that her right hand was holding something. Someone else’s hand. In fact, the photo had been folded under to cover that person up.
The
Little House
closing credits were blaring in the living room, but I still took care to peel the plastic very slowly so Grandma wouldn’t hear the ripping sound. Loosening each corner carefully, I pulled the photograph away from the sticky backing. Then I unfolded it.
Sitting next to Mom, holding her hand, was a young man with light brown hair.
She was looking at the camera, but he was looking at her. An old boyfriend? I studied their clasped hands. She had a band on her ring finger. I squinted at his left hand. There was a thin gold band on his ring finger, too.
I didn’t know this man. In fact, I’d never seen him before in my life.
I told people my father was dead because the truth was too weird.
When people asked Blake, he looked them straight in the eye and said, “I don’t have a dad.” Somehow he got away with that. Nobody ever asked for more details. Mom would say, “Their father is not in the picture,” and people would nod their heads and change the subject.
I told people my dad was dead and it hurt too much to talk about him. My teachers hardly ever brought it up, probably because Mom had already dropped her line on them during enrollment or conferences. My friends never pressed for details. I guess having a dead dad wasn’t a big deal in the big city of Dallas, where some kids had two dads or two moms or lived with their grandparents or were adopted from China.
I was mostly okay…until someone like Julian—with his cookie-baking, million-dollar smile, superstar dad—threw me for a loop by asking about it.
Or until I saw a photo like the one I’d just stolen from Grandpa’s album.
I slipped the folded photo in my back pocket and joined Grandma in the living room. She’d started another episode of
Little House
—the one in which Pa finds Mr. Edwards drunk and brawling in a saloon—so I stood next to the couch and waited for the scene break.
Grandma lifted her clunky remote to pause the tape. “Find anything interesting in those albums?”
I nodded. “Lots of stuff. Grandpa did a nice job putting it all together and labeling everything.” I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, trying to think of something to say that didn’t sound fake. “I used to think old photos were boring, but when it’s your family…it can be kinda cool.”
Grandma’s mouth quirked. “True enough.” She glanced at the wall clock. “You better get to that watermelon before it’s time for bed.”
“First I need to ask Blake something real quick.”
“Well, don’t just barge in there, Avery May. Knock politely and wait to be invited in.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
When Blake and I first came to stay with Grandma in Tennessee, we’d shared bunk beds in the attic. Two years ago he’d moved to Grandpa’s old music room, which was connected to the main house by a breezeway. It wasn’t as cool as the attic, but it was almost as private and had Grandpa’s beautiful old mandolins hanging on the wall. Plus it was a lot closer to the bathroom.
I tapped on Blake’s door. “It’s just me. I gotta ask you something urgent.”
“It’s not locked.”
He was sprawled on the bed staring at a
Texas Football
magazine. One of the books from his summer-reading list sat next to him with a scrap of paper marking his progress. He hadn’t made much.
I waited for him to look up.
He turned a page.
I cleared my throat.
“There will be no renegotiation,” he said, still staring at the magazine.
I pulled the photograph out of my pocket. “I need to show you something.”
When he finally looked up, I handed it to him.
He studied the photo and shrugged. “It’s Mom and some guy.”
“They’re holding hands. Notice any interesting jewelry on their fingers?”
He looked closer. “Oh.”
“Mom was married, Blake. You know what this means? She might have lied to
The
Little House
closing credits were blaring in the living room, but I still took care to peel the plastic very slowly so Grandma wouldn’t hear the ripping sound. Loosening each corner carefully, I pulled the photograph away from the sticky backing. Then I unfolded it.
Sitting next to Mom, holding her hand, was a young man with light brown hair.
She was looking at the camera, but he was looking at her. An old boyfriend? I studied their clasped hands. She had a band on her ring finger. I squinted at his left hand. There was a thin gold band on his ring finger, too.
I didn’t know this man. In fact, I’d never seen him before in my life.
I told people my father was dead because the truth was too weird.
When people asked Blake, he looked them straight in the eye and said, “I don’t have a dad.” Somehow he got away with that. Nobody ever asked for more details. Mom would say, “Their father is not in the picture,” and people would nod their heads and change the subject.
I told people my dad was dead and it hurt too much to talk about him. My teachers hardly ever brought it up, probably because Mom had already dropped her line on them during enrollment or conferences. My friends never pressed for details. I guess having a dead dad wasn’t a big deal in the big city of Dallas, where some kids had two dads or two moms or lived with their grandparents or were adopted from China.
I was mostly okay…until someone like Julian—with his cookie-baking, million-dollar smile, superstar dad—threw me for a loop by asking about it.
Or until I saw a photo like the one I’d just stolen from Grandpa’s album.
I slipped the folded photo in my back pocket and joined Grandma in the living room. She’d started another episode of
Little House
—the one in which Pa finds Mr. Edwards drunk and brawling in a saloon—so I stood next to the couch and waited for the scene break.
Grandma lifted her clunky remote to pause the tape. “Find anything interesting in those albums?”
I nodded. “Lots of stuff. Grandpa did a nice job putting it all together and labeling everything.” I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, trying to think of something to say that didn’t sound fake. “I used to think old photos were boring, but when it’s your family…it can be kinda cool.”
Grandma’s mouth quirked. “True enough.” She glanced at the wall clock. “You better get to that watermelon before it’s time for bed.”
“First I need to ask Blake something real quick.”
“Well, don’t just barge in there, Avery May. Knock politely and wait to be invited in.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
When Blake and I first came to stay with Grandma in Tennessee, we’d shared bunk beds in the attic. Two years ago he’d moved to Grandpa’s old music room, which was connected to the main house by a breezeway. It wasn’t as cool as the attic, but it was almost as private and had Grandpa’s beautiful old mandolins hanging on the wall. Plus it was a lot closer to the bathroom.
I tapped on Blake’s door. “It’s just me. I gotta ask you something urgent.”
“It’s not locked.”
He was sprawled on the bed staring at a
Texas Football
magazine. One of the books from his summer-reading list sat next to him with a scrap of paper marking his progress. He hadn’t made much.
I waited for him to look up.
He turned a page.
I cleared my throat.
“There will be no renegotiation,” he said, still staring at the magazine.
I pulled the photograph out of my pocket. “I need to show you something.”
When he finally looked up, I handed it to him.
He studied the photo and shrugged. “It’s Mom and some guy.”
“They’re holding hands. Notice any interesting jewelry on their fingers?”
He looked closer. “Oh.”
“Mom was married, Blake. You know what this means? She might have lied to
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