the maples at the edge of campus were just starting to hint at their fall plans. And I had a date. With Farhan Mazandarani. Who I’d had a real (sort of?) conversation with for the first time ever. Who had smiled at me and tossed the hair out of his eyes even after I verbally vomited all over him.
Gross. I reminded my brain never to use that phrase again.
I pushed open the door to the Shed and my stomach contracted.
Auditions.
I’d completely forgotten, even though Robin had reminded us on Friday.
“Class, let’s center,” he called, already perched in lotus pose on the stage. “We’ve got a lot to get through today. Those of you who would like to try out for Much Ado About Nothing will be doing so during this period, while any other would-be thespians not in this class will be auditioning after school. We begin rehearsals next week. Before you sign up for an audition slot, please take one of these handouts and make sure you can commit to our schedule.” He waved a sheaf of papers. “Shakespeare is a rigorous lifestyle, people. This is not an extracurricular for the faint of heart. If you’re only hoping to pad your college application, please waste another teacher’s time.”
Someone was crabby today.
And I hadn’t prepared for this audition at all. My bookmark was still very close to the beginning of my pocket Much Ado.
Well, I’d just have to try to remember something about the characters from seeing the play with Dad at the Shakespeare Theatre in DC, and wing it. At least my reactions would be authentic today—Meisner would approve.
After we centered, Robin split us up into two groups. Those who weren’t auditioning—only four of the sixteen students in the class—took copies of The Crucible to the small classroom behind the theater and started a read-through. We’d be working on scenes from that play next week.
The rest of us were given “sides,” photocopies of the scenes we’d be reading for the audition.
“Come downstage to read, stay upstage while you’re waiting your turn,” he instructed, hopping off the edge of the stage and perching on the armrest in the first row of seats.
Half of us milled slowly to the back of the stage, and the rest stayed at the front, everyone surreptitiously glancing around to see if anyone knew what we were supposed to do.
Robin clapped his hands. “Downstage means closer to me. Stage directions are from the perspective of the actor, people. Stage left—your left. And downstage got its name from the early days of theater, when the stage actually tilted slightly downward toward the audience. Capeesh?”
He called the first pair forward and they began to read a Beatrice-Benedick scene, but he stopped them almost immediately.
“You’re both moving around too much. No moving around for now, unless it feels absolutely necessary. We’ll work on blocking and stage directions later. For today, just read.”
He stopped the next pair and repeated the same direction. “For the love of the Bard, people, the most colorful stage direction Shakespeare ever wrote in any of his plays was ‘Exit, pursued by a bear.’ Unless a bear is pursuing you at this moment, stay still.”
I could tell the others were starting to get nervous. Shuffling their pages, shifting their weight from one foot to the other. I took a deep breath and tried to listen to the pair who were currently auditioning—Sam Shotwell and Rina Crane, a junior who’d been in drama the previous year and was totally rocking her audition, flinging her arms and tossing her head to emphasize the emotion she was putting into the words. Actually, she looked totally ridiculous. Trying way too hard.
I started shifting my weight from one foot to the other, too.
Then Robin called my name. I crossed to the front of the stage—I mean, downstage—and faced my partner, Zephyr Daniels. He was a senior who’d taken drama before as well, and he’d had the lead in the winter play last year. His gangly frame disappeared into an oversized brown leather coat, a shade or two lighter than his skin, and his hair stuck up all over his head in little twists. He was staring down at his pages, his shoulders hunched, mouthing words silently.
I read the first lines: “I wonder that you will still be talking, Signor Benedick: nobody marks you.”
Zephyr finally looked up at me. I was momentarily stunned by the brightness of his eyes—they were honey-colored, almost amber. He narrowed them, then threw back his head and laughed, and I jumped. “What, my dear Lady Disdain? Are you yet living?” He spat the words at me, rude, mocking.
I stood up a little straighter and matched his tone, shooting my next lines at him like little arrows. We went back and forth like that, and then he started to circle me like a wrestler sizing up an opponent. I expected Robin to yell “Stop moving!” again, but he kept quiet, so I moved away from Zephyr as I said my next lines, as if keeping a large round table between us. I had to, if I didn’t want him to crash into me.
“God keep your ladyship still in that mind! So some gentleman or other shall ‘scape a predestinate scratched face.” He reached out suddenly and swiped at my face. I pulled back instinctively.
“Scratching could not make it worse, an ‘twere such a face as yours were.” I jabbed a finger at his nose.
“Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.” That laugh again.
“A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.” I was really mad now at the way Zephyr was getting into my space, that mocking tone of voice, the way he was forcing me to speak more quickly to keep up with him.
But then he slowed down suddenly, drawing out his words to make the speed at which I’d been talking sound even more absurd. “I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and so good a continuer. But keep your way, in God’s name; I have done.”
That was the end of the page. We stared at each other, both breathing hard.
Robin clapped his hands together twice and said, “Next!” and Zephyr jumped off the edge of the stage and headed for the classroom. I lingered, though, and watched the next few auditions. Robin barked instructions at everyone else—“Stop moving!” or “Speak up!” or “What’s that? You’re mumbling! Mumble not in the house of the Bard, people!” But he hadn’t said a word to Zephyr and me.
Robin gathered everyone at the end of class and announced that audition results would be posted the next morning right after Meeting.
“We are going to read great swaths of Shakespeare this year,” he said. “So even if you don’t land a role in the play, you’ll be practicing scenes in class all semester. Thank you all for your fine work today. Go home, do your reading, we’ll start in on The Crucible tomorrow.”
Great swaths of Shakespeare. It sounded like something Dad would say.
And just like that, I was back in the real world. Where tonight, I would be meeting my half sister for the first time.