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Two evenings later, I helped Mom make supper while Dad was out in the fields. She stood at the counter, chopping onions, while I snapped green beans at the kitchen table. This was my opportunity, but I wasn’t sure how to begin.
Mom asked in a bored voice, “How’s school going?”
I didn’t think she cared, as long as I passed. She had always signed my report cards without commenting about my grades. But they were usually bad. Thanks to Francie’s tutoring and my determination to get into college, this time was different. “Let’s see. I’m getting a C in geometry and an A in English. An A in phys ed. Uh, a B in biology, and I think a C in Spanish. Oh, and a B in choir.”
“Why a B in choir?” She was just making conversation. This would be my best report card ever, and we both knew it.
“Uh, there was a choir competition in Orlando, but I couldn’t go.”
“You didn’t tell me about this.” She turned and glared at me, holding the knife upright as if preparing to throw it at something. “I imagine running got in the way. Am I right?”
“I guess so.” I looked down and concentrated on snapping the beans.
She sighed. “What am I going to do with you? I wanted you to sign up for typing and shorthand, but you insisted on taking college-bound classes. I’m glad you’re doing so well, but you need to be more realistic.”
“But Mom, I don’t want to be a secretary any more than I want to be a farm worker. I want to live in a city and be a gym teacher. And for that, I need to go to college.” I couldn’t keep the eagerness out of my voice. I wanted so much for her to understand and to support me—so much that I ignored the knife and her disapproving expression.
“We’ve talked about this, Dana Faye.”
“Yes, ma’am, I know, but the school counselor says that even if I don’t get a scholarship, I can probably get loans, and I can work, too.”
Deep down, I thought she would be pleased if I went to college, since she hadn’t gotten to go, and that she was being mean because she didn’t want me to be disappointed when it didn’t happen. I didn’t want to even consider that she thought I’d flunk out because I was too stupid to succeed.
But she didn’t answer, just continued to chop onions for the chicken salad for Mr. and Mrs. Barrett’s supper, bonk, bonk, bonk on the cutting board.
I took a deep breath and grabbed my chance. “Hey, Mom, I was wondering about something.”
“What?” She seemed lost in her own thoughts.
I had pondered for hours about how I should proceed. I couldn’t ask directly about the photos of the baby who died, because then she’d know I’d been in her private papers. I had to start in a roundabout way. “Why aren’t there more pictures of me when I was little? There’s a big gap between the pictures of me as a baby and when I was about five.”
She whirled around, knife still in her hand. “I’ve told you before that those pictures got lost in a flood. What is it you want from me?” Her eyes were red from chopping onions, and her mouth was set in a straight line.
The truth was what I wanted, and this wasn’t it. I held my ground. “Why aren’t there any pictures of me during that time?”
She sighed, shaking her head. “Oh dear Lord, let me think.” She paused. “All right, you want the truth? The truth is, your dad pawned the camera so we could pay rent. It took me a few years to save up enough money to buy another one. Now are you satisfied?”
The sadness in her voice softened me. I had never heard this explanation before. Could it possibly be true? I needed to give it more thought. “Oh. Sorry, Mom. I didn’t know.”
“Well, now you do. It was a tough time for us. So leave it alone, will you?”
But then I remembered the photos and hardened myself again. Yeah, I bet it was a tough time for you. The real Dana Faye died, and somehow I came into the picture. Suddenly, it dawned on me to wonder how the baby had died—and if I was in danger. I’d been planning to ask more questions, but I got distracted by that train of thought.
Mom set down the knife. “I’m going to take a little rest. Finish making the chicken salad, would you?” She was crying, and probably not just because of chopping onions. She walked into her bedroom and shut the door.
All I could think was, Crap. What if she discovers I took my birth certificate?
She emerged a half hour later, eyes still red and puffy. She looked wearier than I’d seen her in a long time.
I went to my room, confused about what to do next. It was clear that my mom was never going to give me a truthful answer about the little girl with my name, no matter how gently I worked up to the subject. And Dad wouldn’t be any better. He’d probably just get mad and say I needed to mind my own business. No, I was going to have to do something about the situation myself.
First, I needed to tell Francie what I’d found. But I knew she didn’t really believe my theory about being adopted. I would need proof to convince her or anyone else. That meant taking the photos and showing them to her. Together, we’d decide what to do.
While Mom was out of the house, taking the Barretts’ supper to them, I rushed into her bedroom and unlocked the metal box. Flipping through the papers, I discovered that the black envelope was gone. An electric shock shot from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes. Mom must have known I’d found them, so she’d hidden the photos somewhere else. That was the only explanation I could think of, and it also explained her red eyes. But I’d been cheated out of my evidence, and I was ready to pound that metal box into smithereens.
Through the window, I saw Mom coming down the steps of the big house, and I quickly put everything back. At the last instant, I took the Boston letter that I hadn’t taken the time to look at before. I would check it later. When she came inside, I was in my room with the door closed, pacing and waiting for her to confront me about the photos. I waited an hour, but nothing happened. Feeling like I was about to shake to pieces, I went out for a second run after supper.
After my parents were asleep, I locked my door and looked at the Boston letter. It was just a folded piece of paper with an address label on the front. The address wasn’t familiar. Inside was a note from the city about the Boston Marathon, listing the streets that would be closed during the race. Why would my parents have this when they said we’d never lived in Massachusetts? It was a minor mystery, though, compared to the major one about my birth. I stashed the letter in the envelope with my birth certificate.
I locked my door that night and planned to keep it locked from then on. Mom didn’t say anything to me about the pictures, even though I waited, braced, for the confrontation. I didn’t know who these people were, but I realized I might be in danger. Just like the first Dana Faye Smith.
* * *
MY FIRST OPPORTUNITY to tell Francie everything came during lunch the next day. Reese often ate with us, but on that day, he was busy, so we were alone. We carried our trays to a table outside, far away from the other kids. I was trying to figure out where to start when she asked, “How are things with you and Reese?”
“Reese? Oh, we’re fine.” Our kissing had improved, but my insides still didn’t flip-flop when our lips met. I tried to sound enthusiastic, but my heart wasn’t in it.
Kyle had called me a couple more times and then stopped. I was glad I hadn’t mentioned his phone calls to Francie. She would have kicked me in the butt for falling for her brother over and over, when she had already told me he wasn’t worth it.
She noticed my attitude and jumped on me about it. “Why are you jerking Reese around if you don’t like him? He’s too nice for that.”
A pang of remorse pierced my heart. “I know, but I can’t help it. I really like him, but he’s more like a good friend.”
“Instead, you’re hung up on Kyle, who doesn’t know you exist.”
Hmm. She understood more than I thought. And she was right. I was just a lowly high school junior, while Kyle was surrounded by glamorous college girls—and probably the luscious Linda.
“I wish somebody would follow me around like a lovestruck puppy like Reese does you.” Francie’s tone was wistful.
“Listen, that isn’t important right now. I need to talk to you about something else. This is life or death.”
“Okay. What is it?” She had something on her mind, because she was acting kind of dreamy.
“What’s wrong with you?”
She said, “I just got asked to the prom. By Jeremy. Do you know him? He’s a senior, and he’s in my chemistry class. He’s kind of shy.”
Why was she acting wistful about Reese when she’d just gotten her own date? “That’s great, Francie. I’ve been so busy I forgot all about the prom. Did you say yes?”
She looked at me with wonder in her eyes. “Are you kidding? Of course I said yes. Hasn’t Reese asked you yet?”
I shook my head. “No, and it doesn’t matter now. Listen, remember when I told you about being adopted?”
She nodded, clearly bracing herself to argue with me again.
“I found my birth certificate. But in the same stack of papers, I also found some pictures of a baby, and on the back, my mom had written the baby’s birth date and death date.” I drew this out so she’d understand how crucial it was. “That baby died when she was eighteen months old. But she had the same name and the same birth date as mine.” I stared at her, waiting for her to apologize for doubting me.
She shook her head, looking dubious. “Let me see the pictures. Do you have them with you? Where were they?”
“Uh, they were in my mom’s metal box where she keeps important papers. Here’s my birth certificate.” I opened my geometry book and pulled out the envelope.
Francie unfolded the paper and read it several times. “Is this what you’ve always been told about your birth? The date and place and all that?”
“Well, yes. But it’s probably not mine.”
She set down the birth certificate. “Okay. Now, where are the pictures?”
“Gone,” I said miserably. “I went back to get them last night, and they were gone.”
She scratched her head then took a bite of her sandwich. Sounding irritated, she said, “All right. Tell me about them.”
“They were on one of those rows of pictures from drug store machines. Black-and-white. You know what I’m talking about?” When she nodded, I continued. “The baby and my mom were laughing in all four pictures. I recognized her. She was the baby in our family photo album, not me. She didn’t even look much like me.”
Francie inhaled deeply and set down her sandwich. Finally, I had her full attention. “Does this have something to do with your parents being Russian spies?”
I winced and shook my head. “Uh, I was wrong about that.”
She looked away, considering. “Do you think she was maybe your sister, and she died, and your parents gave you her name or something? Man, that’s weird.”
“I don’t know. Maybe that happened. But it seems like the birth dates would have been different. Unless we were twins. Or they adopted me.”
“Yeah, maybe. Whatever happened, you’ve got to find those pictures.” She hesitated. “Why didn’t you take them when you got the birth certificate?”
“I... I don’t know. I guess I was just so stunned that I was afraid Mom would find out and kill me or something.”
Francie grew pale. “Wow. That’s scary. But it’s not true. Your mom wouldn’t hurt you. You know that, right?”
I nodded, not completely sure.
“But we really need to find those pictures before we can do anything else. It’s the only proof that you aren’t who they say you are.”
We. She’d said “we.” That word was music to my ears.
I sighed. Of course she was right. I, or we... somebody needed to find the pictures. But I didn’t know how to begin.
Francie took a few more bites of her sandwich. “I don’t think your mom would have thrown them away, since she’s already kept them for so long and they’re obviously important to her. But she must have hidden them somewhere else. We’re going to have to find them. When should we do it? And how do we get your parents out of the house so we can search?”
“So you believe me now?”
She nodded. “Yeah. You wouldn’t have made up those pictures. I don’t understand what’s going on, but for sure, something is.”
A deep sense of satisfaction settled in my body. As horrible as this whole thing was, at least somebody believed me. I probably could have run the marathon right then and not even gotten out of breath.
Francie interrupted my thoughts. “Look, I know this is really big stuff, and I’ll help you all I can. But... do you want to go to the school play on Saturday night? My dad is letting me take his car. Maybe we can combine the search and the play somehow.”
Yes, oh yes. I’d been so involved in my own drama that I hadn’t paid much attention to Reese and the school play. I’d figured I’d go to the dress rehearsal one afternoon instead of the actual play. I had no way to get to school since Reese was in the cast and Dad always took the truck on Saturday nights. I wasn’t going to run all the way to the school at night by myself. Thank goodness for Francie.
We made our plans. Getting my parents out of the house when I wanted them out was going to take all of my talent for scheming.
* * *
WHILE MOM AND I WERE washing dishes that night, I said offhandedly, “Dad really likes playing music. I’ve never heard him play in a band. Have you?”
“Yeah. I told you that. When you were little, I used to leave you with a babysitter for a few hours and go listen to him play. But now I’m always too tired.” She added in a hard voice, “He’s quite good. But he plays in bars, and they serve liquor there. I can’t stand drunks.”
Uh-oh. Bad direction. Mom was a nutcase about drinking. If it had been a hundred years earlier, she would have been one of those women marching for temperance, barging into saloons and breaking bottles of booze.
“Oh, well,” I said as though that topic was finished. When we were done with the dishes, I asked, “Hey, Mom, can I go to the school play with Francie on Saturday night? And then can she come over and spend the night?” This was the first time I’d ever asked to have somebody sleep over. It was a big deal, and I was sure she knew it.
Mom hesitated. “It’s fine for you to go to the play with Francie. She’s a good kid. But I don’t know if I can sleep with two teenage girls giggling all night. I work too hard to miss a night’s sleep.”
“We won’t giggle all night. Well, we might giggle for a while, but we’ll go to sleep before it’s too late.” I hesitated and then added, as though it had just occurred to me, “Hey, maybe you should go out with Dad and hear him play. I bet he’d like that. And people will probably be doing more dancing than drinking.” I was on thin ice, considering that I’d never been to the bar where he played—or any bar, for that matter. But I kept my tone upbeat and confident. “Anyway, we’ll be asleep when you get back.”
I could see the mental battle play out on her face. She probably knew how happy Dad would be if she went to hear his band play. Music was all he talked about those days, other than moving. And she didn’t want to move. Finally, she said, “I guess that will work. But you have to be home by midnight. I’ll get your dad to run me home between sets, so I’ll be here when you get home.”
“Oh, all right.” I rolled my eyes and stomped around, pretending it was a huge compromise for me to be home that early, but really, I planned on being home way before midnight.