17

That afternoon I sit at the kitchen table waiting for my dad to get home from work. Then, partly because I’m bored and partly because that curious section of my brain will not shut up, I get out my laptop and type “adoption search” in the browser. And wonder if I’m opening a can of worms.

It immediately spits out a list of possible sites. There are a ton of adoption registries, actually, like “adoptionsearch” and “reunionfinders” and “reconnect.com.” I pick the first one. It seems legit, and I can make my profile for free. I only have to answer the following questions:

Who are you trying to find?

—my birth parent(s)

—my adopted child

—a sibling

—a family member

Indicate the gender of the adopted person. (Not sure? Select both.)

—male

—female

Indicate the birth year of the adopted person.

Indicate the birth month of the adopted person.

Indicate the birth date of the adopted person.

In which country did the adoption take place?

When did the adoption take place?

—not sure

—within a year of birth

—more than a year after birth

Since the time of adoption, have you been in contact?

—not sure

—have been in contact

—have not been in contact

For the purpose of this search, which best describes you?

—I am the adopted person

—I am searching on behalf of the adopted person

—I wish to find a person who was adopted

Allow search engines to index your profile (highly recommended)

—yes

—no

It’s the first question that stops me. Who am I trying to find?

I bite my lip. Am I trying to find her? Really? Am I seriously going to do this?

I have a mother, I tell myself firmly. A wonderful, loving, kind, talented, amazing mother, who is practically perfect in every way. I don’t need another mother. I don’t want one. I remind myself that I don’t actually think of my birth mother as a mother. I guess she’s, like, thirty-four years old now, but I picture her as still being sixteen, bent over writing the word gross on the non-identifying form. In my mind, she’s just a girl. Like me.

But the truth is, I feel something. A connection, to this person I don’t know. But I still feel it. And whether she’s sixteen or thirty-four, I want to know more about her.

I want to know who she is.

I return my attention to the website. It takes all of five minutes, and I have an official profile.

It reads:

Cassieintherye

I am searching for my birth parent(s).

I was born on September 17, 2000, in Boise, ID.

I was adopted in Idaho, USA, within a year of birth.

We have not been in contact since the time of adoption.

There’s a place for me to upload a picture, but I go with the empty silhouette. There’s also a section for a personal message I could leave, but I don’t know what to say that doesn’t feel obvious.

The screen reloads as it processes my profile.

View Matches?

My heartbeat speeds up. Are there actually matches? Would it ask me if I wanted to view my matches if there were no matches?

I press the button.

1 Member Found!

90% Match

My breath catches. It can’t be this easy. My birth mother can’t be looking for me. She can’t be, can she?

I click on it.

Janet1222

I am searching for my daughter.

She was born in 2000.

She was adopted in the USA, more than a year after birth.

We have not been in contact since the time of the adoption.

No personal message has been entered.

I stare at the screen for a minute, my heart still pounding.

It’s not me. That much I know for sure. I was adopted when I was six weeks old, not after a year.

I’m not who she’s looking for.

But my eyes keep returning to the words I am searching for my daughter.

But she’s not.

I shut my laptop and wait for my heart to return to its normal rhythm, which takes a while. And then there’s the sound of my dad’s key in the lock.

“Hi, Boo,” he greets me as he comes in with an armload of groceries. “How was your—”

I jump up. “I don’t want to go to Boise State.” I say it quickly but clearly. Rip the Band-Aid off in one smooth motion, I’m thinking. Get it over with.

Dad’s expression goes slack. “What?”

I help him put the groceries away and then guide him into the living room and onto the sofa, which is where we try to have all conversations deemed “serious” in our family.

“Is this about Juilliard?” he asks hoarsely.

“No.” I laugh. “No, no, Dad. I want to go to College of Idaho.”

His eyebrows lift so much they almost disappear into his hairline. “College of Idaho?”

I start talking. “There’s something about it, Dad. It’s like a feeling. And I know, I know, feelings are super unreliable, feelings can be fickle, like you say, feelings are nothing to base big decisions on, but I just really liked College of Idaho. I think it’s the universe.”

Down come the eyebrows. “The universe.”

“I think something has been—er, directing me, to go to College of Idaho.”

He frowns. “But Nyla was the one who wanted to visit College of Idaho.”

“I know. It was Nyla, and destiny.”

He scratches under his ponytail. “But you seemed so happy about BSU. I thought—”

“I was acting happy because you were happy. I want you to be happy, Dad. I do. But I also want to be happy, and College of Idaho, I think, would make me very happy. And well educated. So. Now you know.”

I stop babbling and stare at him. Any second now he’s going to burst out laughing and hug me and tell me of course he wants me to be happy.

“I need to look at my notebook.” He goes off to his office. He stays there for like five minutes. I sit on the couch.

He finally returns, notebook in hand, and sits down again, gingerly, at the end of the sofa. He’s got the notebook open to the C of I pros and cons page. He sighs.

“I don’t think we can manage College of Idaho,” he says after a minute.

“What?”

“It’s too expensive.”

What? I can already feel the tears coming, and it makes me feel immature, like I’m a toddler who wants to cry over not getting chocolate milk. “How expensive?” I ask in a whisper, because I don’t trust my voice not to break.

He angles the notebook toward me, so I can see what he’s got listed in the cons column. The price of tuition.

I gasp. “That’s almost Juilliard.”

He nods grimly. “It’s almost Juilliard.”

I’m on my feet, pacing. My unspilled tears evaporate in a flash of anger. I feel stupid. I should have looked up all of the information about College of Idaho myself. Then I would have known. I’ve been stalking their website since our trip, looking at pictures, acquainting myself with the professors and the buildings and the food menus. Why didn’t I look at the money stuff? I assumed since it was in Idaho we’d be able to afford it.

“I’m sorry, Boo,” Dad says.

I turn on him. “Why did you even bring me to see other colleges, if I’m not allowed to go anywhere but Boise State?”

He looks pained, like root-canal kind of pain. “I wanted you to feel like you had choices.”

“But I really don’t?”

He shakes his head helplessly. “The other schools we went to—Idaho State, College of Southern Idaho—they aren’t expensive. You could go to either of those.”

I stop pacing. “I could take out loans.”

“I don’t think that’s a great idea, but we can talk about it,” he says, which is what he says when he’s really saying no. “I don’t want the start of your adult life to be under a mountain of debt.”

“There are scholarships.”

“True. But—”

“There are academic scholarships that I will definitely qualify for, and theater scholarships, and, and . . . the state drama competition next week!” I burst out.

He scratches at his cheek. “State drama?”

My mind whirls. “They award a scholarship to a senior who gives an outstanding performance in the competition. Ten thousand dollars a year, for four years, toward the college of your choice.” It’s the answer, I know it.

“Oh,” he says. “Okay. Well . . . but that’s not a for-sure thing, Cass.”

“We’ve won it every single year. Every year, Dad.” I grab his hand. “If I could get enough scholarships that C of I would cost the same as BSU, could I go to C of I then? Please, Dad?”

“Of course.” He still looks mournful. “But . . . you’re sure you don’t like Boise State?”

“It’s not that I don’t like Boise State,” I say carefully. “I can’t explain it, Dad. But I don’t feel like I belong there.”

“And you feel like you belong at College of Idaho?”

I nod. “Yes.”

He sighs. Then after the longest two minutes of my life, he says, “Well, I don’t know how we’ll pay for it, but I’ll talk to your mother.”

“You know what she’s going to say,” I venture.

He smiles and squeezes me on the shoulder. “Right. I guess I do.”

“I had a high school friend who went to College of Idaho,” Mom says later. She turns to Dad. “Dori was her name, remember, hon? We used to go and visit her sometimes. They’d have free movie nights in this old run-down theater near the college. We saw The Cutting Edge there.”

“Oh yeah,” he says, holding her hand. “Dori. She’s a doctor now, right?”

“A history professor. She loved the college so much I think she went back to teach there after she got her doctorate,” Mom says. “I should call her. See if she can give us some tips.”

“So you’re okay with it.”

Mom frowns. “Okay with what?”

“With me going to C of I and not Boise State.”

“Of course.” She gives Dad a stern look. “If this is what you want, where you know, deep down, is the place you need to be, Cass, of course we’re both going to support that.”

I glance at Dad for confirmation. He nods distractedly. “But it’s so expensive,” I admit.

“The money will come,” she says. “The universe unfolds as it should. I believe that.”

“I want to believe that, too.”

I can’t help but notice that Dad’s frowning, though. But then he notices me noticing, and gives me a wan smile. “Me too,” he says softly. “So there you have it. College of Idaho is mother approved.”

“Parent approved,” Mom corrects him.

“Yes,” Dad says.

“Thanks,” I say, but I get the sinking feeling that we’re all acting. A sense of dread has been building in my stomach since I got here. Like this is a scene in some play I’m performing in, and no more real than my former daydreams about Juilliard. I’ve been having this feeling a lot lately. Like what I’m living isn’t really my life.

The nurse bustles in. “Time for the official business,” she says, which is a version of what nurses always say when they want you to leave so they can work on their patient. Dad and I hop up from our chairs.

“Stick around for dinner?” Mom says as we move toward the door. “I think it’s going to be beef stroganoff tonight.”

“Oh dear God,” Dad says with a cringe. “Let’s go find us some salad.”

I shake my head. “I have play practice from seven to nine. I mean, I could get out of it.”

Mom frowns. “No, no, go to rehearsal, sweetie. There’s no sense sitting around here with us. We’re just going to be watching the dust settle, aren’t we, hon?”

Dad gives me that weird nod again. “Yeah. Go. I’ll see you at home.”

Dad waits outside Mom’s room, but I head for the elevator. I call Mama Jo from the parking lot and beg out of rehearsal. We’re working on the end of act two, and I only have a few lines because I’m dead. I’m tired. I’m processing a lot of new information right now. So I basically play the sick-mom card.

“Sure,” Mama Jo says before I can even get out a full sentence. “Whatever you need.”

“Thanks.” So I go to Rumbi and sit eating their veggie teriyaki bowl, and try to unpack tonight’s conversation in my mind.

My phone buzzes a few minutes later: a text from Nyla.

Nyla: You’re not here. Why are you not here? Is Mama Cat doing okay?

Me: She’s fine. I required a mental health night.

Nyla: Are YOU doing okay?

Me: I did a search on an adoption registry.

Nyla: !!! What happened???

Me: Nothing. There was nothing there. And then I told my dad about C of I.

Nyla: And?

Me: He’s cool with it.

Nyla: Told you so.

Me: Yes, you did. You were right. It’s annoying.

We text banter back and forth, and then she goes quiet for a while when it’s her scenes she’s rehearsing, and comes back about forty-five minutes later.

Nyla: What’s up?

Me: Pineapple upside cake.

Nyla: Wow, so we’re in THAT place. I thought you’d be happy about your dad being down with C of I.

Me: I am. But it turns out there are financial concerns. BIG financial concerns.

Nyla: How big?

I text her a screenshot of the tuition page.

Nyla: Frick.

Me: This might even call for a double frick, Ny. So we’re definitely going to need to win the state drama competition and get that scholarship. Okay?

Nyla: You know it. We’ve got that in the bag. You want to come in early tomorrow and rehearse the crap out of it?

Me:

Nyla: Excellent. K brb onstage for a while.

I head home when she’s gone this time. I’m in my pajamas when she texts again.

Nyla: Okay, you’re never allowed to skip rehearsal again.

Me: What happened?

Nyla: Alice is ticked off at Bastian. She had a meltdown in front of the entire cast.

Me: Why?

Nyla: He has to drop out of the state drama competition.

Me: Shut up. WHY?

Nyla: Something about his dad not letting him go on an overnight trip.

Me: Oh, wow. Wowwwwww.

Nyla: I know, right? He seemed really upset about it. I feel bad for him. He kept saying he was sorry, and Alice started crying, which only made him feel so much worse.

Me: It doesn’t sound like it’s Bastian’s fault. It sounds like he’s got dad problems.

Nyla: But Alice wanted a shot at that scholarship, too, and she can’t compete alone.

I’d be upset, too, if I were Alice.

Nyla: I think I’ve finally decided about Bastian btw.

Me: ???

Nyla: I think I like him.

Me: WHAT? What do you mean, you like him?

Our earlier weird conversation with Bastian where he, I don’t know, proposed marriage to Nyla, comes flooding back. The green monster lifts its head.

Nyla: I mean, I think he may be good people. As in, I approve of you liking him.

Me: O-kay. I approve of you approving of me liking him. Not that I’ve ever said I liked him. (But I do like him. Is it super obvious?)

Nyla: It’s obvious.

Me: Do you think he likes me?

Nyla: He’d be a fool not to, and he doesn’t seem like a fool. Anyway. You should ask him out. Now I have to get home if I’m going to rise at the crack of dawn to rehearse our scene tomorrow.

Me: Okay. Good night.

Nyla: Sleep tight.

Me: Don’t let the bedbugs bite.

Nyla: You’re a poet, and you don’t even know it.

Me: Because I rhyme all the time?

Nyla: See, this is why I love you. But now that I think about it, if I had bedbugs, I would not be sleeping in my bed. I mean, obviously I’d need to get a new bed, if I had bedbugs.

Me: Or a new house. Ew.

Nyla: Seriously, how is that a saying?

Me: Right? How are you going to stop these supposed bedbugs from biting you? What, you just ask nicely? Use bug spray? And how exactly am I supposed to sleep tight? What does that even mean?

Nyla: That’s it. I’m googling it.

Nyla: Oh my gosh never google it.

Me:

Nyla:

Me: