“We don’t know that.”
I pick up my phone and scroll through my photo gallery until I find a picture of the three of us together. I shoved it under Poppy’s nose. “Yes. We do.” She takes the phone out of my hand and examines the picture for a long time.
“Maybe,” she finally says as she hands the phone back to me. The word crashes on my ears. Ever since I discovered Mom’s journal, there has been no question in my mind that I’m the one that doesn’t belong. But hearing Poppy say it hurts worse than I would’ve thought possible.
I look at the picture on my phone. Mom stands in between Poppy and me with her arms around us. It was taken last May after graduation. We were waiting for Jackson to fight his way through seven hundred other graduating seniors so we could congratulate him. Mom’s hair is her signature auburn, which I now realize she probably dyes to obscure the fact that she looks so much like Poppy. They both have the same hazel eyes on a heart-shaped face with perfectly proportional mouths and noses. Less than half an inch separates our heights in this photo, but that’s because I was wearing three-inch wedges. My hair is darker than Poppy’s, and my round face is covered in freckles. My eyes are blue, and my smile takes up too much of my face.
It’s so obvious to me now. I can’t understand how Mom got away with her lie for so many years. She didn’t just convince Poppy and me; she convinced countless readers. I feel like all I have to do is post this picture online with the caption LOOK AT US, and people will discover the truth. But I know it’s not that simple. You can’t undo a lifetime of lies with one picture. This isn’t an easily toppled house of cards. It’s a freaking fortress.
“I don’t care, and you shouldn’t either. Why should you care about some woman who obviously didn’t want you?” Poppy’s voice brings me back to our conversation.
“Because she’s my mother.” I cannot believe that she doesn’t understand the magnitude of this information.
“No, she’s not. Ashley Dixon is your mother.” Poppy stands up. “Our lives are amazing. We couldn’t ask for anything else. Don’t mess that up just because you’re in some huff about your DNA.”
Hot tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Poppy and I have always had a connection, an ability to read each other’s minds and know exactly what the other person is feeling. But right now, it’s like we’re trying to communicate through a jammed router. Maybe our “connection” was so fragile that it vanished once we discovered we’re not biologically related. I take a deep breath and try again. “Can you just think about how I feel for one second?”
“As soon as you start thinking about someone other than yourself, I’ll start thinking about you.” She slams the door on her way out.
It’s one a.m. and I’m still awake, scrolling through the BITES message board without really reading it. That was not the way I wanted to tell Poppy. I never should have thrown that information in her face in the middle of an argument. How did I expect her to react? It’s not like I took the news very gracefully myself. No, I cried my eyes out, locked myself in my bedroom for twenty-four hours, drove up a mountain, and then egged a dirt road. Different people have different reactions. When confronted with the information that one of us was abandoned by our biological mother and adopted into this family, I freaked out. Poppy didn’t care. That’s not weird or anything.
Except it is. It’s so weird.
When I’m all caught up on the BITES message board, I switch over to our YouTube channel and read the comments on our “One Million Subscribers Thank You” vlog. Emily and Erica are back at it again with a new username, calling us “navel-gazing special snowflakes.” It’s meant to be hurtful, but I can’t help but laugh at that one. My entire life, family, and future are falling apart before my eyes, and they think they’re going to hurt me by calling me a snowflake? I can tune that noise out all day.
I flip back to BITES and enter my contribution to the one-up game.
It’s less than ten minutes before Nora requests a video chat and is smiling at me from my computer screen. It’s already morning where she is. Or maybe it’s still yesterday? Either way, she’s swinging on a hammock with mountains behind her, her dark hair fanned out in a halo around her face. “Tell me everything,” she demands through a puff of smoke. Her parents must be out; she once told me they’d sent her to a convent if they found out she smokes weed.
I give her a quick recap of Stella’s visit.
“You have to get out of it.” Nora’s voice is insistent. I’m so grateful to have her as a friend. She’s been around long enough to understand what participating in the show will cost me.
“Poppy would hate me.”
She pauses, considering this. “Tell me about the scandal clause again.”
“They won’t film the show if we get involved in any scandal or drama. It’s not ‘on brand.’”
“Then there’s only one choice.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“You have to create a scandal.” She leans back against her hammock with a satisfied smirk on her face.
“Poppy would know it was me, and she’d be furious.”
“Good point.” She scratches a mosquito bite on her cheek while thinking. “Too bad you don’t have a relative who’s dumb or racist or sexist or something. That’s the way real celebrities get into trouble.”
The screen goes black when I end the call, but Nora’s words sit with me for a long time. I try to push it away, but once the idea grabs hold of my brain, I can’t ignore it. The fact is, I do have a hidden relative with a history of making bad decisions, and maybe she could do the PR damage I need.
I open Google and type everything I know about my birth mother: Arizona Highland High School Brittany. My hands are shaking as I press enter.
Email from Stella
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Checking in!
Hello Girls!
I hope you both are doing well. I just wanted to check in and see if there is ANYTHING AT ALL I can do for you. Do NOT hesitate to let me know if you have any questions or concerns. I’m here for YOU!
Best Wishes,
Stella
P.S. I DO hope you are staying out of trouble! The Dixon brand is squeaky clean, and it’s why we LOVE you!
“Let’s go in.” Rafael grabs my hand and tugs me toward the haunted house.
“No way,” I say but let him lead me to the front doors so I don’t have to let go of his hand.
“Oh, come on! It won’t be that bad. Besides, I need a break from the heat.” He squints into the fading sunlight. “It still feels like summer.”
He’s not wrong. It was ninety-eight degrees today, which may feel like a relief in July, but is absolutely criminal at a Halloween festival. The heat is hanging on tighter than ever this year, like a lingering sunburn that still stings days after I’ve forgotten about it. “A couple years ago it was ninety degrees on Thanksgiving.”
“And you want to stay here for college.” His cocks an eyebrow, daring me to argue. Instead, I pull my hand away and cross my arms over my chest.
“You can go in. I’ll wait out here.” I lean against the side of the temporary haunted house that stands in the center of Howl-O-Ween. We missed Boo! At The Zoo, but this weekend’s festivities are even scarier.
Lucky me.
I throw Rafael a smile but refuse to budge. He pretends to scowl, but it’s a poor imitation of his actual upset face, which includes less smirk and more raking his hands through his hair.
“Was your childhood traumatized? What happened the last time you went into a haunted house?”
I ignore his first question and answer the second one. “I’ve never been in a haunted house.”
His eyes widen in genuine surprise. “Are you serious?”
“Afraid so.”
“That’s it, you have to try it at least once.” His eyes get big and soft as he clasps his hands in front
of his chest, pleading with me. Behind him, a man with a chainsaw runs out of the house, chasing after a group of shrieking kids. When the chainsaw man retreats back into the shadows, they burst into laughter, all begin talking at once, and race to the front doors to go through again.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t see what’s so fun about being scared.”
“Remind me why you love Halloween again.”
“Candy corn, costumes, pumpkins.” I tick the reasons off on my fingers. “And I look good in orange.”
“Watch out for birds, Claire!” a voice shouts from somewhere to our left. I stand up straight and scan the crowd but there are so many people here that it’s impossible to tell who’s speaking. My entire body freezes until several seconds after the laughter has faded away.
“Don’t listen to them.” Rafael scans the crowd also, with just as little success.
My neck breaks out in a cold sweat as people jostle around us. I press my back against the haunted house to put distance between me and the crowd, but it doesn’t get any easier to breathe. There are too many people, too much noise, and not enough personal space.
I grab Rafael’s hand. “I need to get out of here.” The closest escape is the front doors of the haunted house. I yank them open and dart into the dark with Rafael behind me.
It’s warmer inside, but it’s dark and quiet and blessedly free of people. My heart slows to a normal pace as my shoulders relax and I drop Rafael’s hand. We’re in a cramped room with three black walls and a handle-less black door in front of us. It’s not long before it begins to feel too quiet and dark, and my shoulders tense up again. Somewhere in the heart of the house, a door creaks and footsteps tread lightly, sending a chill up my arms. The door in front of us cracks open, sending a shaft of dim light into the room. A hand appears, and one finger crooks to motion us forward.
“We can leave if you want.” Rafael’s breath is hot on my neck.
I swallow. Leaving means venturing back into a crowd of strangers who hold the unfair advantage of knowing my face and all the embarrassing parts of my history. They always see me before I see them and I hate it. I shake my head. “I want to stay.”
He reaches for my hand at the same time I reach for his. He takes a small step forward and pulls the door open wide enough for us to slip through.
The haunted house offers an acre of skinny hallways that twist and turn like a maze. They’re so narrow that we’re forced to walk single file. Every time a new turn appears, I’m so terrified of what monster is lurking just out of sight that I ask Rafael to go first.
By the time we turn down the third hall, we still haven’t seen anyone, and I begin to wonder if the actors are on break. I listen for any sound, but all I can hear is our slow footsteps and my blood pumping in my ears. At a fork in the hall, Rafael stops. “Which way?”
I squint to the left and right. A few dim lightbulbs hang on wires from the ceiling, spaced far apart, so we can’t see much. My heart thumps steadily over the sound of our footsteps. Goosebumps erupt across my skin as my brain registers that we’re both standing still.
The footsteps don’t belong to us.
“There’s someone in here.”
“You want me to go look?”
“Yes. No. Don’t leave.” I squeeze his hand as the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Something reaches up from behind and brushes a lock of my hair off my shoulder. I scream and throw myself into Rafael’s arms as man in a dark mask dashes back down the hall and into an invisible door in the wall.
My body trembles as fear electrifies my veins. If Rafael wasn’t anchoring my body to his, I’d probably collapse. He holds me until my breathing slows and my legs regain their strength. Then, at my urging, we switch places and I lead. Maybe it’ll be better if I see what’s coming.
The hallways open up into rooms with different scenes inside. One is decorated like a little girl’s nursery with creepy dolls and a woman sunk into a rocking chair. She has long, gray hair and dark shadows under her eyes. I expect her to jump out at us, but she just sits and stares while slowly rocking. It’s worse than if she’d jumped.
Further on, people sneak out of closets and men with axes in their hands chase us down pitch black hallways. Those things are scary, but to my surprise, they’re not the scariest part of the haunted house. When we’re being chased, I know it’ll end as soon as we turn the corner and find a new horror. The quiet and empty hallways are much worse. They flood my body with dread and adrenaline, because I never know what is coming next. That’s when my imagination goes into overdrive and creates scarier monsters than the ones employed by the Phoenix Zoo. My monster always drives a blue minivan and calls Poppy by name.
I lose all sense of time in the haunted house, but we’ve been weaving our way through the halls for quite a while when we reach a small, empty room with no doors. The only way out is the way we came in.
“What now?” I ask.
“I guess we have to go back.” Rafael looks around the dark room. “Wait, this is a door.” He shows me the outline of a black door like the one that held the man in the mask.
“I’m getting tired of these doors without handles on our side.”
“Maybe we’re supposed to wait,” he says.
“For what?” I look up and am surprised to find his face inches from mine. His chest expands and brushes against my body with every breath. My own air catches in my throat as I meet his eyes and inhale his spearmint breath. He’s so close, but not nearly close enough. Once again, electricity jolts through me, awakening all the nerve endings in my body. It’s scarier—and better, so much better, than the chills provided by the hired actors. Rafael’s eyes are searching as we wait. Pressure builds in my chest, but I’m not tempted to say anything to ruin the moment. Not this time. He leans in and I exhale a sigh of relief, anticipating his lips on mine—just as the roar of a chainsaw rips through the silence.
The door springs open. We run through it as the man with the chainsaw chases us outside into the last few minutes of fading sunlight. I collapse onto the nearest bench and struggle to catch my breath. I’m relieved and jittery and disappointed, I can’t stop the laughter that bursts from my lips.
Rafael sits next to me. “I told you you’d have fun.”
“Who says I had fun?” I try and fail to keep my smile under control.
“Oh, please. You loved it.”
“It was tolerable.”
Rafael shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous, Just Claire. But hey, are you hungry?” He nods toward a row of food trucks behind us. “I smell something fried and delicious with our names on it.”
“What’s the biggest misconception about Poppy?” Rafael licks his mint chocolate chip cone.
“You mean besides the thigh gap thing?”
He stops mid-lick and turns to me with a horrified expression. “The what?”
“You don’t want to know.” I’d rather him stay blissfully unaware. “Okay, my turn. What’s your favorite food?”
“Boring.”
“Not for someone who’s lived all over the world. I stand by my question.”
“Abuela’s tamales. Dad and I would sometimes come to Arizona for a week at Christmas, and man, I could eat my body weight in those things.”
My mouth waters at the thought, despite the double scoop of cookies ’n cream in my hand. “Your turn.”
“Don’t hate me for this one.” He smiles wickedly, and my heart picks up speed. “I watched one of your earliest vlogs.”
“Uh oh . . .”
“The one where you bleached Poppy’s hair. And left the bleach in too long? And it fell out in clumps?”
“I remember.” I casually lick my cone, praying this doesn’t go where I think it’s going.
“A lot of the comments say you did it on purpose.”
“What’s the question?”
“Did you?”
“Rafael!” I smack him on the shoulder. “I can’t
believe you would accuse me of such treachery.”
“That’s not an answer,” he accuses with a smile. I bite my lip at the sight of his dimples.
“There might be some truth—”
“I knew it!” He roars with laughter.
I shake my head at the memory. I didn’t want her hair to fall out per se, but I also didn’t dissuade her from buying the cheapest box of bleach in the drugstore. And okay, maybe I forgot to remind her to wash it out. But it’s her fault for getting distracted by a text message from Cooper Clawson, the cutest boy in eighth grade. “The joke was on me, because the damage resulted in a pixie cut that everyone loved. Even the trolls couldn’t deny how cute she looked.”
“Eh. Not as cute as some.” He winks, and my insides feel all melty, like the ice cream slipping down my tongue.
After three hours and two loops around the zoo, we walk toward the exit. My feet hurt, I’m hot and sweaty, but this is the happiest I have been all week. I step off the curb and scan the animal signs affixed to light poles in the parking lot.
“Where did we park? Was it the cheetah section? Or the tortoise?”
“Hey! Can I get some help?” I turn to see a middle-aged man leaning out of a blue van, and am overwhelmed by a terrifying sense of déjà vu.
Poppy! I need your help! I close my eyes and see the face of the woman who called to us from the driver’s seat. She looked so nice. So normal.
Rafael walks toward the van. “What’s up?” I watch him go but can’t make my feet follow. I want to yell at him to stop and tell him it’s not safe, even though I know he’ll be fine. Rafael is eighteen years old and six feet tall, not your typical kidnapping victim. The parking lot is full of people leaving for the night. There are parents with small children and ASU students holding hands and teenagers in big groups. Rafael is safe. I’m safe. I repeat the words over and over in my head, as if that’ll make me believe they’re true.
Rafael jogs to me as the van drives away. “He wanted an opinion whether or not the festival is too scary for his kids. I told him to steer clear of the haunted house and they’d be fine. I’m pretty sure we’re in the cheetah section.” He nods to the left and continues toward his car.
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