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like the long sweeping mane I remembered.
    â€œI know, but my dad ...”
    â€œYour dad, what? Spic, you can’t change the fact that he has some bastard sister,” Madison snipped candidly.
    â€œOkay, there are so many things wrong with that statement that I’m not even gonna go there.” My shoulders tensed.
    â€œWhat? Why are you getting all defensive?”
    I cocked my head at Madison and didn’t respond. There was no point in explaining it. She didn’t want to understand.

Chapter 9
    L illy came home not long after my friends left. She was buzzing about her newly forged tennis career and asking to borrow my old racquet. I had lasted one summer’s worth of private lessons in sixth grade before realizing that ballet was my only true talent. Of course, this realization came only seconds after the fuzzy green ball was served directly into my nose. There’s still a bump.
    â€œBetsy is so nice!” Lilly glowed. “I can’t believe she got the coach to put me on the team. I mean, I’m only on JV, but still. They’ve already been practicing for a month now. Did you know that teams start practicing in the summer before school starts?”
    â€œUh, yeah, Lil. I do live here, remember?”
    â€œOh, right. And Chad gave us a ride a home. He was really impressed with your house, by the way. He said he’d never been down this street before. Have you ever been to Chestnut Grove? That’s where he lives. He said it’s near some lake.”
    â€œI know where Chestnut Grove is,” I moaned, dismissing her praise.
    â€œOh, I keep forgetting. It’s all so new to me.”
    â€œI know,” I muttered, before trudging out of my bedroom and down the hardwood stairs toward the kitchen.
    I could smell the sauerkraut simmering, and frankly the scent of Lilly’s borrowed Chanel perfume (“Betsy carries it everywhere!”) was beginning to make me nauseated.
    â€œGood, I was just about to call you,” my mother stated as I entered the kitchen.
    She held out a thin white plate, which I grabbed before lifting the lid off a sizzling pan of kielbasa and pierogies. It was one of my favorite dishes and one of the few Polish meals my mom learned to make before my grandmother passed away.
    â€œMake sure you take some sauerkraut and salad,” my mom insisted, gesturing toward a brimming bowl of lettuce. “Lilly, do you know what all this is? Pierogies are like dumplings, but they have different fillings—meat, cheese, potato. You can put sour cream on them.”
    â€œAnd I dip the kielbasa in mustard. It makes it kinda like a hotdog.”
    Lilly sniffed the pan cautiously, her nose wrinkled.
    â€œMy family’s Polish,” my mom explained. “This is what I ate growing up.”
    Like my father, my mom grew up in low-income housing. That’s how my parents met—they went to the same Catholic school in Camden. My mom’s father was a factory worker, and my grandmother raised the kids. I still vaguely remember their house in Jersey—a beat up row home with tomatoes growing in the tiny fenced-in yard and a porch with thick chunks of paint peeling from the wooden posts. My grandpop died when I was seven, and my grandmother had passed away last year. After her funeral, my mom started cooking more Polish meals.
    â€œI’m sure Lilly’s a better eater than Mariana,” my dad nagged from his seat at the kitchen table.
    â€œDad!” I whined.
    â€œWhat? Like it’s a big secret. We practically had to force feed you growing up.”
    â€œYou should have seen her in Puerto Rico,” Lilly chimed. “She barely ate rice.”
    â€œI can imagine,” my dad chuckled, peering over his newspaper.
    â€œGee, just gang up on me why don’tcha?” I griped as I filled my plate in defiance.
    â€œHey, if everyone ate like you, the world would be a thinner place,” Lilly exclaimed as